Page 3 of Room One Twenty Eight
Luna
I am not what most would call...graceful.
It is ironic to me because my childhood dream was to be a dancer. I love how expressive dance can be, how you can get lost in the beat or even the lyrics of a song, and how it moves you right down to your toes. Sadly, I stumble over my own feet too often to make a career of dancing.
Giving up a childhood dream is something we all do. We think our parents are superheroes, our friendships are everlasting, and our heart will never break. I had to learn that none of that is true.
Once my parents began a bitter divorce, I was little more than a pawn in their twisted game of chess. Friends I had known forever grew to be mere acquaintances before becoming strangers. All of that broke my heart in little pieces before the first man I ever trusted besides my father shattered the rest of it. In a double shot, he took the last friend I had left with him.
“Careful there, sugartits,” the brutish chef calls, eyes on the aforementionedtits of sugar.“Go, get this to those fellas upstairs.”
Wobbling on heels so spiked I could slice his jugular—and I kind of want to—I nod. I take the tray of champagne and caviar, bracing it on my shoulder. It weighs me down enough to send me stagging a few feet. Taking a calming breath, I paste on a smile as I head towards the stairs.
We’re at a swanky old theater, host of tonight’s reception for a big shot wedding. I saw celebrities dancing with criminals out on the dance floor tonight. It takes all kinds to make up the elite I suppose. Once upon a time, I was a guest at these sorts of shindigs. Before my father cut me off, throwing me out of hishome and his entire life.
Mother handed me over to him after their divorce. All she wanted was the monthly stipend he promised her to stay away. He had control of her so I think he thought he would have the same control over me. I am a mess, but I am not enough of a mess to take demands from someone. Then again if I had allowed him some control, I might be in a better place now.
Tonight, I am slaving away catering to the rich and ridiculous. Yesterday, I came home from being fired after burning my boss with hot coffee to find my best friend banging my former boyfriend. Tomorrow, I have to drain my savings to find a hotel that will let me bring my kitten Hercules with me. The little ball of fluff is the last good thing in my life.
“Move it, hot stuff,” a voice calls as I stumble down a dark hall.
Blinking as a whirl of silver flies past me, I curse as I almost go down on the hellish heels. The big butt, big boob blonde smirks back at me with a wink. Part of me wants to throw the loaded tray at her. The other wants to fall to bits and call daddy to so he can take control of my mess of a life.
Thinking of my mother, of how weak I viewed her for my entire life, I shake that feeling off. No falling to bits. No calling my father to plead for an inch when I need a mile. I will not let someone else control my life. Not that I have any ideas of how to control it myself. All I can do is put one food in front of the other—even in these hellish heels—and get through it.
“Be better than her. That is all you need to do. Be better than a woman who abandoned her daughter in exchange for a life of leisure.”
Huffing as tears sting my eyes and make my affirmation wobble, I square my shoulders. I am better than her. Better than my father. I am a good person. I am a mess, sure. Sometimes we make a mess of things. They made a mess of me. That is whyI struggle. Why I make a mess of jobs, of my friendships, and every other relationship in my life. Besides Hercules.
I am not sure I know who I am—and how I can be something to someone if I am no one to myself?
“Stop playing Dr. Freud. Sounding like a damn fortune cookie.”
Chuckling at myself, I reach for the door to the balcony. I gasp as my blasted heels tangle in the carpet runner. I go down hard, the tray sailing comically high in the air before crashing down on me. Sitting in the mess of the priciest champagne and caviar I have ever seen I curse a blue streak.
“Oh hell. Double Dutch and motherfuck!” I bellow, smacking at the thick carpet runner that was my downfall.
Pushing up on my knees, I take a moment to gather myself. It hurts where my backside hit the floor, but nothing I can’t survive. Leaning forward, I take a calming breath as I begin to clean up the mess I made. I stop when I see three sets of feet in my direct line of sight.
“Holy hell, who is this?” a deep voice with a slight accent mutters.
Sitting back on my haunches, I wait for it. To be yelled at. To be called a hot mess—because I am one. Or worse, for them to laugh at me. Make fun of the mess I made of myself, of my too-tight uniform, of the entire night. Tilting my head back, back, I gasp again. Because holy hell indeed.
Before me stands three of the hottest men I have ever seen. Not one. Or even two. Three of them tower over me as I stay knelt on the floor. It hits me out of nowhere how right it feels to be knelt in front of them this way. I wave that off as absurd as I stare up at them in complete awe.
“It's....holy hell, it’s her,” the middle guy states as he stares down at me, looking as stunned as I am feeling.
Blinking up at him, I cock my head. I turn to glance behindme. No one is there. To my left, to my right. No one. I am theherhere, so what the hell does he mean? I frown as I glance down at myself. Flushing, I note that I am just about spilling out of the tiny dress they stuffed me in earlier. Down on my knees at a wedding with champagne flowing faster than some rapids.
Do they think I am here for them to play with?
Why does that have heat coiling between my legs. Am I just reacting to how hot they look staring down at me? I have seen handsome men. Men made pretty by surgeries or extensive diet or exercise regimes. This is...this is different. These three men...they’re a level of hot, of attractive, of alluring I have never witnessed before.
On the left, the biggest guy is dark—dark eyes, dark hair cut short on the sides but mussed long on the top. On the right, he is tall, slim, with intense eyes and a shock of copper hair. Mischief lights his eyes as they watch me. It is the man in the middle, the biggest man with the wide shoulders and light, green eyes, that I cannot take my eyes off.
“I... I am... what I mean is...who is her?”
Watching the middleman, I fall back a little. Because he moves fast, kneeling so we’re face to face. I smell his cologne, woodsy and spicy, and the feint scent of cigars. Also....I smell sex. Doeshesmell like sex? Because he sure as helllookslike it to me.
