Chasing Frost by Isabel Jolie
Twenty-Five
Chase
“Anna. Why?” Whine mode has gone full throttle. Getting Anna to cave is typically within the realm of possibilities.
“I’m sorry. It’s just Jackson has some research he wants to focus on tonight, and I need to brainstorm some fresh concepts. Work’s been too busy lately. It stifles the creative flow.”
Yeah, I have a feeling I know the kind of work Jackson and Anna want to focus on tonight.
“And it’s a Tuesday night. Why are you so hot on going out on a Tuesday?” Now she’s whining.
“I’m curious about this Calvin Harris. Aren’t you? I mean how do you become a celebrity DJ?”
“By dating Taylor Swift?” she asks.
“No. He was big before her. And, besides, who turns down tickets to a sold-out show at The Velvet Room? I’ll tell you who. A lame-ass, that’s who.”
“I’m sorry, I really am. But we’re gonna pass on this one.”
I huff, but I don’t hold it against Anna. I should be taking a pass on this one, too. I have several more accounts I should be reviewing, but at the same time, I’m ready for a release. All day I’ve been going over spreadsheets with a fine-tooth comb, and I’m ready to let it go for a night.
“Sam and Olivia are still in. And Sydney’s still going, right?” Anna asks.
“Yeah.” I tell her, not missing her slick little segue.
“I like her.”
“I do, too.”
“I can tell. Chase, I’m happy for you.” I can hear the smile in her words. I have a full-on visual of the way Anna must look right now with her goofy grin. She probably thinks her little buddy has grown up and fallen in love. And all signs point to her being correct. Last night, after an intense, stressful day, there was definitely only one place I wanted to be.
Rhonda taps on the door. It’s the end of the workday, and she always stops by before heading out to catch her train.
“I gotta run. Maybe this weekend we can all get together?” I say to Anna.
“I’d love that. Have fun tonight.” Yeah, yeah. I’ve got eight tickets in a VIP booth, and we’re going with four people. I hang up.
“Rhonda, you sure you don’t want to come tonight? VIP booth. That’s, like, five grand.” I asked her over the weekend, and she shot me down, but I didn’t do the hard sell. “Wouldn’t Ronnie like a night out?” Yeah, Rhonda and Ronnie. High school lovers. I keep asking her to bring in her yearbook so I can check out their dated hairstyles. In current times, Rhonda sports tall black bangs that are more eighties Halloween than anything you’d see in a magazine.
“He’d love it, but there’s no way I can get a sitter. And besides, I told you, soccer practice. No can do. But have fun. You’ll have to let me know if this Calvin Harris is worth the money.”
“Which client did we get these tickets for, anyway?” I really should have taken these tickets and invited clients, not all my friends. But my head’s not in the BB&E game these days.
“I have no idea,” she answers as she backs out into the hall. “But I know why they ended up in your lap.”
“Because I’m the best?”
“No. Because it’s a Tuesday! No one else wants them,” she shouts as she waves goodnight.
I check the time. We’re not meeting up with Sam and Olivia until after eight. Even that’s early, but it’ll be fine. It might be Tuesday, but it’s sold out, so it’ll be packed when we arrive. I’m in the mood to blow off some steam. But, truth be told, I’m a little jealous of Jackson and Anna. I wouldn’t mind sitting back with a glass of wine and unwinding in the quiet of my apartment with Sydney instead of going to a packed club. I’ve spent so long taking free tickets, always being on the go, it didn’t even occur to me to turn the damn tickets down.
I unplug my laptop and slide it into my backpack, spinning my office chair as I do so. I freeze. Several filing cabinet drawers are ajar.
The tall metal cabinets are to my back when I sit at my desk, so on a normal day, I don’t pay them much attention. I scrutinize the uneven drawers. Don’t freak.
Rhonda may have been in a hurry when she was filing. I open the slim drawer in my desk and lift the tiny silver keys. The locks on these cabinets are so small, it’s hard to imagine they’d keep anyone out who wanted in. I push the drawers closed and lock them, my shoulders and neck muscles tense. Then I step outside to the cabinets that line the wall near Rhonda’s cube. Methodically, one by one, I lock them all.
“What are you doing?” Sydney’s standing at Rhonda’s cubicle entrance wearing sky-high fuck-me heels that put her maybe an inch taller than I am. I don’t remember what she was wearing earlier today, but it wasn’t those heels, because if she’d been wearing them, I would’ve been thinking of her in those heels and nothing else all fucking day. I want to slide my hand up her thigh and find out if those silky sheer hose adorning those long lean legs are thigh highs, but in my peripheral vision, I spy Trey, a guy on my team, still working at his cubicle. We are not alone.
“Closing up. You ready to go?” Please say yes.
“Yeah. Where are we meeting up with everyone?”
“Well, Jackson and Anna bailed, and Sam and Olivia are meeting us at The Velvet Room, so we’re on our own for dinner.”
“Jackson and Anna aren’t coming?” She sounds disappointed, which gives me a perverse shot of pleasure. I want her to like my friends.
“No. Can’t say I’m surprised. Those two bail with relative frequency.” That wasn’t like Anna before she moved in with Jackson, but she’s gradually been upping her cancellation rate.
“So, it’s just us and Sam and Olivia?” I like how she says “us.” I drop the file keys into my slacks pocket and enter my office to grab my backpack.
“Unless you have someone you want to invite? We have four extra tickets.” I should’ve asked her earlier. I’d like to get to know her friends.
“New here.” She lifts her shoulders, raising her hemline as she does so, exposing more thigh. “What about your friends at the gym? You want to invite any of them?”
“Any particular friend of mine you want me to invite?” She wouldn’t be the first girl I dated to harbor a crush on one of my friends.
“Chase,” she scolds, “I didn’t mean for me, you big goof. I was just thinking you spend a lot of time there, talking to those guys. You might want to invite one of them.” Two things strike me from her comments. One, she applied the word big to me. I like that. Second thing, she’s been watching me at the gym.
“That’s a negative, Ghost Rider. I’m not bringing along competition on our date.” Those glossy, delectable lips lift into a sexy as fuck smile, and Trey be damned, I pull her to me for a kiss. I press her slim tight body to mine, and I know she can feel the outline of my growing erection against her. She moans, which is hot, then pushes me away, which is still hot, but not as desirable.
“Let’s get out of here. Let me get my briefcase, and we can leave.”
I follow her out, close enough that I can rub my palm possessively against the curve of her buttocks. When we arrive at her office, I see the briefcase in her chair, and I step past her, chivalrous. I lift her briefcase, and it’s heavier than my backpack.
“What’re you carrying in here?”
She reaches for it. “You don’t have to carry it. I’ll get it.”
“Nope.” I brush her hands away. “I’ve got it. But, man, you don’t pack light, do you?” I ask as we head down the hall, side by side, for the elevators.
“Where do you want to go for dinner?” she asks, changing the subject.
“It’s just the two of us. What’re you in the mood for?”
She gives me a look that goes right to my crotch.
“You want to skip dinner? I can be down with that.”
She responds with a laugh, and it’s pretty fucking adorable.
“No. Come on, big goof. Let’s walk around and check menus. See what we find.”
“Big goof? Is that your new name for me?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I guess? Does it bother you?”
“No. I never mind being called big.”
She giggles again.
“I’ll be your big goof,” I tell her then sneak a kiss on her cheek.
All in all, I could get used to this. My girl working down the hall from me, us leaving the office together, scouting for food. Who would’ve thought it? Of course, on the flip side, this is the second day in a row I’ve skipped my evening gym routine.
“Tomorrow after work, we gotta hit the gym, okay?” I ask, but it’s as much to reassure myself. Sydney’s hot as fuck, and she’s smart, easy to talk to, gets along with my friends. More than any of that, I want to be with her. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be one of those people who slips into a relationship and does a personality one-eighty.
She doesn’t answer me, and it might be my imagination, but I think her grip on my hand tightens as we walk. I take it as a sign she likes talking about future plans.
“You up for Italian?” She wrinkles her nose. We had reservations at a snazzy place near The Velvet Lounge, but they were for six, and I’m not really in the mood for fancy. Of course, this is a date.
“You want sushi?” I prompt.
“Sure. Sushi sounds good.”
I whip out my phone, press some numbers, confirm we can get a table, and have us in the back of a taxi in less than three minutes. I am a master at winging it.
We’ll have to be seated at the sushi bar instead of a table, but it’s all good. When we arrive, I offer our bags to the coat check. Syd reaches out for her briefcase. “That’s okay. I don’t need to check my bag.”
I look over to the bar. There will be some space below our feet, but not much. Whatever. I check my bag, and we’re seated in front of the two vacant stools. Kassandra, the hostess here, winks at me, and I thank her and ask about the design competition she’s prepping for at Pratt Design School. It pays to pay attention to all the people, and this is one of my regular restaurants.
After she leaves, I prepare to take a crucial step forward in my relationship with Sydney. Sushi ordering. Either we can do this together, or it’s gonna be a bust.
“What kind of sushi do you like?” I’m all nonchalant, playing it casual, like I’m totally cool with whatever she says. If she tells me she only eats California rolls, I’ll play it cool.
“Well, I eat almost anything, but I tend to prefer sashimi. But if you want to split a roll, I can do that.” She rushes to reassure me, but all I want to do is fall on my knees and worship her.
“Sashimi it is.” I wave the guy over and order a platter. It’s the purest way to enjoy the fish and by far the healthiest. Of course, no fun makes for a dull boy. I point at my favorite menu item. “You open for some tuna nachos to start?”
We order and get our drinks. We talk about work. She asks me questions about some of the different players on my team, about some of the accounts. It’s all the kind of stuff you’d talk about if you started a new job and were planning on staying. But she’s gotta get out of BB&E.
“Do you need help finding another job?” Why didn’t I think of that earlier? She might think it’s too hard to get a job somewhere else, and that’s why she’s ignoring my advice to jump ship.
“No.”
I roll my wrist so she can see the time on my watch. “We’ve spent over an hour talking about that place. Why do you care?” Her gaze falls, maybe to the wasabi remnants on her plate. Guilt strikes. I’m such an ass. “Look, I’ve told you more than I should have. But I did that because I care about you. Trust me. You don’t want to stay there. I can help you find a new gig. I bet Sam can find a position for you. And if not, he’s got contacts. We can talk with him about it tonight.”
Her suit jacket hangs on a nearby hook on the wall, and I reach for the bare skin on the base of her neck, below her straight, angular bob. Goosebumps rise along her arms as the rough pads of my fingers trace the delicate skin.
She runs her fingers along my jaw, then slides off the stool in slow motion. She presses her voluptuous lips to mine. I trail my fingers along her thigh, up below the hemline, and hold back a whimper. Thigh highs. More than anything, I want to go back to my place right the fuck now.
“I’ll be back.”
Huh?
“Restroom. Then we’ve got to get going, right?”
Oh, yes. She slips past me to the back of the restaurant, and I watch her. The swing of her hair, counterbalancing the swing of her hips, the way her black dress curves around the lines of her tight, firm ass.
“Hot date?” Jin, one of the sushi chefs I’ve chatted with on occasion, asks as he delivers the billfold while wiggling his thin black eyebrows.
“Yes, Jin. Hot date,” I tell him as I slide my credit card into the billfold. She’s so fucking hot she has me wanting more, and this from a guy who days ago was adamant he didn’t do “more.” They always say you don’t know it’s coming, and when it hits you, you’re unaware until the damage is done. Well, the damage is done. I am knocked out. The single game holds zero appeal now, all thanks to Sydney. Mom might tell me it’s too early. And maybe it is. But you know what, it’s like tapping melons, searching for the best fruit. When you know, you know. And yeah, she is way out of my league. But right now she seems to see something in me. I’d be a nutjob not to go for it.
When we arrive at The Velvet Lounge, a line has formed from the entrance and around the block. We slide out of the cab, and within moments, the driver’s door of the black Tesla parked on the curb opens, and Wes, Sam’s security guy, gets out wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He opens the back passenger door. Olivia exits the car, followed by Sam.
“Hey, guys,” Olivia greets us, hugging Sydney first, then me. Sam and I shake hands.
“Wes’s parking the car, then he’s going to meet us inside.”
“Oh, do you mind if I keep my briefcase in your car? Does that work?” She looks at me. “I’d feel better about that than checking it.”
I look to Sam, and the trunk pops open. I drop both my backpack and her briefcase in. I trust bag check, but given some of the files in my backpack, storing it in Sam’s car is probably a smart move.
“Why don’t we wait outside for Wes? He might have a hard time getting in without us,” I say as we approach the entrance.
“Wes’s already spoken to the bouncer. He won’t have any trouble.” Dismissing me, Sam turns his megawatt cowboy smile on the ladies. “You ladies ready and rarin’ to go?”
We step up to the red velvet rope, and one of the bouncers nods to Sam, lifting the brass hook to let us in. They haven’t opened the doors to a general audience yet. VIP booths are allowed in whenever we arrive. And that’s the way it should be, given the price tag for a booth. We also have a specially assigned cocktail waitress who will be there to assist us throughout the night. I offer up our tickets to the bouncer, who barely looks at them.
Music pulses, a techno beat, and multi-colored strobe lights flash in coordination with the bass. A smoky haze fills the air. Shiny gold accents the edges of booths and stair railings. Black reigns supreme, covering the walls and floors, and even the countertop on the bar.
The ladies follow a hostess through the bar and into the club area. Sam and I follow close behind. My curiosity has me asking him about the whole door admission thing.
“So, why’d you talk to the bouncer ahead of time? I had the tickets.”
“Wes is my security. He’s got a concealed weapon. He likes to give bouncers a heads up. Sometimes he won’t carry, but most places like this don’t mind. They tend to welcome the augmented security. They just want to know who’s who.”
We slide into the booth. There’s a dance area behind us and one before us. Our booth is on an elevated platform. It’s in a short line of VIP booths. We can see everything, and the crowd can’t get too close as we’re in our own little area, cordoned off from the regular joes. Worth five grand? I think not. A nice little way to wine and dine some clients, if you have some that are into this kind of thing? Sure.
Our booth is a semicircle, and the ladies slide in first, leaving Sam and me on the outside of the booth. It’s large. After all, it’s designed to seat eight. The music is pumping loudly. We have to shout to be heard.
We order our drinks, and I yell over the table to Sam, “Security go with you everywhere?”
I could swear I remember Jackson telling me Sam hated security. And there was this whole thing he went through with a stalker. Crazy shit, but it’s hard to feel bad for a guy for drumming up too much attention after being named one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. Yeah, when I think of all the pussy that guy must’ve been getting, I don’t feel bad for him. Not at all.
“Not everywhere. But Wes’s been with me for a long time. He’s more than security.”
Right about then, Wes enters the room and stands to the back. He’s wearing a black sports coat over his black t-shirt. It’s my kind of outfit. He and Sam exchange nods.
“You want him to sit with us? I don’t mind.”
Sydney glances over her shoulder, connecting the dots between our conversation and Wes.
“He wouldn’t want to. He’s not going to drink on the job, and he’d say he has a better view of the area standing back there. He came in earlier and decided where he’d stand. He’s not the only security here tonight. They’re expecting quite a few celebrities.”
“Isn’t it someone’s birthday? That’s why Calvin is doing this show?”
“I think it’s some model’s birthday. One he’s friends with.”
Olivia looks skeptical. “He’s not into celebrities anymore.”
“Do you know him?”
She smiles. “No. I read it in People.”
Of course, this entire conversation is done while shouting and leaning across the table. It’s one of the reasons I usually only hit nightclubs when I’m looking to score. These are not the kinds of places one comes to have a conversation. My throat burns from the shouting.
I lean back on the booth, spreading my arm across the back. Sydney sidles up next to me, and the feeling is fucking incredible. I’ll behave myself with my friends sitting at the table, but as soon as Sam and Olivia give the signal, we’re out of here. I can’t wait to take this bombshell home.
Sydney pushes her black handbag toward the center of the table, so it rests beside Olivia’s. Women are funny. So many bags.
Sydney and Olivia both order electric blue martinis. Sam goes for a bourbon, and I get an ice-cold beer.
We tap our drinks together to cheer the beginning of the night. The dance floor fills with people, to the point it’s wall to wall bodies. A swarm of people pack around the circular central bar, the one that separates the entrance from the dance floor. Blue and white strobe lights flash over the bumping and grinding patrons.
Someone comes out and announces Calvin will be out soon. The lights transition to multiple colors and the beat intensifies, pulsing louder. On the second level, a raw wood balcony circles the open room. People gather above, looking down into the crowd. I’ve never been here before, but it looks like the club must extend farther back on the second floor. The balcony floor is an unfinished metal grid, an industrial design. The whole place has a steampunk feel.
A big muscle-bound guy with a shaved head stands in one corner. His muscles and the shine of his head draw my attention. The throbbing light highlights his enraged expression. I shift, looking over my shoulder to get a better look. I’m not gay or anything, but I notice muscles, and that guy’s got muscles of the Mr. Clean variety.
Right about then, Wes comes running out of nowhere, screaming, “Get! Down! Get down!”
Sam shoves Olivia down. Wes leaps over the booth wall. He lands on his side. Bam. On our table.
“Get! Down!”
Time slows. He’s sideways on our table. Shouting. He holds a silver gun. His fist grips my shoulder. Pain lances. I duck. Below the table.
Olivia and Sam crouch. It’s dark.
Screams cut the pulsing beat.
Sydney crawls. On her knees.
Firecracker sounds erupt above us. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Screams. Lights.
Beyond Sydney, on the dance floor, Wes crouches. On one knee, he lifts a pistol.
In the next second, he’s flat on the ground. Sprawled out. Pop. Pop. Rapid fire. All around. Above us. Beside us. Behind us.
Screams rise. The base beats a rhythm. The booth cushion slices open. Right behind Sam’s head. Bright white stuffing breaks through vinyl.
The top of our table rings. Pop. Pop. Pop. Firecrackers. Noisemakers. Shrill screams.
Fucking chaos.
Lights alternate colors. Blue. Pink. Yellow.
The techno beat pounds with bass punctuated with human screams. Cries for help.
A woman lies flat on her back on the dance floor, sprawled in an unnatural way, her legs open wide.
Olivia yells, “Sydney! Wait. Don’t.”
My head hits the top of the table as I half rise, blinking through smoke.
I find her. Leaning over Wes’s body. Two fingers on his neck.
She leans over him. Is he dead?
Her hand covers his.
I blink.
She lifts his gun.
Pop. Pop. Gunshots. Bullets.
The music pounds.
I blink.
The blue light of a phone screen shines through the dark.
Sydney casts one glance to our shelter. Knees up to our chins. Hunkered down below a table.
She raises onto one knee. Arms out. Gun in the air. “F.B.I.!”