Shatter (Club Grit Trilogy) (3 page)

I kept one hand behind me, propping me up on my right, and the other on my left thigh, the thigh touching Lawrence’s right thigh, the thigh that propped up his own hand before he took mine in his and held it, and nothing more, nothing more, just to have and to hold.

I took no notes from above the dance floor, from above the VIP.

O
F A FEW THINGS I WAS CERTAIN: First, that I hadn’t had sex with Lawrence that night. Secondly, that even though I’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, I’d woken in my own bed at Omega House. And finally, I hadn’t asked for his number.

But there was a card in my clutch, and it read, “Lawrence Lamont”, with his number, and nothing else. I slipped it away, back into the clutch, which I kept in my closet. I’d lied and told people that of course my Chanel purse was real, of course it wasn’t a knockoff, and that the reason it was a little “different” was because I knew someone who was an insider. The lie had snowballed, and, along with a few other small lies I thought were white lies, the mythos of Kim Lee, the daughter of the wealthy South Korean businessman gained legs. It was too late to tell people I’d bought it for twenty bucks in Chinatown, where they were kept in a clean backroom. It was too late for a lot of things.

I changed into my black horn rim glasses, a cable knit cardigan light enough for spring, a tank top, and a plaid skirt with black Mary Janes before going downstairs to grab a cup of coffee and breakfast, where I met up with Becca by choice, Samantha by consequence, and Emma by coincidence. Somebody suggested we go have a beauty day, and, still hung over but with a free schedule for the day, given that it was a Friday and I’d stacked my courses so I had no classes on Fridays, I was dragged along by Becca.

We hit De La Sol, a tanning salon, and after De La Sol, we went to La Aqua to get our nails done. La Aqua was a salon that reopened every few months with a new name in the same place with the same staff, but different décor, services, and prices. During this phase, it was obviously ocean themed, supposedly based on the luxury spas of Mexico. The décor was all white with eggshell finishes, smooth to the touch but with a fine orange peel like texture if you looked and felt closely, with blues (and obviously, aquas), smoky grey frosted glass, and transparent glass to complete the look, as well as special “foot baths”: aquariums filled with schools of small fish that would “eat” our feet’s dead skin. It felt ticklish, and it was weird (how hygienic could it be? That same fish nibbling on my toes had probably been nibbling on someone else’s hours before!), but it was trendy so nobody questioned it.

The generic “spa” smell filled our sinuses as we were hurried over to the mani stations. Becca and I had our French gel manis fixed up. Sam got gels too but she opted for nail art she saw on Pinterest: turquoise with stripes of metallic, done with striping tape and layers of polish, and on her accent finger, a triangle. She always went for what was trendy but still opted for the expensive gels so they wouldn’t chip. Emma went for a grey and green set of nails, traditionally done, but still expensive because she wanted different treatments done to make it look like she had grass and cobblestones for nails.

When we got back to the sorority house, I spent more time than usual figuring out what I was going to wear to Club Grit that night. I was tired but, as Vice President of Omega Mu, I had a duty, a responsibility, and if that meant I couldn’t afford to just have a night in this weekend, so be it, but I also wanted to look my best, and I won’t pretend it wasn’t for Lawrence, because it was.

That night, we had trouble at the door. You’d think that being gorgeous would be enough to get into Club Grit, and usually, it was, but that night, the club was packed, with a line reaching around the block. Usually, we just went up to the bouncer and he recognized us, and let us in. At least, that’s what was supposed to happen. We had trouble getting in, but Emma had insisted that the bouncer from the other night had added us to the list. “We’re on the list,” insisted Samantha. “Check for Emma Nelson. Skylar put her on the list.”

“Skylar?” asked the guy working the door.

“Uhm the new bouncer?” said Samantha with a smirk and raised eyebrows. Not cute, just bitchy, and just what she used to get her way. She wasn’t one to charm with honey and milk glances. Things were supposed to be ready for her at a hat’s drop and if they weren’t, there was hell to pay. The fiery redhead didn’t take shit from anyone, especially not some bouncer.

“Yeah, he’s not new, he just works here seasonally, but I know who he is...but he doesn’t have that kind of authority. Bouncers don’t, none of us can do that. Plus, he didn’t mention he was having guests tonight,” said the bouncer, confused.

“You texted him, right, Emma?” I asked her, turning and resisting the urge to glare, although my tone was terrible.

“Oh, I guess he didn’t get the text in time,” said Emma with a nervous laugh. She passed me her phone and a series of texts between her and Skylar.

Emma: “hey”

Skylar: “ey girl wassup!”

Emma: “NM, hitting the club w my girls, wanna meet up?”

Skylar: “LOL sure.”

I rolled my eyes. Before I could suggest another club, the bouncer’s walkie talkie buzzed. He answered it, looked us over, and then waved his hand, ushering us in. I sighed and answered Emma. “Maybe not. Whatever. Let’s go in.”

We got into the VIP and, along with the usual bottle of champagne, there was a plate of shots brought up to us by the cocktail waitress. Even though the bouncer didn’t recognize us, our place in the VIP was still ready. “We didn’t order these,” I said warily, but secretly, I was hoping it was from Lawrence.

“They’re on the house, courtesy of Jason,” said the blonde in the black dress, nodding her head to the bar. A bartender was waving up at us. The other girls giggled as they grabbed at the shots. Someone took two and I swatted at their hand as my heart sank.

“Don’t be a fucking pig,” I snapped as I looked at the pledge. Laura? Lauren? It didn’t matter, I’d taken notes on what the pledges were wearing and I’d put a red dot by whoever matched her description. “There’s one for each of us, and you wouldn’t even have them if Becca wasn’t friends with Jason. She hasn’t even got a shot.” The pledge put one of the shots down, but I glared until she put back the second too, and I still put a red dot by the pledge’s name (“Laura Leigh”, navy blue bodycon dress with sequin accents), along with a furious scribble. I wasn’t in the mood to fuck around.

Becca downed her shots and headed down to the bar, leaving me with Sam. I was only friends with Sam because of Becca but when Becca was gone, things between us were weird. Sam didn’t have an official sorority position but she acted like she was president, social chair, and recruitment chair all in one. If I’d been in charge of recruitment when she was a pledge, she never would have passed, always such a mess and a meddler, to boot, but it didn’t matter. Sam wasn’t my concern: the pledges were, and so far, they had failed to impress me.

“Back so soon?” teased Sam as Becca got to the VIP.

“Ugh, I don’t want to talk about it, just pass me a flute,” Becca said, taking a flute of champagne and sitting on my free side as I took notes.

Emma walked up the stairs with the boy toy bouncer from the night before and tried to come chat with Sam and I, while Becca’s phone was off the hook but she refused to answer it, ogling a bartender, as usual. Excuse me: “her” bartender.

Instead, I joined the conversation with Emma and the bouncer. “So, where are you two going on your first date?” I asked, looking up from my phone and sipping at the champagne flute instead. I needed a drink if I was going to deal with Jason and Keanne tonight.

“Our first date?” asked Emma.

“Yeah, you two have to go somewhere,” insisted Becca, ever the sucker for young love.  “But your schedule is booked through the week. We have a lot of socials this next week on campus so you can’t come to the club after this weekend, at least for a while. You’re going to have to start doing more activities with the other frosh. A day date would probably be best.”

“Coffee,” said the man beside the pledge.

“What?” said Emma.

“There’s a Starbucks around here, right?” he asked.

“There’s a Starbucks everywhere,” I said, rolling my eyes. Stupid questions get stupid answers and they were seriously distracting.

“Starbucks is great, she’ll be there,” said Becca with a hiccup.

“Great, should we go dance more, babe? I can fit in one more song on my break,” asked the bouncer, looking into Emma’s eyes. This was what was so annoying about Emma: she felt the need to flaunt everything, not just her money, but the men she was interested into as well. She went back down to dance with Skylar before coming back to the VIP. She and Samantha borrowed my clipboard to do a line, because they insisted it was easier if they had something to hold up to their faces. It was gross but Becca and I knew why I let them do it, and she and I exchanged knowing glances.

The bartender Becca was dating sent up a bowl of strawberries for her, so she ate them quickly and left. Soon, Sam and the rest of the younger students left to go to the dance floor, and I was left up in the VIP, ostensibly to guard their stuff, but in reality, to watch, to take notes, the way I was supposed to every evening that we went out, and every evening that we stayed in.

Of course, I had my clipboard with me. Checks and crosses, crosses and checks, smattering the rows, forming lines both short and long, like some ersatz graphic equalizer, like some bar graph gone wrong. I thought back to my time as a freshman at the sorority: there was no equivalent of me back then, or the year after, or any year until this year. Sure, there were vice presidents, but the duties, the data collection, that wasn’t what had been important back then. No, as long as people knew their place, their place in the sorority wasn’t in danger, unless they had low grades. Now...girls like Samantha wouldn’t have been able to get into Omega Mu at all.

Lost in thought, I almost didn’t notice when a hand was placed on my shoulder. I looked up and to the left: it was the man from the night before, Lawrence Lamont. “Miss Lee, a pleasure, as always,” he said, and I didn’t know if it was meant to be funny, but I let out a nervous giggle and gulped before offering my hand for a handshake. Lawrence took my hand in his, as if he was holding a delicate lotus, and raised the back of my hand to his lips, giving my hand a gentle kiss as light as the brushing of a feather against the wind.

“It’s just Kim,” I said, knowing I was blushing but not averting my eyes from his face. He’d kept his eyes on me ever since I turned, not even breaking the bond between us when he kissed my hand. It was almost hypnotic, the way his steely blue eyes pulled me in and made me forget about the fact I was sitting in a hot, sticky nightclub on a spring evening, transporting me to some foreign mountain range in the blue hour between twilight and night, the snow glistening like crystals.

“Kim, I wanted to thank you for your company last night,” he said, pulling out, from behind his back, a single red rose. I took it with my free hand and realized that he hadn’t let go of the hand he’d kissed yet, although he’d let go of my shoulder to take the hand to begin with. I took the rose with my free hand and held it up to my nose instinctually. Its soft blood red petals brushed past my lips the way he’d kissed my hand, and I inhaled, the rich floral scent sweet.

“The pleasure was all mine,” I demurred. I knew how to play Lawrence’s game all too well, but I don’t know why he’d want to play it with me. It was like Bobby Fisher playing a game against the best college chess champion at UCBH: while I was better than my fellow students at playing the social system, Lawrence was on a whole different level.

“If you’re not too busy, I was wondering if you’d like to join me again,” he said with a small smile. His chin was clean shaven tonight and I smelled not aftershave, but cologne, the smell of bergamot and lavender entering me as I rose and he placed his free hand on the small of my back, his other still holding mine, as we went upstairs.

Again, the beauties three opened the dark sheer curtains for us.

Again, there was a bed.

But this time, the room was lit by a soft white light I was surprised wasn’t very visible from the outside of the strange room overlooking Club Grit. The glow was a yellowish ivory, soft but present, and by its light, I could see Lawrence’s features more clearly. His jawline was like a snow covered fjord at night, dark but with smatterings of silver, which glistened, even in this low light. His strong nose and brow betrayed any assumptions I could make about his age, and his hair was the salt and pepper coloration of his stubble. Like last night, he was in expensive clothes, but tonight, his suit was a dark emerald green, the same deep hue as the handle of the silver slotted spoon he was handing me.

“You have had absinthe before, yes?” he asked, motioning to a cart being wheeled in by one of the three mysterious ladies. It was covered with a dark veil, which, when drawn away, shimmered a jeweled green in the light, and exposed a carafe of iced water, a small silver bowl of sugar cubes, and two crystal glasses. There was a bottle with an art deco style label and a green fairy, the liquid inside as green as the glass of any beer bottle.

“No, I haven’t,” I said, honestly. I’d read about it but never actually partaken in the pleasure.

“You’re in for a treat,” he said, pulling the cart closer to us. “Let me serve you.”

He didn’t wait for my answer, instead, pouring a decent amount of liquid emerald into my glass, before placing his slotted spoon atop the opening. “Here, do the same with yours,” he commanded, and I obeyed. That’s what had been happening so far: he’d order, I’d listen, I’d perform. I didn’t usually submit to anyone, but Lawrence? He had this allure about him that I’d say was inexplicable, but it wasn’t. It was all too explainable and maybe, to you? It seems obvious, but to me, back then, it wasn’t. If I could tell my past self about Lawrence’s appeal, draw it out and explain it to myself, maybe we never would have gotten this far.