Page 12 of Rather: The Therapist

With a nod, I responded.

“Right this way, Sir.”

He moved with precision, using the arm smothered underneath the white fabric to point me in the direction of the open bar as if it wasn’t massive enough for me to see myself.

I took off, continuing my stride. I was headed there, anyway. I didn’t need instructions on how to get there. But, the generosity was appreciated.

“Good day, now, Sir.”

Women lined the bar, all built with precision and polished with paper. Whether it was their inheritance, husband’s money, alimony, employment, or entrepreneurship that paid their monthly tab, I didn’t give a fuck. They were here and had paid their dues.

Carefully, I examined the thread with hopeful eyes. Though beautiful in stature, none fit the mold I was continuing to form as I scoured. According to what was presented so far, I managed to bring myself clarity and construct the idea of the woman I was yearning for. She wasn’t here. Not at the bar, at least.

I cleared my throat as I stepped up to the empty space at the bar. The bartender scurried toward me. Dressed in black from head to toe with black paint smeared on her eyes and nails to match, she blended perfectly.

“Hennessy, please.”

“How would you like that, Sir?”

She dried the glass in her hand, eyes meeting mine as she waited for a response.

“Neat.”

I flattened my left hand and pushed it outward for emphasis.

“Coming right up.”

The plush velvet chair beside me slid out with ease. I sat atop, growing slightly more comfortable under its influence. With my shoulders squared and my spine straight, I grabbed the edge of the glass that had been slid in my direction.

“Suite?”

The tab would be covered at the end of the month along with the hefty suite expenses.

“PS102.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The coolness of the Hennessy was followed by a sting. I lowered it onto the counter after a small sip. I wasn’t in a rush to reduce my cognizance. I needed full control over my words, my thoughts, my actions, and my night’s ending. A Hennessy-influenced sounded far more forgiving than a drunken one. That wasn’t exactly my style. It never had been.

I trained my eyes on the massive staircases. It was the entryway of the ballroom. Because I’d scanned it almost in full, I knew there was no one inside for me. The only chance of ending my night on a good note depended on those fucking stairs.

“You know, I was starting to lose hope.”

As the voice grew closer, a lone hand landed on my shoulder.

“A French75, please.”

“Sure thing,” the bartender responded.

Gathering my thoughts and shoving the words on the tip of my tongue down my throat, I carefully removed the hand from my suit. I wasn’t sure where they’d been, but I was certain they didn’t belong there.

Beside me, a fair-skinned, masked woman stood with her perfectly contoured smile on display. She was wearing a cream mask with crystals that sparkled in the dark like the diamond ring on the finger reserved for marriage bands.

“Ariel,” she introduced herself, extending a hand.

“No names, Ariel.”

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