A blond-haired man steps forward first. He reaches out his hand for mine. “Nice to meet you, Angie. I am Will Jenkins,” he says.
“Hi, Will,” I say politely. He seems friendly. Normal. Maybe this is not so bad after all.
Another man reaches out a hand. I give him mine. He kisses the top of it. I do not expect that. “Nice to meet you, hun.”
“Angie, this is Ian Downs,” Claire says.
I move to shake Ian’s hand, but he moves forward for a hug. It is clumsy. “Pleasure to meet you, Angie.” He appears to be older than all the others. And extra handsy. Lovely.
“I’m Mark,” a black-haired model type introduces.
I reach out my hand for him to shake. “Angie.”
His smile is contagious. “Pleasure to meet you.” However, his professionally polished looks make me think he emphasizes appearance more than anything else.
“So, it’s not official, right?” Will asks me.
I furrow my brow. “Official?”
“Your employment,” he continues. “You’re not wearing your bracelet yet, so I’m assuming you still have to go through the protocols?”
I quickly look at Claire’s wrist and scan the room for other females. Most of the women have on jewelry that looks like an identity bracelet. Some are silver, some are yellow gold, and some are platinum. I never really noticed this before. I grab Claire’s wrist and turn the bracelet’s smooth metal plate in my fingers. It is beautiful. When she originally told me how she got into the business, she said it was over being mistaken by her jewelry.
“I’ll explain later,” she whispers.
“I’m just a guest tonight,” I inform the group.
“Well, for the sake of most men in my presence,” Mark chimes in, “I hope that you follow through.”
“Yes,” Ian agrees.
I swallow. I have no idea if I can follow through. This all seems too much.
I excuse myself to the ladies’ room again. I think the pressure from the corset top is punishing my bladder. When exiting, I take another look outside to see if I can see Mystery Man. It’s as if he vanished.
I walk through the great room where a female singer now sits casually on top of the piano, singing “Skinny Love.” I love Birdy’s rendition, but this version is amazing as well. I sway to the music and hum along. The words haunt me.
I watch from the sidelines as a crowded room makes small talk. Dates get booked. Phone numbers exchanged. And I am sure nights will conclude with some women accepting offers of more.
I walk up to the bar.
“What shall it be, pretty lady?” the bartender asks.
I play with the ends of my ponytail while I try to decide. There is no menu. Just rows and rows of expensive liquors, and yet everything belongs on the top shelf. Pretty sure that asking for a margarita is out of the question. Although, I could really go for one.
I see movement out of the corner of my eye.
“Two martinis. One dirty. One clean.” Mystery Man.
I turn to find piercing blue eyes watching me. “You,” I exhale.
“Me.” His smile is full.
“I see your mood has improved,” I comment dryly.
“I see your snark is still intact.”
“This is true,” I mutter.