Page 24 of So Thirsty

I can’t get over this guy. He’s so good-looking and so ridiculous. He wears tight satin pants and a sheer black button-up that’s not sufficiently buttoned. The top buttons have been given the night off. Silver necklaces disappear into a forest of dark chest hair. He’s like a caricature, only he’s too hot to be a caricature. Like if a young Colin Farrell were to play Rasputin in a sexy, not-at-all historically accurate biopic.

“Don’t worry. It is not far,” he says, zooming past Main Street. “Tonight you will meet all of my best friends. We like to meet new people. Interesting people. Like you.”

He winks at us, then takes a sudden, hard right, barely missing a tree. Then he slams on the brakes as a gate opens to a private drive.

I don’t even flinch. I’ve temporarily transcended fear. It could be in a cool, enlightened, “Whatever will be, will be” way. But more likely I’m experiencing existential despondence.

Ilie rolls through the open gate, and I watch in the side-view mirror as it slowly shuts behind us.

And just like that, my fear is back, waving red flags in both hands.

“Why are you closing the gate?” I ask. “I thought this was a party.”

“Everyone is here,” he says, unfazed. “We close gate so no uninvited guests. Very exclusive.”

“Right,” I say. Naomi pinches my side. I reach down and pinch her back. She yips.

“See? I tell you it is not far. This house I get not so long ago. This region they say has good wine. Lots of tourists. Good investment. Good place. Very beautiful. Quiet. But I think too quiet. I need some fun, you know? Some excitement.”

“And that’s where we come in?” Naomi says.

“Yes, yes. You are right,” Ilie says, once again slamming on the brakes. I almost go flying through the windshield. “Ready? You tell me what you think of the house. My house.”

Ilie comes around and opens the passenger-side door for us. I tumble out onto the driveway, which is slippery with snow. It’s accumulating fast, and I realize we might not be able to make it back to the cottage tonight—a realization that I might have had sooner if my life weren’t coming apart like wet paper.

It’s difficult to see the house through the snow and wind, the wintry hemorrhage. It’s an extensive ranch. Maybe midcentury? It sits atop a slight hill, surrounded by trees.

Ilie wedges himself between me and Naomi, offering us each an arm.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Naomi says, bowing her head to him as she threads her arm through his.

I’m too nervous to touch him. One, because I don’t trust him. And two, because he’s so attractive it makes me uncomfortable, makes me want to turn and run away as fast as I can. Makes me want to evaporate.

He slides his hand up my arm, brings his face to my face. “You are shy, love? I promise, this night you will remember forever.”

His eyes are wide and hazel, his lips pink, his teeth brilliantly white but chipped. His breath is sour.

“Sloane?” Naomi says. I feel her looking at me. Turns out, you never get too old for peer pressure.

I give a resigned sigh and take Ilie’s arm. He leads us up a pathway to the front door. It opens before we get there.

“Look at these stunning creatures!” says a tall, bone-thin woman with the most glorious golden blond curls. “Welcome. Come in. Please.”

We step over the threshold into a dimly lit hall. There are candles everywhere. Flickering flames cast shadows that crawl up the walls, which are covered with artwork—extravagantly framed oil paintings of flowers and landscapes and seascapes and castles. The colors shimmer in the candlelight as if the paint were still wet.

“You may take off your shoes, your coats. Make yourselves comfortable. Our home is your home,” the blonde says.

Naomi takes her shoes off but leaves her coat on. She won’t be parted from it.

I slip off my boots and hand the blond woman my coat. I have no such attachment to mine.

“Thank you,” I say to the woman. She’s dressed in a velvety purple gown. She looks like a high-fashion model. She’s all angles. Her features are intense, her skin like glass. She wears no makeup, at least as far as I can tell.

“Of course,” she says. She speaks with an accent similar to Ilie’s. Maybe it’s not Russian. I don’t know. I’m not well traveled.

She hangs my coat on a freestanding rack that I’d mistaken for an abstract sculpture. It looks like a giant, mangled paper clip. Mine is the only coat it carries on its silvery arms.

“This is Elisabeta. Our Elisa,” Ilie says. “She has mean face, but she is very sweet. Come. I introduce you to everyone.”