A Taste of Utopia (4 page)

We bid Melissa adieu and head to the same elevator Mr. Adonis used. As it ascends to the nightclub, I make the decision to forget the handsome face of the stranger. Tonight is about having fun. The doors part and I step out.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I welcome the excitement. Tonight will be unforgettable. I can feel it.

Seth

I TOSS THE KEYS
to my BMW to the valet, and adjust my button-down shirt. As I enter the luxurious lobby of the Constellation, the eyes of an overweight and middle-aged woman makes its way to my package—yep, I’m referring to my boy part. My penis.

Her eyes scan my body, and when her gaze meets mine, I flash a broad smile and wink. A warm glow of pleasure tints her face. With eyes filled of embarrassment, she looks away. Most likely she’s not used to being the recipient of admiration. If she only knew how beautiful she truly is.

I cannot fault her or most women for feeling inadequate. The standards set by society dictates that unless you have the same figure as a Barbie doll, you aren’t pretty enough. Vexing the situation, most men are blind assholes who fail to see and celebrate the diversity of beauty.

I’m not claiming to be a martyr who only sees the beauty beneath. I also admire a babe when I see one. However, I don’t attach beauty to body size, hair color, age and all that. It’s a crap idea prepackaged by the media and shoved down the throats of willing victims. No, my vision of beauty is unhindered and unveiled.

Mindlessly, I stroll across the lobby. And that’s when I see her . . . standing under a dome decorated with a perfect replication of the Ursa Major constellation.

My body comes to a halt. Then my mind, my heart, even the air surrounding me seems to come to a standstill.

I cock my head and examine her. The red dress she wears dips low on her back. I haven’t seen her face yet, but it doesn’t matter. Something about her tugs at my heart, a magnetic pull of sorts.

Another girl is standing next to her and glances at me. She looks familiar, but my mind’s fogged. I can’t remember from where.

I continue to stare at her back, willing her to turn around. My palms become damp. What in the fucking hell is wrong with me?

The girl with the familiar face whispers something in her ear. Both girls look my way.

My eyes fix on the girl with the red dress. Wow. She’s breathtakingly beautiful.

A shy smile blooms on her cherry lips. There’s no pretense in her face. It’s pure and sincere and wildly demure. Her gaze casts down, and her alabaster skin turns an adorable shade of pink. The brilliant lights of Ursa Major dim before her beauty. She’s the brightest star I have ever seen. Her light is blinding.

Finally, my heart lurches back into gear and I resume breathing. I offer my two-thousand-dollar-an-hour smile and wink at her. My feet, as if disconnected from my brain, take a few steps in her direction.

Then the memory of who I am, and what I’m doing here, rolls into my head like a bulldozer. An insane thought tumbles with the awareness—I can call in sick. Oh, that’s fucking brilliant! I pull on my hair. For the first time in years, I resent what I do for a living. I must be delusional to think I can act like the typical nine-to-five person.

Sobering my mind, I shake off the urgent desire to approach her. I plunge back into my reality and stride away.

I enter the gilded elevator that will take me to the nightclub where I’ll meet my client. It’s almost eleven, the appointed time. Kissing those cherry lips isn’t on tonight’s schedule.

I bypass the line to enter Neptune and give my name to the bouncer. He swings the door open, allowing me in.

Inside the club, my eyes do a quick scan. Although this isn’t my first time here, I admire the outer space meets shabby-chic decor.

From a blue sphere simulating the planet Neptune, a DJ plays a Lady Gaga remix. The crowd, with their arms raised, swings their bodies on the dance floor.

The vibe reeks of exclusivity and money. Neptune is the go-to hot spot for locals with fame and fortune.

The VIP section where I’m supposed to meet my companion is empty. So I buy an overpriced vodka tonic with lime and head out to the patio.

Outside, the sound of music is quieter. A warm breeze washes over my heated body. I lean on the wall that snakes around the ledge of the building, soaking in the magnificent view of the strip. My mind reels back to Cherry Lips.

No longer caring about my preppy and perfectly styled hair, I run my fingers through it. That smile. My heart skips another beat at the thought of seizing those lips into a kiss.

My mind wanders and I imagine her face flushed with desire, her eyes staring up at me as I take her. Then, I picture her hair tousled from sex, her lips turned up in a sated smile. Shit, I’m hard as fuck.

I adjust my pants and chug my drink. I have to purge her out of my mind. I’m not about to fail to perform with a client because I’m pussy whipped by a girl I saw for less than two seconds, a girl I’ll probably never see again.

I head back inside the club.

With another glance at the VIP area, I see my companion has yet to arrive. I weave through the throng of people on the dance floor, matching my body to the tempo of the song and crowd.

The DJ plays a remix of “Star to Fall” by Cabin Crew. With my eyes closed, I join the dance. My body pulses to the energetic rhythm of the music. I feel the same electric tug I had felt earlier. Damn, I have to get Cherry Lips out of my head.

I flutter my eyes open. That’s when I see her. Again. My mind goes numb while my body continues to move to the beat of the song.

She’s standing at the bar, her friend talks and flirts with the bartender as if they’re close friends. They must be regulars.

Time stretches, bends, and twists as I battle to resist the pull drawing me to her.

Oblivious to my internal turmoil she stands as if she’s the very star I’d been waiting all my life to emerge in the sky. Yes, I do feel like an idiot. Shit like I’m thinking is the makings of a Hallmark Channel movie.

I rake through my hair with two exasperated hands. The direction of my thoughts irritates me.

I cast a last glance at the VIP session. The client remains a no-show.

On an impulse, I decide to introduce myself to Cherry Lips. Perhaps talking to her would break the spell I’ve fallen under, demystify the allure surrounding her.

I push through the throng of moving bodies, heading toward the girls. When I have a clear vision of the bar again, she and her friend have disappeared.

Relief floods me. It wasn’t meant to be. I spin back to the dance floor and resume dancing. Again, I glance at the VIP area. For the second time tonight, my body goes rigid. Cherry Lips stands inside.

In total dismay, I study her. With her hips swaying to the beat of the music, she watches the crowd. Her friend says something in her ear, and she tilts her head back in delighted laughter.

In my head, I recapture the conversation I had with Adriana.

“A threesome?” I asked.

“No, no. Her best friend’s birthday. And you are the gift.”

“Do I add a bow to my dick?”

“Querido, your cock is gorgeous as it is. No need for embellishments.” She lets a throaty laugh out and continues, “Now, get this, the girl hiring your services is Chloe Greenberg, the heiress to Constellation. I’m sending her picture so you can identify her at the club . . .”

No fucking way.

Cherry Lips’ eyes find mine, bringing me back to reality. Damn. It’s her birthday, and I’m the gift. A slew of mixed emotions swamps me. I need another drink.

That’s why her friend’s face had been familiar earlier. But my mind was too infatuated for me to make the connection.

The perspective of fucking Cherry Lips senseless hits me. My cock stands at attention. However, for some unfathomed reason, I don’t want to be her hired fuck. Not hers. Well, fuck me.

Better make that drink a double.

I push my way to the bar and order two drinks to send over to them and another double vodka tonic for myself.

I toss the liquor back hoping for liquid courage. It burns my throat. I grimace and slide the cup across the bar top. “Another one, please,” I call over the loud music.

Perched on the barstool, I inconspicuously study Cherry Lips.

She and her friend remain in the VIP section. After what appears to be an argument over the drinks I had sent, the server points to me, and they accept them.

Chloe Greenberg raises her glass my way. She probably knows I’m the hired fuck.

I raise my glass back, my eyes never leaving Cherry Lips. She looks down. Either she’s painfully shy, or is playing coy. Either way, I snap into my role of predator.

According to Adriana’s directions, I am to pursue her with the casualty of a regular guy out clubbing and hunting for the night. And I am never to mention the word
escort.
I understand. The word can be a killjoy. Well, I can live with that. I’m used to role-playing.

They pay for fun and sex and I always deliver. For the next few hours, I would be a typical guy. I would flirt and score the girl with cherry lips. At the end of the night, she would writhe under me, moaning in pleasure. Life would go on.

Lottie

“WE CAN’T ACCEPT
drinks from a stranger,” I remind Chloe.

“Who sent it?” Chloe asks the server.

“The gentleman leaning against the bar. The taller one.”

“Oh my God, look! It’s the guy that we saw in the lobby earlier. He’s the one who bought us drinks.” Chloe nods in the general direction of the bar.

I follow her gaze. There he is, in all the splendor of his divine beauty. Our eyes meet. The lights flash on his face, revealing his intense gaze.

“Who prepared the drinks?” I ask. The server certainly knows who Chloe is. I mean, everybody here must be under orders to keep an eye on us.

“The bartender, ma’am. I witnessed.”

With a surge of giddiness dizzying my head, I agree with Chloe, and we accept the drinks. I hold an elegant glass filled with a red liquid that matches my dress and sip from it. A bittersweet taste floods my mouth.

He bought me a drink! In the movies that’s the cue a guy’s interested. Oh my, I can’t bring myself to believe he’s interested in me.

I glance down, breaking eye contact. If I continue to look at him, I’ll drool and make a fool of myself.

Still inside the VIP area, I dance and people watch. From time to time, I steal glances toward the bar.

Chloe sweeps the fancy red drink from my hand and places it on a center table. She collects two tequila shots, gives me one, and says, “Bottoms up!”

In unison, we drain the liquid. It scorches my throat and sears through my bloodstream like wildfire.

“Let’s dance,” Chloe yells, snatching the empty cup from my hand and placing it on the table. She grabs my hand and drags me to the dance floor.

“Rain Down Love” blasts from the speakers. The tequila I gulped goes straight to my head, giving me a slight buzz.

Chloe and I are full-fledged geeks. Unapologetically. We proudly wear our thick glasses and bury our noses in books. However, there is one un-geeky thing about us. We can dance.

Honest to God truth: Beyoncé doesn’t hold a candle to us when it comes to shaking our booties. Though we rarely go out, when we do, we dance the night away.

I follow Chloe. Instantly, the fear of tripping over my heels dissipates. I morph into my alternate ego I like to call “Rita”—as in Rita Hayworth, one of the greatest film noir actresses and dancers.

Waves of vibrating energy zing under my skin as I walk through the throng of beating bodies. We stop at the center in the middle of the writhing dancers. Every muscle in my body coils, ready to spring to life. Shyness be damned, whenever I dance a rush of confidence surges through me.

I raise my hands and close my eyes, overtaken by the tempo of the music. That’s when I feel it. The air crackles and an electric energy hums through my flesh. A warm hand slides down my waist, settling on my hip. My eyes flash open. Before I can react to whoever is touching me, a charming smile gleams down at me. Mr. Adonis, in the flesh, materializes before my eyes.