I glance across the street, chasing the sound.
And there it is—Gravity.
The gay nightclub Elijah had wanted to take me to.
I’m tempted—so fucking tempted.
My attire is fine for the trendy scene: dark jeans and a beige Henley that clings to every line of my chest and arms. My unlaced boots only add to the appeal. Edgy enough to say I don’t give a fuck.
It’s perfect.
I’m going in.
I’m drinking.
I’m getting drunk.
I’m—I’m…
Oh, Elijah…
A refreshing breezeof cool air washes over my skin as I open the door to Gravity. The place is already packed. Dim lighting cloaks the space, and it takes me a moment to get my bearings.
Wow. This place is beautiful.
The walls look soft, like blue velvet; crystal chandeliers wrap around the perimeter of the room, and small tables are intermingled between tall ones. The dance floor is set off to the far right, and beyond that is the bar—exactly where I want to be.
I meander through the crowd, slipping into an open spot where one of the many bartenders stands. He greets me with a wide smile, and I waste no time ordering a shot of tequila, no training wheels. I pound it back, the intense burn licking my throat. I ask for another and toss that one back just as fast. I’m anxious for the buzz to hit my brain. The bartender eyes me, and I tell him I’ll take a bourbon on the rocks and to make it a double. I don’t fucking care. The sooner the alcohol hits, the better. Heslides the glass over, and I take a heady sip, handing him my credit card.
It’s got a sharp bite—rougher than the bourbon I drank with Elijah.
Fuck, Elijah!
Damn him!
I throw down another shot of bourbon, intent on rinsing Elijah’s name from my mouth. I take my drink and move further down the bar, closer to the dance floor, but still have the entrance to the club within my line of sight.
And that’s when I see two notorious French models from Paris enter the club, Theo and Romeo; their hands intimately joined together, Theo leading the way. They’re matching, as per their usual mode of dress, wearing a form-fitting black ensemble and each carrying a powder-blue Gucci handbag.
God, they make a beautiful couple.
They move leisurely through the crowd, weaving their way between tables and chairs, seemingly headed toward the VIP lounge. Theo stops as his eyes land squarely on mine. He leans into Romeo and whispers in his ear. Now, two sets of eyes have settled on mine—and they both smile.
Damn, they’re so perfect together, they even smile in sync.
Do they recognize me? Maybe they do—we share the same career, after all. My face is plastered everywhere, on the internet, the streets, in all of the high-end fashion magazines. Or maybe they’re not smiling at me at all, maybe there’s someone behind me. I spin around and look, but nobody’s paying any attention. I turn back, track my eyes over to where they were standing, but they’re gone, apparitions of my mind.
Jesus.
I toss back the rest of my bourbon and gesture to a different bartender for another. Maybe I didn’t see them at all, maybe the fucking alcohol is finally tricking my brain, fogging my thoughts.
Finally.
My eyes sweep across the dance floor—colorful lights stabbing through my vision, blinking, swirling, pulsing through my veins like the alcohol sloshing through my head.
I’m dizzy. I’m crazy.
Elijah. Elijah.
