“I’ll be here all night. If there’s any
problem, I’ll call you, and I’ll let her know you were asking for her if she
wakes up.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.” Derian
disconnected and slid the phone back into her pants pocket. The uneasy
sensation of her world being slightly atilt persisted. Trying to set aside her
worry over Henrietta, she let her thoughts drift back to Emily. She should be
home by now. A phone call would be out of line, but the need to hear her voice
made her fingers clench around her phone.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered. Somehow, she’d
let Emily escape without getting her phone number. For the best. Maybe her head
was in the game after all—only this time it was a game she wasn’t used to
playing.
She rarely took a woman’s number or exchanged
hers, unless she met someone she’d like to see again—someone whose sense of
humor, sharp intelligence, and love for the game matched her own. Then she gave
her number and took theirs after they agreed to the ground rules. No promises,
no strings, and above all, discretion. But she’d never been driven by some urge
deep inside to reconnect, to hold on.
Cosmos was where she remembered it, its sign
shimmering in reds and blues. She headed for it, shaking off the uncomfortable
sensations and unanswerable questions. A mix of traditional wine bar and dance
club, the long rectangular space was jammed from the entrance to the far back
reaches. People congregated six deep around the bar, shouting, drinking,
laughing. Everyone was young or wanted to be, beautiful and reckless and
seeking the next adventure. Music accosted her, a fast, frenetic beat that
matched the sexual frenzy of the crowd. Ignoring the glances of women and men,
she edged her way to the bar and flagged down one of the two bartenders who
shimmied and slipped around each other in the narrow aisle in a mad pantomime
of the dancers out on the floor.
“What’ll you have?” A sloe-eyed redhead in a
white open-collared shirt and tight black pants slid a cardboard coaster toward
her.
“Whatever dark brew you’ve got on tap,” Derian
said.
The pretty bartender nodded, pulled a draft,
and passed it across the bar. Derian pushed a twenty back, waved off the
change, and turned to survey the bacchanal. Bodies writhed on the dance floor,
heads bent close over small tables, and figures shifted stealthily in the
shadows, surreptitiously initiating the dance they would play out before the
evening ended.
Derian pointedly did not encourage the
appraising glances that came her way, avoiding eye contact, a slight nod, or a
tilt of her glass that would signal she was ready to play. She wasn’t
interested in a hookup. The impersonalness of casual sex with a stranger never
held much appeal—especially when sex was just a desperate attempt to ward off
loneliness. She’d rather replay the evening with Emily than settle for a poor
substitute. And she wouldn’t even be thinking about Emily if she hadn’t been so
damn tired and worried over Henrietta. She needed some sleep, not a few hours
of physical forgetfulness, and she’d be herself again.