“Oh, stop! You are just as vulgar as me.” She rolls her eyes, handing me another beer.
Ha, she isn’t wrong. One of the many reasons Nessa and I became instant friends, despite our differences, is our love for sarcasm and vulgarity. That has always been one of our bonds.
Lifting her beer up toward mine, we clink the glass bottles together in a toast.
“Here is to wherever the night takes us, and whoever it takes us with,” I concede.
“That’s my girl!”
We both take a long sip of our beers, almost downing them in a single go as her phone goes off. “Alright, Uber is downstairs. Let’s go!” she exclaims, grabbing her purse as I grab mine and follow her lead.
As we head to the lobby of Nessa’s apartment, I get an email from Lizzie, Carmine’s assistant.
Sienna,
Mr. Moretti has arranged for a driver to pick you up tomorrow at 8 a.m. sharp outside of the address you provided.
Good luck,
Lizzie
“Who was that Ms. Big Shot Journalist?” Nes asks, peering over my shoulder to look at my phone.
I roll my eyes as I close the email. “I would hardly say big shot,” I respond to Nessa. “It was just my new boss’ assistant. Apparently, he is sending a private car to pick me up tomorrow,” I say in a surprised tone. That was totally unexpected, however, I am not complaining, because it buys me some time to learn the ropes of the New York subway system.
“Oh, fancy,” Nessa says as she downs the rest of her beer and throws it in the recycling bin outside the apartment building. I follow suit as we both get into our Uber parked out front.
As we make our way through the crowded city streets, I stare out the window of the car, taking in the bright lights and observing the vast array of people spilling out onto the sidewalk. I zone out a bit, taking in the chaos of cars and people that surround us as we drive, losing track of how many blocks we have passed since leaving the apartment.
When the Uber comes to a stop, it snaps me out of my trance. I was so busy in my own head, as usual, I realize that I forgot to ask Nessa where the hell we were even going tonight.
I nod, thanking the driver before shimmying my way out of the back seat. I slam the door and meet Nessa on the sidewalk.
“Hey, Nes, where are we going tonight for drinks?”
“Right over here.” Nessa points. “The Sandy Claws.”
* * *
There is no mistaking which bar is The Sandy Claws. It stands out among the modern store fronts that surround it, with its opulent cathedral-like aesthetic. I’ve always had a fascination with gothic architecture. There is something so haunting and sensual within the details. The spire on the roof catches my eye immediately. The stunning ogival arches above every stained-glass window remind me of the churches I saw as a young girl when traveling throughout Florence during summer breaks.
We traveled to Italy more frequently than Puerto Rico, since Mama grew tired of the constant digs her mother would get in about how much she hated Papa for her. Regardless of why we went there more than the island, warm memories briefly flood my heart. Those summers in Italy were some of the only times that Papa was present. Granted, even as a young girl, I knew that Papa’s work followed him wherever he went. Work always needed to be done, contacts needed to be secured, and business always had to continue. Even on vacations. In Italy, however, Papa was able to relax more being closer to his side of the family, away from the countless enemies he made in New York.
Given the way that The Sandy Claws resembles an old cathedral, it wouldn’t surprise me if it once stood as a church. However, I am sure there are now more demons than saints within its walls. Quenching their insatiable thirsts and giving into their carnal desires, which only makes me more eager to see what is lurking within its walls. Which speaks volumes because, despite my fondness of booze, bars have never been my thing.
Most bars I have been to are overpriced and overcrowded. Filled with people who can’t handle their booze, or people glued to their phones, instead of interacting with the people they came with. The whole bar scene usually annoys me. Give me a bottle of wine and a good book at home and I’m a happy girl. But if more bars looked like this place, I might become a convert … and I haven’t even ventured inside, yet.
I follow Nessa’s lead as we approach the dark walnut doors, equally as ornate as the rest of the building. We completely bypass the long line of impatient patrons waiting to make their way in. I can tell by some of their body language that their impatience is starting to reach a breaking point. I forgot tonight is Mischief Night, so the bar scene is even more packed than usual, especially for a weekday evening.
Nessa seems oblivious to the line of people that have clearly been waiting to get in, because she heads directly toward the two bouncers standing in front of the massive wooden doors.
Unlike me, Nessa loves going out to bars. Whereas I would rather drink at home, she thrives off meeting new people, especially when she drinks. Judging by her overconfident demeanor, and the exaggerated way her hips swing as she walks in the direction of the bouncers, she either already knows them or has fucked at least one of them. Both men are tall, easily over six feet, with arms full of muscle and ink. Their choice of short sleeves is interesting, given how damn cold it is for this October night in New York.
She walks over to the more attractive of the two bouncers. I see her leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. I get a quick glimpse of the bouncer she has her lips on as I catch up to her and he is stunning. He has chiseled cheekbones with a strong jawline that is covered just slightly by a five o’clock shadow.
Nessa releases the bouncer from her grip on him as she motions to me to follow her through the front doors. “Thanks, Miles,” she says flirtatiously as we head to the entrance.
“Nes, who was that?” I say, trying to discreetly tilt my head in the bouncer’s direction.
