Playing Pretend by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

Two

Eliza

I takea tiny sip of my third vodka cranberry and frown. The bottom of my glass is becoming visible.

That's a problem.

There's deafening music, gyrating bodies and endless chatter all around me, but as I stand anxiously on the edge of the dance floor, all I can hear is my booming heartbeat.

Jeez—calm down, Liza.

I'm totally psyching myself out right now. You’d think I was about to go plead my case on Judge Judy when, in reality, I'm just building up the guts to go say ‘hello’ to some of my coworkers who I spotted hanging out at a table on the other side of this sweaty nightclub.

The girls seem to be having a good time. They’ve got a whole bunch of empty shot glasses in front of them and one of their friends has guys throwing dollar bills at her as she dances barefoot on their tabletop.

I haven't known Nadia, Desiree and Sera all that long but I find them sort of intimidating. Not that they're mean or anything. Just the opposite, in fact. They're nice and pretty and they really have their shit together. Plus, I'm relatively sure that none of them has ever packed up their clothes in the middle of the night, dyed their hair a ghastly shade of acid blonde and run off across the country to assume a whole new life, hiding under the radar.

I peek at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Really bad dye-job, Liza.

And I’m still trying to figure out how I made it past this trendy club’s stern bouncers in this bargain bin paisley tunic dress and the bland black pumps I’m wearing.

I glance around uncomfortably. God—why did I even come here tonight?

It doesn’t take long for me to remember my reason, actually. Showing up at Club Mermaid alone makes for a lot of awkward moments but it sure as hell beats watching yet another Shark Tank re-run in my musty basement apartment while my ancient landlord and his equally-ancient lady-friend shake the bungalow’s clapboards with their vigorous Friday night love-making.

Cringe.

I’ve only lived in Sin Valley for a short while. Thanks to my lucky stars, I landed a job at Kline-Simmons Realty Developments within a few days of showing up in town. But I swear, that ‘new kid’ smell is still clinging to me. I’ve been feeling a little out of place. Okay, that’s an understatement. I’ve been sticking out like a sore thumb.

My gaze goes back to Nadia, Desiree and Sera’s table. Now that I look closer, Sera’s makeup seems to be smudged and her nose is red. And wait—is that a wedding dress she’s wearing? Come to think of it, I did hear that she was getting married sometime this week. Was that supposed to be today?

Oh shit! If she’s crying at a nightclub on her wedding night, I’m guessing things didn’t go according to plan. My heart squeezes for her.

Gosh—I’m so out of the loop.

Don’t get me wrong—my coworkers have invited me to hang out a few times since I started working at the real estate development firm. I've had to turn them down each time because of Mr. Kline and his demanding work assignments. But it’s all for the best, I guess.

Yes, I want the girls from the office to like me. I want to fit in. But these walls I’ve built around me serve a purpose. I can’t let anyone get too close. I can’t let anyone discover the truth about me.

I really miss my life back home. My younger sister and I would usually spend our Friday nights painting each other’s fingernails and gossiping and watching horrid reality TV shows. Not terribly exciting but that was my home, my safe place.

You can’t go back, Liza. Not now. Maybe not ever.

I have to make the best of where I am. The here and now. It’s hard, though, being on the outside all the time. I like to think of myself as a strong, independent woman but it gets lonely all by yourself in a new town. Even though I know that keeping my distance is my best move at this point, looking on from the peripheries as the girls from my office socialize only reminds me of how alone I am.

Just paste on a smile, go over there and say ‘hi’ to them. It’s not that hard…

I mean—I’m Eliza Fake-It-Till-I-Make-It Jenkins. I can do this.

But maybe a fresh drink first.

Chin up, shoulders back, I weave my way through the crowd, getting jostled around as I move closer to the bar. I try to ignore the tiny voice in my head telling me that no amount of liquor is going to drive my sordid past away.

As I wait my turn to order, my gaze falls on a strange man at the other end of the counter, one with hollow eyes that are glued intently on me. When our eyes meet, he pulls his gray Panama hat lower over his face. Shuddering, I avert my stare. I can’t help but worry that he’s more than just another club creeper. I sure hope I’m wrong.

No one in this club would guess at how unsure of myself I feel. I’m blonde and curvy and I walk around with a big smile plastered on my face. I may have everyone fooled by my confident veneer. But on the inside, I’m an anxious mess. I know that at any moment, the rug could be pulled out from under me and I’ll have to come face to face with my ugly sins.

How much longer can I go on living this way?

My phone vibrates from inside my tiny black clutch and I practically lunge at the opportunity to make myself look busy.

It’s my sister again. The instant I see Dana’s name, my hands get a little shaky. I can’t help the anxious trepidation I feel each time her name pops up on my phone. I swipe across the screen to open her text.

It’s one of those super long messages that takes several scrolls to read through. She’s updating me on Dad’s situation and it makes my stomach churn. I lean against the bar and try my best to send her a reassuring response, but in all honesty, I’m really worried about shit hitting the fan while I’m away.

On a long exhale, I shove the device back into my purse. That’s where it will stay for the rest of the night, I decide. Reality can wait until tomorrow. Tonight is my night to let go.

"You need a refill, darling?"

I yip at the deep male voice that comes out of nowhere. What's left of my cocktail splashes out of my glass, onto my boobs. Great.

I’m so damn jumpy all the time. I glance up at the bartender. He’s alright-looking, I suppose. Thick biceps that fill out his snug black T-shirt. Twinkly blue eyes that skitter down to my now-soaked dress. A horny-looking grin he flashes at me from across the bar.

He leans closer. “Y’know, I really hate seeing a perfectly good drink go to waste. I’d be glad to take you to my car out back and help you clean that up…with my tongue.”

There are moments in life when a man says some reckless shit like that. A woman finds herself at a crossroads. She can choose one of two routes.

Option A; slap him shitless because who the hell says something like that?!

Option B…? Flirt back.

The angel on my shoulder swoops in, strongly advising against slapping the man shitless because, after my recent string of poor life choices, the last thing I need is to draw unwanted attention to myself.

But then, my gaze scans his grinning face again. The devil pokes his head up from between my cleavage and prods me to flirt, dammit. I’ve got too much vodka in my system and the guy is sort of cute and I’m absolutely starved for human interaction right now. Maybe I could—

Why the hell are you even considering this, Eliza? The angel is yelling at me.

Right as the devil is about to retort, my cellphone buzzes again.

“Just one sec.” I hold up a painted finger at the bartender and dig into my purse to give my device a quick check. Something red-hot pulses to life in my stomach when I read the message.

For fuck's sake…

It’s a message marked urgent from Liam Kline and I swear, it’s smirking at me from my phone screen.

Yes. I’m getting cockblocked by an email from my boss.

It’s like the man has a sixth sense for knowing when I’m about to let my guard down for a second and have some fun. Holding the position of executive assistant to Sin Valley's premier real estate tycoon is a privilege, no doubt, but he definitely makes sure I earn every penny of my measly paycheck.

Also, would it kill him to start his emails with a ‘hello’? And has he ever heard of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?

For all of five seconds, I consider emailing him back with a middle finger emoji. Three of them. In a row.

I mean seriously, what an entitled jerk he is?!

My attention rises from my phone to search for the flirty bartender. Turns out, he’s already moved on from any plans of running away with me for the night. He’s now leaning across the bar, whispering into the ear of another attention-starved woman. Charming.

On a sigh, I send Mr. Kline a message, attempting to instruct him on how to go about pulling up the parcel records himself. Instead of a thank you or some other gracious response, I getanother terse email from him. He’s basically demanding that I hurry my ass to the hotel suite where he is currently meeting with Lance Varner, the luxury resort developer with whom Kline-Simmons has recently been negotiating a ridiculously lucrative deal.

Damn you, Liam Kline.

And now, I’m absolutely convinced that he does have a sixth sense for how to make me miserable. Because, of all the places in Sin Valley he could be, what are the chances that he’d be here, in the top floor hotel suite of the very same building that houses Club Mermaid?

I’m pissed at having to deal with my heartless work-o-maniac boss tonight. But I’m smart enough to realize that this is better than the alternative. Better than returning to face the mess I’ve made of my old life. If I want to keep my job, ignoring this email is not an option. Even though it’s after 10 p.m. on a Friday night.

I hustle out of the club and ride up the elevator to the building’s top floor, peevishly grumbling all the way. “That’s what I get for checking my phone after I promised myself I wouldn’t,” I mutter to myself.

All I want is a normal life. A normal 23-year-old’s life. I just want to flirt with a hot guy at the club, hang out with the girls from the office and get to know them, so I don’t have to fake-laugh at all their inside jokes over the photocopier on Monday morning. Why is that too much to ask?

The elevator ride is bumpy and the vodka sloshes around in the hollow of my belly. I finger-comb my messy hair and touch-up my red lipgloss. When I stumble into the hallway outside of the door to the penthouse suite, it seems like all the alcohol I’ve consumed in this lifetime crashes into my head at once. My skin feels flushed and my knees wobble like I’m walking in a sea of yogurt.

I am not sober.

But I’ve got this. I’m Eliza Fake-It-Till-I-Make-It Jenkins. I’ve got this.

I knock on the imposing dark wood door of the penthouse suite. The door swings open in a heartbeat and my stomach teeter-totters queasily again. This time, for a whole different reason.

A tall, dark, scowling tower of billionaire crowds the entryway.

On second thought, I’m not so sure I’ve ‘got this’ after all.