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Our Uber pulled up in front in front of a typical non-descript building with a huge, dented, metal front door. Dents were the usual calling card of an unsuccessful New York burglar. Luckily for the residents of that building, they’d installed an impenetrable door, and said thief was apparently not smart enough to break the lock, either. Such little things were the source of great satisfaction among those of us who loved this city. Thwarting a burglar was almost on par with getting a great rent-controlled apartment or a parking spot in front of your building.
We pressed the buzzer next to M. Talbot and were immediately buzzed in without being asked who we were. So much for security.
A rickety elevator was open to the lobby, as if waiting for us. We pressed a button for the top floor, after pulling the cage-like doors together, and the thing began to shudder and shake as it creaked its way through a mechanism that was god-knew how old.
And don’t you know, when we reached the top, the elevator opened right into Marlon’s apartment. He had the whole freaking floor of the building.
Shit.
Be cool, girl, play it cool.
Fantine skipped in like she owned the place, with her mini dress swinging behind her and her curls bouncing just right. I ran my hand through my signature bleached mop one last time as a kind of security blanket, took a deep breath, and followed her lead. Of course, with the coolest smile I could muster.
“Kealy!” Cross called from across the massive room. To the right was a chef’s kitchen that anyone who could make more than a peanut butter sandwich would kill for, and in front of me and to the left was a space so large, I wasn’t sure if I should call it a living room or an auditorium.
I looked around at the chic, good-looking crowd—I mean, what else did I expect to see at a party hosted by male models?—and took in Marlon’s modern but cozy style. There were several little seating areas to choose from. Some were still empty and some were occupied, but they all had soft and expensive-looking chairs and sofas.
It was like a freaking club.
And then there was a swing in the corner of the room.
A swing.
Cripes, now I’d seen it all. My heart sank a as I thought ahead to the little apartment I’d have to go home to at the end of the evening. I loved what Fantine and I had done with the place, but it was thrift-store chic to be sure, and our main decorations were piles—piles of books, magazines, CDs, and crap like that.
And I’d thought we were doing well.
Cross embraced me in a bear hug that I hadn’t been expecting, but that thrilled me nonetheless. Who wouldn’t want to be hugged by someone with cheekbones from god and messy blonde hair pulled into a man bun?
And he smelled damn good, too. Something spicy, but also something powdery, like a clean baby just before you dress them.
Funny. A heartthrob smelling like a baby?
“Cross, thank you for inviting me. This is my friend Fantine.”
“Fantine. What a cool name. Where’s it from?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes like she was all put out, but I knew better. “My father was a huge fan of Les Miserables.” She loved getting asked that question.
“Ah, Victor Hugo’s masterpiece. Gotcha.”
Well. He knew literature.
“Hey, why don’t I introduce you both to the rest of my posse? Kealy, you’ve worked with us at the shows, but we’ve never all hung out together. C’mon,” he said.
We followed Cross through the pack, neither of us able to take our eyes off the faded rock ‘n roll T-shirt covering his broad shoulders or the low-handing jeans outlining his very muscular ass.
But not watching where you’re walking is never a good idea, and I ran smack into another party guest. I was instantly snapped me out of my Cross-induced reverie and almost fell flat on my ass.
And don’t you know, who stood before me but my old buddy Muse?
