Vanessa Booke - Bound to You

“Nick! How have you been, buddy?” From the blaring sound of the music blasting from the other end, I know Tristan’s out somewhere, probably starting his weekend early.

“Tired, I just flew back in town,” I grumble.

“Aw, but not too tired for drinks with some lovely ladies, right?”

“Tristan, I refuse to get pulled into one of your double date fiascos again. Plus, there’s probably something I should tell you.”

“Look, just get down here. I have some big news and it sounds like you do too. I want you to be here.”

Big news? Tristan doesn’t throw around those two words lightly, so I’m genuinely intrigued. I guess I won’t be staying home and catching up on some much needed sleep. I do need to stop by my apartment to change. I can still smell the sweat from sitting for four hours on the plane.

“Alright, where do I meet you?”

“You’re going to like this place. It’s called Riptide. It’s over in Chelsea.”

The city of New York is a fearsome thing to behold. The city lights shine down on the club, lighting it up like a Hollywood stage. My body hums with excitement as Carol and I step out of her black Escalade and onto a red carpet swarming with paparazzi. Apparently, this is the place to be. Carol warned me about the press being at club openings, but I don’t think I’m ready for this many people.

“Just follow me, the doorman knows we’re on the list,” she says, straightening her wistful strands of mocha brown.

I pull at the hem of my dress, conscious of the way it slips up, revealing a little too much of my thunder thighs, as we make our way down the red carpet. A few cameramen snap pictures of us, whistling as we walk up. I wonder if we’ll be in tomorrow’s paper? I’m suddenly grateful that I’m wearing a black cocktail dress. At least with the black, my unwanted love handles are hidden. I hope if my picture somehow finds it way on the Internet, Miles sees it. Nothing right now would give me more satisfaction than for him to know I’m doing wonderfully without him.

Hundreds of people gawk at us as they wait in line to go into the club. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to walk to the front of a club line, drop a name, and then be escorted inside. Usually, I’m the one waiting in line, watching the bouncer admit all of the supermodel twigs inside.

“You’re going to love this place,” Carol says, grinning.

The front doorman to the club looks up with a smirk as he spots us. The mischievous look behind his eyes tells me he knows Carol well. He reminds me of a sexier version of Russell Crowe. Silvery grey hairs run through his short, brown hair and goatee, and his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles.

“Ms. Livingston, it’s nice to see you again.” His British accent is thick. I can almost see him in some 19th century gothic story, walking across the moors of Northern England in his riding coat, searching for his long lost love. His eyes wash over the both of us with interest. Carol must be a lot bigger of a name in NYC than she let on.

“Hi, Derrick,” she says, winking. “We’re finally here, sorry to hold up the party,” she says, smiling.

What a flirt.

Something tells me Carol has a lot of confessing to do later. His eyes dip to Carol’s neckline. There’s intensity behind them as they trail back up to her almost-innocent smile.

She knows the effect she has on him.

I can’t help but laugh.

“Right this way,” he says, holding open front door of the club and never taking his eyes off her backside. “Welcome to Riptide.”

“Carol, what the hell was that?”

“What was what?” she says coyly.

“The doorman and you. You guys were eye-fucking each other.”

“Oh that,” she says dismissively. “We just made out once in his car.”

“Just made out?”

“Well, it started as just making out.”

“Unbelievable,” I say, laughing.

The inside of the Riptide is phenomenal. The club’s beach theme is present within each detail of the décor, from the blue lights spinning across the dance floor engulfing the room with rippling waves, to the faint scent of citrus and the ocean breeze wafting in the air. Even though it makes me miss the weather in California, it’s nice to have a piece of it here in New York.

“They really like giving you the whole experience here, “ Carol says, squeezing my hand. “Do you mind getting us a drink? I’m going to run to the ladies’ room.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“We’ll look for my client as soon as I get back.”

“I think you’re being much too harsh, Nicholas. Alison Price can’t be the worst woman to marry,” Tristan says, giving me an incredulous look. Somehow, Tristan convinced me that coming down to Chelsea wasn’t going to be a waste of my time. For the past hour we’ve been talking nonstop about my father’s overbearing expectations for my life, which eventually led to talking about Alison Price. My future wife.

“You have absolutely no idea how annoying she is.”

“Annoying enough to not have sex with?” Tristan asks. I can almost see the sarcasm dripping from his lips.

“It was one time.” I toss back my glass of whiskey. The liquid burns down my throat, creating a warm pool in the pit of my stomach.

“When is it not?”

It’s true, even my closest friends know that I pick up women for sex, but most of these women know my reputation. It’s no secret around town – the tabloids do their hardest to keep it that way too. I don’t romance women; I fuck them. The problem is I fucked the wrong one. Alison had other ideas about us when I met her this past summer.

“How did you meet her again?”

“We were at the black tie event at the museum. Remember, you donated the painting I told you I wanted.”

“Ah, now I remember.”

The night started like most, guests were getting drunk on champagne and having fun, throwing away thousands of dollars in the live auction. As for me, well, I appreciated a more discreet way of spending my money – the silent auction table. Alison and I got into a bidding war over one of Tristan’s paintings. She kept watching the auction table, waiting to pounce as I left. We went back forth for most of the night, trying to outbid the other. I wasn’t about to lose. I wanted the painting. After a while, I had a feeling she wasn’t interested in the painting any longer. I tested my theory, and she finally gave in when I wrote my cell number next to my bid. I guess I can technically blame Tristan for all of this. At the time, I had no idea she was the daughter of any of my father’s friends.

“C’mon, let’s have another drink and get you out of this funk. There’s plenty of beautiful women here to take your mind off things,” Tristan says, grinning as he raises his glass of wine.

Funk isn’t even close to how I would describe my mood; more like steaming mad. I can’t shake the irritation from earlier in the day. My father has managed to ruin everything. I’m being forced to get engaged to an insufferable woman, and now there's also plans for a wedding. A club is the last place I need to be, no matter how beautiful the women are, but I can’t back out on a promise to a friend.

“Speaking of women, did you meet any beauties in Los Angeles?” Tristan inquires. “Is it true that most of them have plastic tits?”

“I met a few. Some had plastic tits, but not all of them.” I laugh. “There was one in particular that I can’t get off my mind.”

“Wait, what did you say? Nicholas StoneHaven is smitten with a woman?”

“Smitten? No.”

“So tell me about her. She must be something to behold if you can’t get her off your mind.”

“She’s different than most of the women I date. Younger, curvy, fiery hair, and lips that made me want to fuck her 40,000 feet up in the air.”

“Ah, so you met her on the plane?”

“Yes.”

“So what happened?”

“Nothing. We kissed. That was all.”

“How very old school of you.”

“I’m surprised, Nicholas.”

“Believe me, I wanted to fuck her. But being arrested by a U.S. Air Marshal wasn’t an option. My face would’ve been splashed all over the papers.”

Meeting Rebecca was definitely the highlight of my trip. I could kick myself for not getting her number. Having her body meshed against me while I kissed her pouty lips made me feel like a high school boy going through puberty. I was pretty sure at one point I almost came just having her brush up against me.

“So when are you going to tell me about the big news you mentioned over the phone?” I ask, pushing away my lust driven thoughts. The crowded room around us is stifling with plastic smiles and glazed eyes.

“Well, I wanted to wait until she got here…”

“She? Are you dating someone I don’t know about?”

Tristan breaks out into laughter. “No, of course not.”

“Good.”

“Am I really that horrible that I shouldn’t even be in a relationship?”

“No, I’m merely saving you from having to make the same horrible mistake I’m being forced to make.”

“I’m meeting a prospective PR specialist who I’d like to hire for the opening of my new art exhibit, Trinity. She’s the one who put together this event,” Tristan says with a contagious grin.

“Art exhibit? You mean you’re actually taking my advice and selling your art instead of giving it all away?”

“Alright, you can’t take credit for the whole idea, but yes. I think it’s time.” Art was Tristan Knight's baby. As a connoisseur of it, opening a new art gallery was a pretty damn big deal.