Although I’m certain the throbbing between my legs is more associated with the gleam in Hugo’s eyes than the fact I’ve downed half a dozen cocktails in quick succession, it’s been engrained in me from a young age to use the restroom before traveling in any mode of transport. It wouldn’t matter if we were driving to the corner store or halfway across the country, my father demanded I use the washroom before we left. He even went as far as to check the vanity sink was wet with water before I could exit the bathroom.
Remaining quiet, Hugo guides me out of the safety of our little alcove with his hand on the curve of my lower back. The earlier feeling of celebrity-ism catapults to a new level when Hugo’s eyes dart in all directions, like a bodyguard protecting his target from any potential threats. His protective stance is so convincing, numerous cell phones lift to capture the
“celebrity” amongst them. The blinding lights of camera flashes impede my vision as we work our way through the writhing bodies mingling around the vast space. The energy bouncing off the crowd is amazing, but it has nothing on the buzz of energy dashing through my body from Hugo’s mildest touch. It is intense and electrifying.
My face scrunches when I notice the long line waiting to use the women’s restroom. It is nearly as long as the queue outside of the club. My curiosity is intrigued when Hugo walks past the line and turns down a corridor on our left.
“Employee perks,” he murmurs when he opens a door to reveal a ladies’ restroom.
Snubbing the curious glare of two ladies washing their hands in the vanity, I hurry into a vacant stall, lift the seat, and sit down. I’ve only just finished my business when a rowdy group of women enter the washroom via the regular entrance.
“I can’t believe her damsel in distress ploy actually worked. Some women are so desperate.”
A volley of giggles bounce of the elegantly designed washroom walls.
“Help me! Help me! A naughty man wants to touch my body.”
Curious as to whom they are talking about, I adjust my position and peer through the crack of the stall door. From this angle, I can only see the back of three women standing in front of a dark-framed mirror shackled to the wall: two blondes and one brunette.
“Did you see the hideous shoes she was wearing?” the blonde in the middle asks, suppressing a gag.
The blonde on the left leans towards the mirror to apply lipstick to her already heavily coated mouth. “The shoes have nothing on that revolting dress. She looks like she is going to a funeral. Blah and bland,” she says before kissing the edge of the mirror.
When she pulls away from the mirror, now bearing her big red lipstick stain, I catch sight of her reflection in the mirror. Although I’m certain I’ve seen her before, I have misplaced her name. “You can’t buy style,” she snickers.
“I thought she looked cute,” squeaks out the brunette on the right.
My breath catches in my throat when the head of the blonde in the middle snaps to the side. I recognize that sneering profile. It is the Queen of Bitches herself: Victoria Avenke.
“Cute? You thought she looked cute?” Victoria sneers.
The brunette runs her hands down the front of her light blue pleated skirt before timidly nodding her head. “I don’t think she is a threat to you, Vicky. They are most likely just here as friends.”
“Of course they are here as friends! What else would they be here as?” Victoria snarls, her angry voice reverberating off the walls.
The brunette swallows harshly when Victoria steps closer to her.
“Are you trying to say there is a possibility they could be more than friends?” Victoria queries.
The brunette shakes her head as the scent of fear permeates the air. “N-n-no. Of course they’re only friends. J-j-just friends. She is his sister’s best friend,” she stutters.
Victoria’s manicured brow arches high into the air. “Exactly. Tonight was nothing but a pity date to keep in his sister’s good graces.”
My heart plummets into my stomach when Victoria says. “It wouldn’t matter how many drinks he has had. A man like Hugo would never be interested in a woman like Ava Westcott.” Her lips form a snarl when she strangles out my name.
My eyes shoot down to my strappy heeled shoes. Although not as expensive as some pairs I’ve seen in fancy boutique stores, these shoes still cost me eighty dollars. That’s a lot of money for one pair of shoes.
Even with eating ramen noodles for a week, they were worth the sacrifice. They are my favorite pair. With their wide heel and cushioned insoles, I can dance for hours and never get a blister. As for my bland and boring dress, you can’t go wrong with a classic LBD. Sophisticated, yet classy. Comfortable, yet sexy.Well, I thought that was the case?
My attention is pulled to the trio of women when a dark shadow fills the gap in the door. The pulse in my neck thrums when a pair of apologetic eyes peer at me through the crack. The only brunette in the trio offers me a contrite smile before following Victoria and the other blonde out of the washroom.
Did she know I was here all along?
After ensuring the coast is clear, I flush the toilet and pace to the vanity to wash my hands. Picking up a paper towel from the countertop, I wince when I look in the mirror. My hair is a damp, frizzy mess clinging to my sweat-drenched neck, my eyes are large and wide, and the small splattering of mascara I put on before leaving my apartment has oozed off my lashes and is now smeared under my eyes. Proof that what Victoria said is true reflects back at me.
After wetting the paper towel, I run it under my eyes while muttering personal insecurities to myself. Most follow the same tune: that there is no possibility a man with panty-wetting looks like Hugo would ever be interested in someone like me. But I could have sworn earlier there was a spark of attraction between us. The flirty banter, the suggestive dance moves, the streak of possession in his eyes. What was that all about if it was just a pity date?
Throwing the crumbling paper towel into the waste receptacle, I ignore the twisting pain in my heart and make my way out of the bathroom. When the door snaps shut behind me, I find Hugo standing at the side clutching my purse in his hand. His shoulder is propped against the wall, and he appears deep in thought. When he notices me approaching, the expression on his face changes from overwrought to easygoing. His eyes track the length of my body as he pushes off the wall and strides towards me.
