Bound to You

Rebecca

The city of New York is a fearsome thing to behold. The city lights shine down on the club, lighting it up like a Hollywood stage. My body hums with excitement as Carol and I step out of her black Escalade and onto a red carpet swarming with paparazzi. Apparently, this is the place to be. Carol warned me about the press being at club openings, but I don’t think I’m ready for this many people.

“Just follow me, the doorman knows we’re on the list,” she says, straightening her wistful strands of mocha brown.

I pull at the hem of my dress, conscious of the way it slips up, revealing a little too much of my thunder thighs, as we make our way down the red carpet. A few cameramen snap pictures of us, whistling as we walk up. I wonder if we’ll be in tomorrow’s paper? I’m suddenly grateful that I’m wearing a black cocktail dress. At least with the black, my unwanted love handles are hidden. I hope if my picture somehow finds it way on the Internet, Miles sees it. Nothing right now would give me more satisfaction than for him to know I’m doing wonderfully without him.

Hundreds of people gawk at us as they wait in line to go into the club. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to walk to the front of a club line, drop a name, and then be escorted inside. Usually, I’m the one waiting in line, watching the bouncer admit all of the supermodel twigs inside.

“You’re going to love this place,” Carol says, grinning.

The front doorman to the club looks up with a smirk as he spots us. The mischievous look behind his eyes tells me he knows Carol well. He reminds me of a sexier version of Russell Crowe. Silvery grey hairs run through his short, brown hair and goatee, and his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles.

“Ms. Livingston, it’s nice to see you again.” His British accent is thick. I can almost see him in some 19th century gothic story, walking across the moors of Northern England in his riding coat, searching for his long lost love. His eyes wash over the both of us with interest. Carol must be a lot bigger of a name in NYC than she let on.

“Hi, Derrick,” she says, winking. “We’re finally here, sorry to hold up the party,” she says, smiling.

What a flirt.

Something tells me Carol has a lot of confessing to do later. His eyes dip to Carol’s neckline. There’s intensity behind them as they trail back up to her almost-innocent smile.

She knows the effect she has on him.

I can’t help but laugh.

“Right this way,” he says, holding open front door of the club and never taking his eyes off her backside. “Welcome to Riptide.”

“Carol, what the hell was that?”

“What was what?” she says coyly.

“The doorman and you. You guys were eye-fucking each other.”

“Oh that,” she says dismissively. “We just made out once in his car.”

“Just made out?”

“Well, it started as just making out.”

“Unbelievable,” I say, laughing.

The inside of the Riptide is phenomenal. The club’s beach theme is present within each detail of the décor, from the blue lights spinning across the dance floor engulfing the room with rippling waves, to the faint scent of citrus and the ocean breeze wafting in the air. Even though it makes me miss the weather in California, it’s nice to have a piece of it here in New York.

“They really like giving you the whole experience here, “ Carol says, squeezing my hand. “Do you mind getting us a drink? I’m going to run to the ladies’ room.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“We’ll look for my client as soon as I get back.”