My only true friend was Trey. Everyone else was just there to entertain me. I cared about them, sure, but pictures of Xanthe and her friends showed real love there.
Trey and I would go out together all the time, but we surrounded ourselves with people who were there for what we could give them, and vice versa—fame, names in the media, faces on magazines.
Xanthe always wanted to pay her own way. The women I had on call expected me to pay for everything. Gabriella, Whitney, and Bianca were just the women I fucked when I needed to get my rocks off. Not once had they ever offered me the depth of character Xanthe had in just the two days I had known her.
A hollow ache filled my chest.
At eight o’clock, pride had me getting dressed in dark gray slacks, a white button-down shirt, black suspenders, and my camel-colored boots. I watched myself style my hair and preen my beard in the bathroom mirror.
I knew my reflection, but I didn’t recognize myself.
I looked good.
But I looked like nothing I wanted to be anymore.
I wanted to put on my jeans and a T-shirt and go out and find the shabby hipster who had me questioning everything that I was. I wanted to demand she tell me what she had done to me, why I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and why I found myself wanting to be in her company more than any other female I had back home.
What is so wrong with me that she had to go and hang out with some John Lennon spec–wearing bald man? Why didn’t she want to come up to my room and be with me last night?
Adele was waiting for me in the lobby like a vision of sex on legs in a little black dress with her red hair styled up high. Linking her arm with mine, she led me to the awaiting limo. In my mind’s eye, I searched all corners of the lobby for a bushy head of hair, and I was depressed that Xanthe wasn’t lurking around somewhere.
In the limo, I met several people whom I didn’t bother to even remember their names. They were all the same. The air was thick with about seven different expensive perfumes, mine included.
All I could think of was that look on Xanthe’s face while she was in the elevator, when she’d thought I wasn’t watching.
We arrived at a club and were ushered through the door ahead of a long line. Nothing new for me. It was the same shit as back in Amsterdam.
I can’t do this.
Adele slipped her arm around my waist, smiling coyly up at me, as we made our way deeper inside. For the first time in my life, accepting a woman’s attention felt wrong. As we stood around the bar, waiting to be served, Adele squeezed her arm around my waist, and the hollow ache inside me became poignant.
Pulling out of her grasp, I muttered, “Restroom,” excusing myself and heading away from the knot of flawless people. It was strange that I could see that everyone was so attractive but so utterly unappealing.
I locked myself in a restroom stall, and the pounding club beats were muted enough to be able to make a phone call to the woman who had made me so aware of everything I was lacking in my life.
Please pick up. Please, Xanthe Love. I’m so sorry. I don’t ever want to hurt you again. Please ans—
“Hello?” Xanthe’s voice was so warm and rich, it enveloped my heart.
“Xanthe,” I breathed her name, as though it were the breath of life.
“Yeah?”
She was angry and deservedly so. I could hear rock music blaring in the background. It was so much better than the garbage pumping through the speakers here.
“I don’t want to be here,” I confessed.
She sighed. “Where would you rather be then, Ollie?”
“Wherever you are.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
“I was jealous,” I told her.
Xanthe deserved the truth.
“I saw you hugging that guy this morning, and when you told me you were out all night with him, I got pissed, and I fucked up. I just want to be with you. Let me come to you. Please…”
“Why would you be jealous?”
“Because you gave him my smile and you hugged him for more than five seconds and it killed me to think you would’ve rather spent the night with him than me.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “You stupid man.”
“Who is he?” I asked, desperate.
“Ronen Kelly. I told you about him yesterday. He used to run the tattoo shop with Ricki back home. He and his wife are my friends. I’m the godmother to their daughter.”
My knees went so weak, I sank to the ground with my back against the stall wall. “Fuck.”
“Are you drunk or something?”
“I haven’t had a drop of anything. Can I come to you?”
She sighed again, and my chest felt like it was caving in.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Some fucking club. Just tell me where I can meet you. Please.”
“I’m at the Yard Bird. There’s an ELO cover band playing tonight.”
Her excitement at the prospect of listening to a cover band of Electric Light Orchestra had me grinning. “I’m on my way, Xanthe Love.”
“All right. No need to get all mushy on me. They go on in about forty-five minutes.”
“Okay.”
Xanthe
I placed my phone on the table.
“Who was that?” asked Ronen.
I just gave him a sardonic look.
“Asshole. What does he want?”
“He’s joining us,” I replied.
“Just like that?” he grumped. He chugged the rest of his pint. “Maybe you should think twice about this guy.”
Like I haven’t already.
I’d told both Ronen and Lilla about Ollie’s nasty attitude today and his loud acceptance of a date with the redhead as I’d exited the hotel afterward. I hadn’t told them how much it had stung—although I probably hadn’t needed to.
“Shut up, and get us some more beer,” said Lilla.
Without a word, Ronen shifted his way out of the booth and headed for the bar.
“Don’t listen to him. He’s just being overprotective,” she told me.
“Yeah, I figured,” I replied.
The Yard Bird was a gem of a bar. It wasn’t too big, but it had a reputation for getting some great bands on their tiny stage. The last band had brought in a good crowd, and the die-hard classic-rock lovers were piling in to see ELO’s cover band.
Aunt Ellen would love to see these guys, I thought.
Ronen returned with three more pints, followed by one of the bartenders carrying three Irish Car Bombs.
“Damn, Roney,” huffed Lilla as Ronen took his seat. “You know I’ll sleep with you without getting liquored up, right?”
“Shut your piehole. We’re celebrating.”
The bartender was cute. He made eye contact with me and winked. I gave him a shy smile in return. Once the bartender headed back to the bar, the three of us picked up our shot glasses of Baileys and whiskey and dropped them into our pint glasses filled halfway with Guinness.
Raising our glasses, we cried out, “To the Bro Dawgs!”
Then, we all chugged the creamy concoction to the dregs. After we slammed our glasses down on the table, Ronen then unleashed a belch fit to drown out the music.
“Ah, that was good,” he remarked.
But I wasn’t paying attention to him. My eyes caught the magnificent sight of Ollie standing about five feet from our table, dressed to kill. Oh, man…he is perfection. I hadn’t realized suspenders were so cool, especially on that hot body.