Wouldn’t Mr. Stark and I make a perfect couple?
No you guys wouldn’t. Ever. For starters, he's not into men and second, he is so undeniably, absolutely mine.
The actual email is an image attachment and a URL to some local news site under the following sentence:
Dibs on Mr. Stark, Tash, if gorgeous is ever mental enough to let him go…
All humor leaves me to be replaced by a serious stab to the very core of my heart as the picture downloads. In front of me is an image of Daniel, sitting on what seems like a hospital bed, his guitar resting in his arms, fingers on the strings and his face highly concentrated but with an air of soft tranquility. Beside him, looking at him in absolute adoration, is a little girl not more than six years old with big, beautiful eyes. At the bottom left corner of the image I notice an IV attached to her little, fragile hand. I read the title and the caption accompanying the photo.
Young Stark Admirer
Hands-on: Daniel Stark playing to a cancer survivor at the Benioff Children's Hospital during a volunteer program by Stark Software.
If a heart could actually melt, mine would have turned into gushing, frothing mush by now. I'm unable to take my eyes off the screen. I seriously need to fight the urge to jump into my car, drive home, and put that ring, so carefully tucked in my night stand, on my finger. And call, text, telegram, send a courier pigeon, smoke signals, or scream at the top of my lungs all the way to Thailand: YES!
The next thing I do before isolating myself in Josh’s office, away from the bedlam, is try to call Daniel, but I get the same disappointing result I did earlier today. So I text him spellbound by love from the photo that still plays center stage in my mind.
D, you are amazing. I love you!
Chapter 32: Slammed
After one last glance in the mirror and another smidgen of lip gloss, I stride to my car, already thirty minutes fashionably late. Bringing the iPod to life with Nouvelle Vague’s serene voice I drive the car toward the electronic gates, en route to the YOU offices. An unsettling, strange vibe hovers at the back of my mind which I can neither make sense of nor shake off.
Hales, you’ll just have to have so much fun it’ll eventually evaporate by itself.
“Well?” A loud squeak destroys the momentary silence in the car as the hands-free system accepts a call.
“Good evening to you too, Ian,” I respond, amused.
“And the whereabouts of your fine ass?”
“Thanks for the cultured compliment. We are on our way, my fine rear, that is, and I. In ten, dear. You can have a bubbly ready for me.”
“Da, gorgeous. Have I ever not treated you like my own flesh and alcohol-saturated-blood?”
“You always do. Be there in 9.”
“Look for me. I will be the stunning god at the bar with his face splashed all over the freaking place.” With Ian my head just shakes automatically.
“Is Tasha there?”
“Hales, who cares about Tasha with that work of art wiggling his tail around her like an infatuated puppy.” I shake my head again.
“So I gather you’ve met Rafael?”
“Oh god, that’s his name? I just need to readjust my junk here. Rrrrfael,” Ian purrs Rafa’s name with a sleazy attempt at a Spanish accent.
Perv.
And… headshake number three.
“Aren’t you, like, in a committed relationship now?” I state the obvious.
“Does that mean I'm under a fantasizing ban?”
Well, how can I argue with that. Perv has a point.
“Okay, sweet cheeks, we're down to 5. See ya soon.”
“
Au revoir
, gorgeous.”
Holy hell,
Ian wasn’t kidding. His face is literally plastered
all over the place
. Seeing it in person, it’s kind of disturbing to have so many Ians looking at me with bedroom eyes from every damn angle. Something tells me Josh might have had a hand in the party décor. I startle out of my thoughts when someone grabs me from behind into a bear hug, a bear hug from very slim arms. A smile tickles my lips as I am bathed in Tasha’s familiar perfume. When I turn to face her we shift into a warm embrace.
“I missed you so mucho!”
I grin, truly happy to see her. “Me too, tons.”
She mirrors my own joy and kisses my cheek.
“You look great, missy.” I compliment the perfect little black dress she has on.
“You too, love the color.” She says, referring to my deep purple, freshly purchased number.
“
Trés chic
, very Hepburn of you, gorgeous. Me like.” Ian hands me my promised drink and smacks a kiss on my mouth.
“And you, sexy cougar.” Ian gives Tasha the same affectionate treatment, waggling his eyebrows, gesturing toward Rafael.
“Boundaries. Behave!” I murmur quietly into Ian’s ear.
Deliberately disregarding my threat, Ian extends his hand to Rafael. “Ian. Very, very much charmed.”
Rafael seems somewhat bothered at Ian’s blunt onceover that ends with a suggestive wink, and reciprocates with a firm handshake and a frown.
“Hey, Rafa.” I squeeze Rafael’s palm.
“Hello, Hayley. How are you?” he answers politely. Ever since Daniel introduced me in his far from subtle way to Rafael, Rafael has been way too formal with me.
“What's he been up to so far? Do we need to call security?” Josh joins our little group, gesturing with infatuated eyes at Ian.
“Hi boss, all fine. He almost behaved normal.” I grin Ian’s way. Ian raises his hand dismissively and folds his other arm around Josh’s waist.
“I need a drink.” Tasha grimaces toward the queue at the bar and steals my drink for a sip.
“I’ll get you one.” Rafael jumps.
Woo, someone is indeed already in for it.
“Let me.” Ian stops him with a friendly hand on his shoulder, smirking at us. Not more than a minute later, Ian returns with four tall, perspiring glasses. Rafael and Josh observe him appreciatively, failing to understand how Ian pulled it off given the long and impatient line.
Ian hands everyone a glass and then points at his broad smirk. “I’ve used this so many times... It always works like a fucking charm.” Tasha and I snort in unison, trade amused glances, and shake our heads.
“He’ll grow on you.” Tasha pats Rafael’s chest and leads him to the dance floor for a much sensual dance.
Peeps, who’s in? The odds are high tonight. Who’s betting for either the cloakroom or toilet before midnight?
“Join us?” Ian reaches for my hand, moving toward the dance floor.
“You two go, I’ll join soon,” Josh says. He pecks Ian’s lips and shuffles over to where a group of senior managers are standing. Strangely enough, I find the idea of Josh and Ian together heartwarming. Seems like Josh could really bring stability and sanity to Ian’s life. And it does look as though they really care for each other.
Disregarding the rhythmic summery music, Ian pulls me into a slow dance—it's the only way to talk. “Aren’t you a little intimidated by all those Ians all over the place?” I ask, giving the room another long glance.
“Me, intimidated by something like that?” He sneers and huffs. “For how long have you known me, exactly?”
“Dear, this is coming from a friend and out of pure love.”
Ian grins and raises an eyebrow.
“You should seriously check into a rehab for narcissism, and then, when you get out, volunteer at a shelter or something. Get your morals and ego back to the basic prerequisite, for the sake of humanity.” His response comes as a wider grin.
“What
have you
swallowed, the bible?” He shakes his head. “Morals,” he mumbles, this time sneering. “Nah, even that won’t help…” He then leans toward me and whispers in my ear. “Do you know that awkward moment when you see someone so hot you actually reach your hand to touch him and you're blocked by the mirror?”
“Jesus, Ian, seriously, this is even too much for
you,
c’mon.” I feign repulsion.
“Just messing with you.” He squeezes my waist and pulls me tighter against him; I can feel the remnants of his low chuckles reverberating through me before they soften. We start talking about the article he sent me about Daniel earlier today, and I answer his question—that I didn’t get to talk to Daniel yet—Josh interferes.
“Go ahead, all yours.” I detach from Ian and allow them some privacy. I grab a drink from the tropical bar and join a group of my teammates, who are in the middle of an enthusiastic conversation about our new project (“is black really the new black”). Minutes into the discussion, I reach for one of drinks on a passing waiter’s tray, this time choosing a pink cocktail decorated with a yellow umbrella and crystals of sugar. Before returning my attention to my colleagues, I catch a glimpse of Tasha and Rafael, who seem to have gotten much cozier. Moments later, I feel nature's call and excuse myself.
“What are you trying to do,” Ian asks over the loud music, right into my ear, stopping me right in my tracks. I jump in surprise and almost spill what’s left of my drink, then shrug, not sure how I’ve sinned this time.
“Are you experimenting some kind of untrained liver resistance?” he asks, gesturing toward the glass in my hand.
How many have I already drained? I haven't eaten any solid food recently...
“Just take it from her,” Tasha says bossily, and rudely takes my drink away.
Where did she appear from?
“Only when you grow up.” She sends me a smug, condescending grin and an airy kiss.
“I don’t get it. Weren't you all occupied a millisecond ago? Am I under parental supervision tonight?”
“Not just tonight, try always,” Ian says, bored, smiling at Tasha. Then they both just kiss me and walk away.
I shake my head, a motion that makes me a tiny bit wobbly, and start making my way to the restroom.
Perhaps it's a good time to move to virgin drinks
.
But then again, that gloomy je ne sais quoi
has
drifted away…
“Oh my god, what a waste,” I hear a feminine, high-pitched voice behind the locked stall door. Sounds like it might be that Jenny girl from admin staff.
“It’s like watching a juicy steak with your jaws wired shut.” I hear a frustrated huff conclude the sentence.
“The hottest guys around, not only gays but a
couple.
Life is just too cruel,” whines a second voice.
I trap my lips with my teeth to hold my laugh hostage. Flushing, I put my hand over the lock when the first one says, “Talking about drop dead gorgeous, have you ever seen that chick, what’s her face, Shelly from Josh’s team? Have you seen her boyfriend? It’s that businessman, something Stark.” I retrieve my hand from the handle and remain silent.
Shelly?
I twist my mouth.
“Yes, wow! And she is just like, plain okay, not like, a supermodel or anything. Unfair. Cruel, cruel life!”
“Good evening. Great party, hmm?” I greet the two voices in the form of two temporary employees from the admin team. I send them both a wide, toothy grin through the mirror.
“Oh… hi,” says the squealing one, a freckled redhead who glances awkwardly at her friend.
“Bye,” says the second, a buzz-cut blondie who grabs her friend’s hand and pushes them both out the door. I stare at my reflection in the mirror while washing my hands, and huff. The mention of Daniel drops a stone in my gut and the melancholy returns.
When I leave the toilet and hear the first tunes of the next song my eyes dart around, looking for two more pairs of eyes in the crowd, which I’m pretty sure are also looking for mine. I encounter Tasha’s stare first, which quickly turns gleaming. She nods, tilting her head toward the middle of the dance floor. I notice Ian's head above a harem of swooning, cackling ladies, which grins my way and nods. I gesture at the dance floor and he smirks.
Ladies, ain’t gonna happen. EVER. Read the glittery pink, shouty neon sign
. I feel sorry for the young women, wasting all this surplus energy, blinded by the “Ian charm.”
Not half a minute later we unite in an overjoyed, spirited dance. Ian is all about the rhythm and suggestive sways of the hip, grinning at us, ridiculously elated, echoing our smirks. Tasha and I synch with teasing, circular motions of the pelvis, the three of us all perky and animated. We turn in unison to graze our behinds against Ian who counters, one hand on each of our waists. “Who’s your daddy,” Ian says above the music, chuckling. We fall into fits of laughter, enjoying our foolishness.
Ricky Martin comes on, energetically singing
I Don’t Care
, Ian’s favorite song, which brings us to a new level of silly ecstasy, as it always does. Mr. Martin is, and always was, Ian's one and only true love. Ian’s words of course. Toward the last chorus I feel a vibration in the little black bag hanging diagonally across my chest. Hoping that it's Daniel on the line, I hastily reach for my phone. My friends look at me, trying to assess my puzzled face when I see Iris’s name on the screen.
Why would Daniel’s mom call me
?
Pushing my way through the cheerful, moving crowd, looking for a more silent spot, I end up in Josh’s office, and shut the door behind me. Iris greets me calmly but there is an undercurrent to her tone that doesn’t slip by me and begins to summon uncalled for thoughts. The bad vibe that was hovering at the back of my head throughout the day intensifies. Her voice, as ever, is a soft melody, but the content of her words are the worst kind of malady.
One call.
One tone of voice.
A dozen sentences.
One minute and 47 seconds in time send me into an immediate frost.
I grab Josh’s desk for support. I'm not even sure how the call ends but what I do know is that I am sobered up and shaken. I take a deep breath, trying to make sense of what Iris just told me. Some alarming words repeat through my daze. Riots, antigovernment protestors, street fighting. Taken hostage.
Taken hostage, taken hostage, taken hostage, taken hostage.
The more this short phrase resonates in my head, the more surreal it sounds. Between processing the information that was just laid on me and trying to breathe, I feel the sudden need to leave this place and go home. As I walk back to let Ian and Tasha know I'm about to bail, my face is placid but my insides are as wild as a Midwest storm. The impact of the dread is so powerful it deadens me, leaving me unable to feel. I can’t even shed a tear.