Chapter 3: Cosmopolitans

I picked a quiet table away from the few patrons of the lounge. Two gentlemen in business suits sitting at the bar watched as Charlotte and I entered. Other couples scattered about the intimate tables, most engaged in murmured conversation, ignored us. Light classical piano music issued from a hidden speaker somewhere above. A young, well dressed brunette approached the table as we settled.

“Can I get you some drinks?” the waitress asked as she set down coasters emblazoned with rum brand logos.

“Tonic and lemon, for me,” I offered.

Charlotte considered, then ordered: “Manhattan.”

The waitress offered a warm smile. “Coming right up!”

I settled into the comfortable seat and tried to relax.

“It’s strange seeing you in my dress,” Charlotte observed. The blue of her eyes flashed amusement.

“Not as strange as you wearing my top,” I laughed. Charlotte ran her hands over April Wine and shivered slightly as she did. She quickly returned her hands to the table, clasping them loosely. “It enhances my assets,” she observed. And it certainly did. I wondered if the shirt affected my body the same. Probably.

My thoughts wandered automatically to Charlotte standing in the dress I now wore, my hands feeling the shape of her breasts. I forced the thoughts away. This foray into the world beyond the suite upstairs had the intent of calming my body down so I could think. It wasn’t working.

“You asked me to wear this to feel...” her voice trailed off, then resumed, “uncomfortable?”

“Not necessarily uncomfortable,” I said, “maybe: different.” I sure as hell felt different wearing this evening gown. I self-consciously adjusted the slit over my bare thigh. The decision to switch clothing was truly a spur of the moment decision on my part; I hadn’t previously given it any thought. It might be as simple as me not wanting to traverse the opulent lobby in my concert T and jeans again under the judgmental gaze of the desk clerk? Or maybe it was simply a power game?

She sighed. “I don’t feel uncomfortable. Maybe different. I don’t usually wear jeans.” She paused for a moment. “I do wonder about you,” she mused. “There must be a story behind Crimson, more than wearing your shirt and shoes might tell me.”

I sighed. There was always a story, but it wasn’t ready to be told, at least not in this lounge, nor yet to this woman.

Truly, Charlotte seemed quite comfortable in my clothes, at least more so than I felt in her dress. Perhaps it was a novelty for her. For my part, I wore dresses, but none of this calibre and this was perhaps only the second dress I’d worn in the last three months. I tended more towards cowgirl than socialite. I shifted in my seat, automatically adjusting the dress, self-conscious of my braless state.

The waitress returned with two martini glasses balanced on her tray.

“Compliments of the gentlemen at the bar,” she said as she transferred them to the table in front of us. “Cosmopolitans.”

I glanced over to the two business suits at the bar who were openly gazing at our quiet table. Charlotte and I exchanged a glance.

I picked up the drinks and returned them to the waitress’ tray without spilling them. “Thank them for us, but we’d prefer our original order,” I said firmly.

The waitress smiled at me and nodded. “Wise decision,” she whispered.

I watched as the waitress slipped back behind the bar, sauntering over to the suits, speaking to them, gesturing towards us and setting the Cosmos in front of them. A heated discussion ensued, with much frowning and ended when our waitress offered an insincere look of apology. Our waitress touched the returned glasses, a soothing gesture, nodded, and then slipped away from them, gathering other orders. The suits remained glaring at our table. I returned my attention to Charlotte who smiled.

“I guess someone noticed us,” she said lightly, her eyes flashing amusement and perhaps also flattery.

It wasn’t the first time I’d declined drinks, but unsolicited drinks rarely wandered my way; perhaps I unconsciously exuded an unfriendly vibe for the opposite sex? Occasionally, for the right drink and the right person, I’d been known to accept them. However, given the situation upstairs, the oddity that I was wearing borrowed clothes and the overall state of my hormones, tonight was not a drink-accepting sort of evening. All I truly wanted was to caress what was currently under April Wine; no Cosmo or business suit could possibly compete.

Incongruously, I assumed that Charlotte had garnered their attention. As it turned out, perhaps my initial elegant attire assessment might have been in error: more in favour of fuck me. Unlike both Cameron and Charlotte, I find it difficult to accurately predict the male psyche.

I warily watched them approach our table. The taller suit sported close cropped blonde hair, while the shorter one had what I could only describe as a new-wave coif, mousy brown with blonde highlights. They carried the returned Cosmopolitans. Taller blonde dude wore a cheap stud in his left ear and a large unfinished Gaelic tattoo gracing the back of his left hand. The shorter of the two had no visible tattoos nor jewelry, but sported a thin scar above his right eye. Personally, I’ve always found earrings effeminate. Both suits registered as off the rack, wingtips scuffed, loud ties loose. Both guys seemed relatively fit; many women might actually find them physically attractive. Their unsteady exaggerated swagger immediately turned me off. It wouldn’t be the only aspect of their personality that would do so.

Taller dude approached first.

“Hello girls,” he said with a fake smile. “I’m Trevor and this,” he gestured to the shorter minion, “is my wingman, Chad.”

Yes, he actually said wingman and Chad.

Trevor extended his hand in my direction. Hesitantly, I extended my right hand, politeness overriding caution. His larger hand enveloped mine, rough and cold. Unsurprisingly, he crushed my fingers in an unnecessary display of toxic masculinity. I refused to wince or massage my fingers when he released me. Chad lifted Charlotte’s hand to his lips in an outdated display of gallantry and kissed it. Charlotte looked so uncomfortable, I nearly laughed. To her credit, she resisted the urge to wipe the back of her hand. Overall, I preferred the crush treatment. I could deal with sore finger bones; with the hand kiss, I would have sought a napkin and sanitizer without worrying about offending.

After releasing my fingers, Trevor waited expectantly. I sighed.

“I’m Elizabeth,” I introduced myself untruthfully. Charlotte, recovered from the hand kissing, followed my lead.

“I’m Stacy,” Charlotte said more brightly than necessary.

Trevor seized the moment. “I think these belong to you,” he said. In tandem, the suits set the Cosmopolitans back on the table.

I smiled politely, but didn’t offer for them to join us. “We returned them the first time.” With good reason as it turned out.

Trevor flashed a set of perfect teeth. The smile seemed more feral wolf than charming peacock.

“Second time’s a charm, Beth.” Trevor stated, taking liberties with my fake name. I had to assume that we weren’t the first females to return drinks to these clowns but they seemed too dim, horny or toxically persistent to take the hint.

I tried again. “I don’t drink,” I stated evenly. Not entirely truthful, but I only drank when I felt secure, and our Trevor and his wingman didn’t exactly inspire confidence.

“Beth, you don’t drink?” he observed, touching my arm in what he must have thought a charming or intimate gesture. My skin crawled where he touched my bicep. “How boring...”

My thoughts flashed to Cameron’s good natured disapproval when I refused to drink with her. Of course, Cameron was a world apart from this tattooed brute.

“It keeps my head clear to avoid making huge mistakes.”

“Huge mistakes?”

“Like accepting drinks from strangers in bars.” Take the hint?

“We don’t have to be strangers,” Trevor continued, undeterred. Chad nodded along as any halfway competent wingman might. Charlotte merely observed this interaction with growing amusement. Both men barely even acknowledged Charlotte’s existence, their eyes mentally removing my borrowed dress where I sat. What they failed to understand: Charlotte had a much better chance of removing it with her hands, than they did with their eyes.

“And how might we get to know each other better?” I asked, dreading the answer. I really shouldn’t have led them on, but I couldn’t help myself. My mind still suffered a hormone induced fog.

Trevor openly eyed me from my forehead to my toes, then back up again, eyes lingering on the flash of my thigh, until he eventually focused on my chest. I couldn’t tell if he was aware of my braless state, but guys like him usually sense it. Under his scrutiny, I automatically adjusted the slit to cover more of my bare thigh. Nothing I could do about my chest.

He swayed his hips awkwardly; it’s possible that Trevor and Chad had indulged in a few Cosmopolitans themselves. “I know a place we can go to dance the night away, and afterward, we have rooms on the seventh floor where we can continue the party.” Trevor perhaps inaccurately envisioned a foursome in his future?

My mind momentarily leapt to the party I was temporarily avoiding on the eleventh floor, along with an accompanying mental image of my hands on Charlotte’s breasts. If they could read my mind, I suspected the fools in front of me would either be wildly excited, or wildly frightened, perhaps a dangerous mixture of the two.

Trevor dug around in his suit jacket and produced a phone, scrolled on it, then turned it to me. An erect penis, presumably it belonged to Trevor, starkly stared back at me from the screen. I couldn’t imagine why he would show me that without some sign of welcome. I guess I was supposed to be impressed? I wasn’t. Maybe to entice us to the after dance party? Not a chance. Even as far as cocks don’t generally interest me, this one wasn’t even an attractive or endowed one.

I shuddered and pushed the phone away from my face. Anger finally made its ugly appearance. I kept my voice low and under control.

“So, let me get this straight: Trevor and Chad see us walk in and sit down without dates, and they decide to politely buy us a friendly pair of drinks. The drinks are forthwith returned to sender. But Trevor and Chad figure they’d have a better chance at fucking us if they deliver them personally...” When subtlety fails...