“What?” Nikos held his hand up to his ear.
My throat had just swallowed an entire colony of red ants. My eyes watered as I set the record for repeatedly choking in front of the same person.
Nikos finally clued in. “Are you all right?”
I fanned my face and nodded as the pungent spirit receded into the pit of my stomach.How can something that looks like water taste like hell?
“Would you like something…?”
“Sweeter,” I said.
A Coke. Lemonade. Kool-Aid. Anything to wash out the taste of Crap-In-A-Carafe.Sorry, monks.
Nikos called the hostess over. “Make her one of these…” He held up my empty glass. “But with saffron syrup and something fruity.”
I was okay with the fruity part and the saffron syrup sounded nice, but I wasn’t convinced anything would make the crap taste less crappy.
“So?” Nikos cozied up to me. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and when he put his arm around my shoulder, the gap widened, giving me a glimpse of smooth, bronzed skin. “What do you think?” He waved his other hand, showing off his domain.
It was a wickedly indulgent setting—soaring ceilings, an open terrace overlooking the garden, a glimmering cocktail bar with pearlescent finishes. Sleek panels wrapped around our booth, creating an intimate multi-sensory make-out oasis for two. Or three. Whatever your heart desired. Food, music, drinks, possibilities.
“Thank you,” I said, when the hostess returned with my drink. I took a sip, thankful that it didn’t taste nearly as awful now.
“You have to eat something with that.” Nikos fed me an olive and licked the glistening residue off his finger. He took another shot from the carafe and leaned closer.
“I like these.” He played with my earrings. “And Ireallylike these.” His finger traced my lips.
I jumped when he touched me and tried to cover it up by lunging for my drink.
Nikos surmised I wasn’t ready to lock lips with him and asked if I wanted to dance. As we made our way downstairs, he was stopped several times—friends, staff, men in expensive suits, women who weighed me up and down—all wanting a word with him. Drinks were offered, shots were downed. Vodka, tequila, rum, gin, whiskey.
“Sorry,” Nikos said to me. “I haven’t been around much this season.”
Just as we were about to hit the dance floor, one of the bouncers pulled him aside. “Olympia Aravani just arrived with her entourage. Party of six.”
“Olympia Aravani? The model?” Nikos’s hand dropped from around my waist. “Escort her upstairs. Booth 4. Find Dina. Tell her to get the bubbly going—six bottles of Perrier-Jouët. Caviar, truffles. She knows the drill. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Nikos adjusted his collars after the man left. “Wow. Olympia Aravani. It’s your lucky night, glikia mou.” He held his arm out for me to take.
“Wow.” I’d never heard of her Olympia Aravani, but she was obviously a big deal. No Crap-in-a-Carafe for her. And if the height of Nikos’s collar was any indication of her effect on men, she was also beautiful.
When we got upstairs, the stunning model and her friends were lounging in one of the private balconies. It was easy to pick her out. The attitude. The sequin-encrusted hoodie. Perfect, poreless skin. I disliked her immediately, because Nikos forgot all about me the minute introductions were made.
I sat next to one of Olympia’s friends—a greasy-haired guy whose eyes sparkled a little too brightly. The growing stub of ash at the end of his cigarette fascinated me. I wondered how long it could grow before it fell off.
Now.
Now.
Now?
By some miracle, it held fast. When it finally dropped, I grinned with a sense of personal satisfaction and took another sip of the fancy champagne that was going around.
Cheers.I raised my glass to the powdery ash on the floor.
“Hey.” Cigarette Man thought I was saluting him. “I’m Kostas.”
“Moti.” We were the only ones not having a Wi-Fi party on our phones. Nikos was sidled up next to Olympia, laughing at something on her screen. Two of her girlfriends were taking selfies at angles that would have challenged Pythagoras himself, and the couple was filming their make-out session.
