Page 108 of The Unraveling

Just when I’m finding myself annoyed with him, my unrelenting desire for him kicks back in.

It’s those steely blue eyes. They get me every time.

I try to hide my smile and when I don’t, I feel him laugh beside me. “What do you say we get out of here?”

Jordan’s eyes land on mine once more, and I feel a deep, confusing pang of love for him.

Two girls, both gorgeous, tall, and thin, walk up to him.

“Yeah, let’s get the hell out of here,” I say.

—

We walk for fifteen minutes, mostly in silence. I try not to fill it like I always do.

My thoughts are in a tangle anyway. My feelings on him purchasing the painting, my feelings about the painting itself, the relief that Jordan isn’t dating some gorgeous blonde, the devastation that this means his lack of contact with me makes even less sense.

“You seem tense,” says Alistair finally.

“Do I?”

“You do.”

I honestly don’t know, for a moment, if he’s right. I don’t have time to examine it, as his pace slows and we stop in front of an unassuming building.

“We’re here,” he says.

“We’re…where?”

A security man with an earpiece walks out the front door of the building. He’s dressed in all black and he looks like he could kill anyone in a matter of seconds.

“Mr.Cavendish, welcome.”

The man’s voice is as deep and resonant as Idris Elba’s.

“Thank you, Michael,” says Alistair, gesturing for me to step through the opened door.

I do, and then Alistair leads me confidently down a dark, industrial hallway. He opens another door.

It’s like when Dorothy walks out of the sepia and into the world of color.

It’s staggering.

It reminds me of old pictures of the Cocoanut Grove in Los Angeles back in the thirties. Hedonistic chaos, a loud brass band, and people everywhere dressed in gorgeous clothes.

Alistair guides me through the pulsating throngs of people, weaving our way through the maze of tables and chairs. The band is playing a song that sounds like something you’d hear at a Jay Gatsby party.

The dance floor is full of elegantly dressed couples swaying to the music, and I’m kind of in awe of the opulence and extravagance of the club.

The walls are adorned with gold and silver, and crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the room. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the sounds of clinking glasses and laughter.

Alistair leads me to a table in the center of the room, and we sit down at a reserved table lit by a tea light. A server immediately approaches us.

“Mr.Cavendish, welcome. What would you like this evening?”

“A bottle of champagne. Your best, whatever you have tonight, thank you, Sal.”

The server goes off.

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