‘Ooh. Someone knows how to dance,’ I tease as we join the revellers on the dance floor.
‘The army teaches a man many things.’ As I open my mouth to speak, he adds, ‘And most of them unfit for discussion in polite company, Heidi, so don’t ask.’
Urgh! And back to Heidi again. ‘It’s the braids, right?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You know, you’re like the kid in grade school who annoys because he doesn’t have the emotional maturity to say he likes a person.’ Oh my God, the man’s face is priceless as he glowers down at me. ‘That was a joke, Everett, not a dick. No need to take it so hard.’
On the downside, he doesn’t speak to me again once—not for the whole song. And as I’m deposited back to the table, or rather dumped, Remy still isn’t back.
‘Journalists,’ his mother offers with a shrug, breaking her conversation with the man to her right. ‘They can be so demanding. I’m sure he won’t be too much longer.’ She smiles kindly before returning to her tête-à-tête, leaving me to check my phone, as a girl does to fill in the time.
Since I last checked, I’ve received a text from an unknown number. There’s a video file attached. My thumb hovers over the file as I debate the merits of playing versus pressing delete, knowing in my heart and in my head that no good can come from pressing play.
A corrupted file?
A ruined phone?
It’s not enough that curiosity killed the cat as I press play anyway.
45
Rose
I take a sip of my drink and use the napkin it was served with to catch a tear at the corner of my eye, hating myself a little more as I hit play for the second time. Out here, in the hotel cocktail bar, Ella Fitzgerald croons quietly from concealed speakers about the wayward ways of a wayward town where love is bought and sold.
Love that’s lightly spoiled, she sings.
It’s something that sounds painfully familiar right now.
I turn up the sound on my phone, angling my body in such a way no one could mistake my desire to be left alone. Left alone to watch and listen this time.
The screen fills with the image of Remy’s bedroom; the one at the penthouse, which is strange enough, but not quite as strange as the sight of Amélie standing at the end of the bed in nothing but her underwear. A lace balconette bra, her long legs encased in matching black stockings. The tiny triangle of her panties. Probably a thong. A wine glass dangles from her hand, her expression one of extreme self-satisfaction.
The sound of the door pushing open.
Footsteps on the hardwood floor.
Her smile as Remy says her name, his tone low and husky.
His shirt is open, the ladder of his abs ripple in the light as he turns and sets down his own wine glass, his own expression giving nothing away as he watches her cross her legs at the ankle, cocking one hip. She drapes her arm across her body, all long legs and lithe beauty.
The sound cuts out, replaced by the hum of static, though her mouth moves as she lifts the glass to her lips, eyeing him expectantly over the rim.
She nods gracefully, probably in response to something he says.
Come closer.
I’ve missed you.
Take your panties off.
Get on your knees.
Let’s fuck.
My mind swims with a dozen suggestions, a dozen more answers as she struts across the room to him.
Just once more.
Once more to add to the total
I won’t tell.
A whispered word. A pout. She’s sliding her arms around his neck, her fingertips at his nape. Her last glance at the camera is a triumphant one as Remy’s fingers trail up her slender arm.
Then the screen goes black, jumping back to the starting frame.
It’s just seconds long. A minute? Two tops.
How long does it take to ruin?
Ruin a night.
Ruin a relationship.
Ruin an appetite for good liquor.
Or maybe not as I throw back the remains of my margarita.
‘Well, if it isn’t the girl who likes sparkles.’
Despite positioning myself as I have, it seems some people can’t take a hint.
‘I’m sorry?’ Flipping my phone face down, I turn my head over my shoulder, not quite in the mood to give a fuck about appearances.
‘Rose, right? You helped me buy my grandma a gift at the Omega store?’
‘Oh. Right.’ I allow my eyebrows to relax as the man rests his forearm on the marble bar top.
‘You wouldn’t let me buy you a coffee, but maybe you’ll allow me to buy you a drink.’
I glance and my glass and decide why the hell not. After all, I’m not the one who’s been cavorting with my ex in my skivvies. Though maybe cavorting is stretching it some, because despite the protestations of my mystery sender’s second text (that’s my mystery sender also known as Amélie, I’d guess) I don’t believe for one minute that the clip cut where it did in deference to the intimacy between them.