After checking in to my room, my first stop was the bar.
That's right. I'd been sober enough for the day. Long enough to realize the next three weeks of my life were going to suck big time. It seemed like a justified thing to do. I walked the corridors of the lobby looking around for Trager the Mailroom Guy. His flight was scheduled earlier than mine; conveniently made plans when you're screwing someone at work. I guess he was going for a rendezvous before I got there. He didn't even need to be at this conference…he was the mailroom guy. But he’d said he just couldn't be away from me. Yeah, right. I straightened my shoulders and moved through the crowds of visitors. People sneered at me as I tried to dart in and out of their way. I didn’t care about the looks though, I just had my heart ripped out of my chest and I needed a bottle full of liquid oblivion.
I ducked through a pair of deep crimson curtains that decorated the entrance into the hotel bar. Scanning the area quickly, my shoulders relaxed when I recognized no one from work and I let myself appreciate my surroundings. Dark cherry wood tables furnished the room, tastefully dressed with plum covered linens and topped with creamy white burning candles. The lights were dim, some kind of jazzy music was floating through the room, and the scent of the pine logs burning in the huge fireplace filled the air.
If I weren't feeling so murderous, I'd think it was romantic.
Winding through the tables, I made my way to the bar and introduced myself to the bartender as his new best friend. Then with the brazenness of tongue that someone like me could only accomplish through enormous amounts of alcohol, I told the bartender and most of the people in listening distance, my crappy bachelorette story.
Preston, the bartender (possibly lying about his name) kept the drinks coming. Smart man.
An obnoxious amount of alcohol later I was still chewing off Preston's ear, when I glanced up at him to make sure I still had his undivided attention. I of course, didn't—story of my life.
Preston's eyes held this certain glazed-over lustful look as he stared at something, someone, far behind me. My shoulders immediately tensed as I swiveled around my stool, curious as to what caused the expression. Mr. Jameson Holt (Remington 'Nipples' Holt's son), and Sophia Willington had just walked in. Mr. Holt's eyes swept the bar and passed right over me with no recognition at all, but that's a given since he's the managing editor and I've never actually worked with him. But Sophia? Sophia turned in my direction; her eyes held mine, and the witch smirked. A surge of pure hate roared through my veins. "You find that attractive?" I slurred in Preston's direction.
"Who wouldn't," Preston answered.
"I'm revoking best friend status," I snapped. "She's the one I caught sleeping with my fiancé."
"I wasn't looking at the girl, darling," he smiled.
I stared at him blankly, "Kay. You're my new best friend again."
Conversations stumbled around us as the two walked through the bar; all eyes watching the newcomers saunter in like they were on a runway. I would definitely admit to the fact that they were quite a stunning sight to behold. I hated them both. People should just not look that good. It's unfair, really.
"Why couldn't she go for a single guy like Holt? Why'd she have to pick what was mine?" It was a serious question. And I demanded an answer from poor Preston. I even pounded my fist along the bar top.
"I don't know what your Trager looks like, but I wouldn't kick that man," he chuckled and pointed to the table they sat in, "out of my bed."
"Right? Because, I mean just look at him. Jameson Holt is so damned attractive; it literally hurts to look at him.” I sighed loudly. “He makes your girl parts ache."
"Uh huh, girl. He makes my girl parts ache," Preston teased.
"He's one of those perfect guys, the ones you only see on the cover of magazines, or on the photos of 'Hottest Men' Pinterest boards, and never in real life. Trager the Mailroom Guy, not so much. He kind of resembles a giraffe."
"And you wanted to marry a giraffe?"
"He was my giraffe," I groaned.
"Time to leave the zoo, baby," Preston fired back.
My head was spinning. Kind of unbelievable if you ask me, and as I sat there trying to wrap my head around the entire situation, I was still hoping that my alarm would go off at some point and I’d find it was all a really bad dream. I was in complete shock, taken off guard. I mean, just the night before the incident—which will forever more be called Cheater's Eve—he told me how happy and excited he was to finally get 'hitched.'
Kevin Trager and I were supposed to be married in exactly twenty days. The entire ballroom was paid for. My dress was hanging in my seamstress’s closet waiting my last fitting before the big day; that big day that every girl dreams about. And yet, here I sat at the bar, on my fifth apple martini, watching it all play out. Okay, it might have been my sixth. Tenth?
"Cheaters are jerks," I slurred, hugging my martini glass.
Preston nodded and wiped up the fourth (tenth) drink I spilled. "I agree."
"Do you want to know why people cheat?" I asked.
"Because they can," he said.
"It's because they're a greedy, selfish bunch of people who take whatever opportunity they can get and screw it. Why do cheaters say they cheat? Oh, there's a long list of excuses, reasons, and justifications to blur the lines of morals." Downing my drink, I slammed it back down onto the bar. I missed, but it was okay because Preston caught the glass before it hit the ground. "I was drunk. I thought it was you. She/he understands my needs and you don't. She/he appreciates me and you don't. They're a bunch of idiots." I grabbed my glass out of his fingers and held it upside down above my head, looking for whatever drops were left.
"What were the giraffe's reasons?"
"Oh, Mr. Giraffe pretended he was drunk." I gulped back the small remnants of my drink. "You've heard of that crap, right? A bad game of beer pong gone wrong."
Preston laughed loudly.
"I'm considering throwing a drunken tantrum. Think I could nail her with a martini glass from here?" I held up the empty glass, drops of liquid falling along the bar.
Preston preempted the tantrum by inserting a fresh drink in my hand. "Oh look, they're having a spat," he chuckled.
The other people sitting at the bar swiveled their stools around to watch the increasingly loud bickering of the whore who shall not be named and Mr. Hot… I mean Mr. Holt.
I tried to turn around nonchalantly, but I just ended up slipping off the stool. Preston pulled me up by my arms. What a good best friend.
Mr. Holt was speaking in loud whispers, but I couldn't hear a damn word of what he said because of all the gulping and slurping of some drunken idiot. That might have been me. Whatever. I spun myself around on my chair.
Preston took the opportunity to deal with waiting customers and I immediately felt jealous. But it was short lived, because my attention was fixed on Mr. Holt and Sophia. I narrowed my eyes to zone in on them better.
She was trying to rub his leg. Slut. Though, I didn't blame her, though, the man was glorious. If I were Sophia, I'd be rubbing more than my hand on that leg, that's for sure.
I watched it play out like a bad soap opera. Waving Preston back over, I tapped on the rim of my drink and ordered another, then just sat back and silently watched, an embarrassing amount of empty glasses on the table in front of me.