Page 14 of The Loves We Lost
We take an escalator down a level and find a roped-off walkway that forces entrants through a snaking admissions line to get inside.
“Are you with one of the authors?” A woman with big smile and loud patterned dress greets us.
“What?” I ask.
“You must be one of the cover models, right?” she says, her eyes glancing down my chest and back to my face.
“Yeah. We’re cover models,” Halo says. “I’m on one of Vi Graydon’s books.”
“Oh, I only just started reading Vi last week. I love when I find a new-to-me author with a big back catalogue I can just binge through.”
As the woman looks down at her clipboard of papers, I look over at him. “What the fuck was that?” I mouth.
He shrugs, then grins before continuing. “It was a last-minute decision. We didn’t intend to be in town, but our plans changed. I called her last night to see if it was okay for us to stop by.” He takes a moment to grab an elastic off his wrist and put his hair up in that ridiculous man bun of his.
The woman looks as though she’s going to orgasm right where she’s standing. Her mouth slightly opens as she follows the lines of Halo’s arms.
“She might not have had time to update your sheets,” I say to offer the poor bitch a chance to gain some composure.
“Oh, right. That makes sense. Go ahead and go in. It’s still the early entry window. Your costumes are brilliant by the way.” She touches my patch. “One of my favorite heroes is an MC enforcer. I love how brave and protective they are. Billionaires are my top jam, but I do love a good biker. Anyway, you look amazing, have a great day, and let me know if any of the women get handsy. We don’t allow that, and I’ll have the attendee removed.”
She points at a door to the side and waves at the woman minding it to let us in.
“I love how brave they are,” Halo mimics. “Fucking enforcers don’t know how to drive straight, shoot straight, or drink whiskey straight.”
“You jealous because Sandra out there thinks imaginary me is hotter than imaginary you?”
“Fuck you. And Sandra?”
I shrug. “She struck me as a Sandra.”
I catch sight of myself in the chrome panel behind the long handles of the door. I want Vi to see me exactly as I am now. A better version of myself. I hold an important position in the club, I’ve got friends, I’m a homeowner. Wish I were wearing a new black T-shirt that hugs my pecs better, but I’m grateful I cleaned up my leather cut yesterday, partly because it still had blood on it—not mine. Thankfully these jeans are old faithfuls that fit me well, and my boots are polished.
The roar of noise in the room gets louder as we step inside. It’s quite frankly overwhelming to take in. Tables are laid out in lines. Each table has one or two people seated at it. Most have some big banner behind them with their name and somethingrelated to the books they write. On their tables are piles of books, some of them bagged. And at each table is a line of fans.
“Bet you a hundred bucks I’ll get laid in the ballroom bathroom by lunch,” Halo says. “The ratio is like five hundred women to a single man. And if you rule out the old and ugly ones, I still fancy my chances.”
Two young women in Daisy Dukes and cowboy boots walk by. They smile our way. Halo tips a Stetson he isn’t wearing. One of them giggles. “Fuck it. Make that twice.”
I scan the room for Vi but can’t see her.
“Oh my god, are you one of Wander Aguiar’s models?” Rochelle is wearing a name tag with a slew of buttons up the lanyard.
“I’m not,” I say.
“Well, you should be. You’re handsome enough. Can I get a selfie with you guys?” she asks.
“Of course, sweetheart. Gimme your phone. I’ve got longer arms,” Halo says.
She looks him up and down. “I’m guessing you have longer everything.”
He gives her a panty-melting smile. “You got that right, sweet cheeks.”
Before I know what’s happening, Rochelle has wriggled her way in between us, so I smile as expected and let Halo snap the picture.
To the left, I catch the corner of a banner and see the nameVi, and I’m moving before either Rochelle or Halo realize. I can’t see her. There are too many people. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe she won’t see me before I get the chance to see her. She has a line, it’s long, and pride bubbles in my chest before I stamp it down. I’m not proud of her, nor happy for her success or anything to do with her life.
As I step closer, I have to admit that the same kind of adrenaline I feel coursing through my veins before a big job for the club. It’s icy. Chilling.
