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Around 3:45, I hear Micola’s bedroom door slide open. I rise from my chaise and slip on my Rolex. With a quick glance in the mirror, I slick my goatee, pulling at my chin’s tug of hair. After a couple swigs of my Scotch, I pop a couple altoids in my mouth. I’m not much of a drinker in the States, but London and booze go hand in hand, and I’m on this turf now. I take one last glimpse in the mirror, noting my silver slim-fit suit is fitted just right. I sure hope Micola notices.
“Ms. Costa is waiting in the car.” The house manager reports once I make it downstairs.
“Thank you. Please, have a bartender on hand in case we return with friends.”
I slide into the car, taking an eyeful of my partner. Incredibly exquisite. Her silver blue dress fits her just short of snug, and the plump flesh of her upper bosoms plead for my attention.
How in the hell did I manage to screw this one over?
I clear my throat, getting a whiff of her natural vanilla scent. Her lips are cherry red, as are her shoes paired perfectly sexy with the hints of blue in the dress. Her legs are crossed toward me, and her nose is in her phone.
“You look incredible.”
She sets her phone on her lap, sighs, and gives me a plastic smile.
“Thank you, Alex. So we’re headed to a dinner for champions? What is this about?” She snickers.
“Art champions. Champions of the arts. Folks who donate to art charities, the padding. Yes, this event is meant to celebrate people like me. But, trust me, nothing is like having a Costa on my arm.”
“I have to be honest. It’s so much more fun when you know someone ischoosingtouse you.Right? Like, this is the way to prevent heartbreak. Take note.”
“I signed up for a good time, and according to your contract, you did too. Let’s, please. Let’s!”
As soon as we pull up to the private dining hall, there’s a red carpet stemming from the drop-off line all the way to the entrance. Cameramen and reporters scatter on either side, dressed to interview. The camera lights are harsh in comparison to the dim candelabras framing the outskirts of the stone building, which looks like a mini palace.
“Oh, wow. This is how they do it here, huh?” Micola’s jaw drops.
Placing my palm over her hand, I give her a gentle squeeze. She slides it from under me as Benjamin exits the car. He opens up Micola’s door and leads her up and out. Following her close behind, the cameras flicker at us as she finally accepts my hand.
With a firm grip, we smile and stop and pose.
“Wasn’t expecting this,” Micola mumbles as I feel her grow self-conscious about her dress.
Pressing my palm against her spine, she leans back into me. I make her feel secure among these lights.
“There’s Italy’sanima artistica.”I point out as its reporter meets my eye.
She beams and beckons me over, “Señor Masters. Chi abbiamo qui?”
“Micola Costa, artista e insegnante di Brooklyn.”
Micola took over, immediately introducing herself when I was asked, “Who do we have here.”
The reporter’s eyes light up at the name Costa while Micola explains she is not a sculptor but a painter, an art advocate, and my girlfriend.
I assumed she’d stutter, grow docile, or be asked to repeat herself while speaking in Italian. Not at all. Her confidence is fierce. The conversation flows as they soon ask her how her family’s doing.
I grip her hand, tugging her to move along. She responds with a tighter grip, tense and demanding control. I take the sudden pain from her squeeze and give her smoldering eyes. If she wants to hurt me, I’ll sex the energy up real quick; remind her she once had huge feelings for me. Huge.
“Come along,” I whisper.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Remind you how I looked before I’d taste you?” I question ever so softly into her ear.
I watch her swallow, give me rushed, scornful eye contact and resume smiling for the cameras.
“Mr. Masters! Mr. Alexander Masters, is this one of your prodigies?” A British reporter calls out, pointing to Micola.
