Liberty
The sound of classical music, polite but strained conversation, and the clinking of glasses in the ballroom fills me with unease.
In movies, these rich people events look so elegant, so proper. I won’t lie and say I wasn’t envious watching them. From the outside looking in, it seems like a dream come true to be Julia Roberts or Jennifer Lopez or any other poor girl meets rich guy and lives happily ever after character.
I wanted that. And now, in a way, I have it. Or, I’m getting it.
It isn’t quite as sweet as I imagined it would be.
The noise in the ballroom muffles as I gaze at Robert, his mouth moving as he speaks to a couple we’re standing by the bar with. The man’s name is Gregory Husted. The woman’s name is—get this—Mrs. Gregory Husted. That’s how Robert introduced them. She doesn’t even get her own name.
Her head goes back in a laugh when her husband says something about a mix-up at his law firm and good help being hard to find. It isn’t remotely funny, but he has a humored grin and his wife laughed, so I let out a weak chuckle, my lips feeling awkwardly tight.
Robert puts his hand on my lower back, just above my ass, and I turn toward his admiring smile. The tightness in my lips relaxes while we share a moment of understanding, just between the two of us.
These people are bores. When we go back to Robert’s place, he’ll catch me up on the latest gossip about every person in here, and I’ll nod and widen my eyes at the appropriate times as if I actually care. In a way, I do. Not about the gossip per se, but about the fact that he doesn’t seem to enjoy these people’s company any more than I do.
No matter what the movies seem to portray, I don’t for one second feel like I’ll ever belong in this world. Certainly not at this charity event. There’s an ice sculpture for chrissake.
Even while attending Harvard undergrad, I never really connected with my ‘Daddy helped me get in’ classmates. It was my off-campus coworkers I made the closest relationships with.
Despite feeling so out of place, I do feel like I belong in Robert’s world. He tries, harder than he has to, to make me feel that way. Which is why he dragged me to this thing to begin with. He wants me to be a part of his life, all aspects of it. I think it’s sweet, despite him never seeming to want to dip his toes into the water of my pool. My friends probably think I’ve made him up considering how elusive he seems to be when they come around.
But can I really blame him? It can’t be the easiest thing, going from champagne and white tablecloths to Budweiser and sticky bar tops.
“So,” Mrs. Husted draws, waggling one long, black nail—more like a claw than anything else—between Robert and me. “Where did you two meet?”
Her lipstick-stained teeth show when she fake smiles, and I catch the way her eyes dip to my feet. I’m wearing stilettos tonight, and I probably look like a fucking baby giraffe in them with how much I shift my weight, trying not to topple over. If Robert hadn’t gifted them to me, they’d probably be snuggled up with a banana peel in a dumpster right now.
I straighten my spine and lock my knees, my body as rigid as a statue.
Heat flushes my cheeks at the pointedness in her question, but I try to shove my insecurities about how we met down and open my mouth to answer.
“Liberty is studying law at Harvard,” Robert says, drawing my attention to him. He puts his arm around my shoulders and hugs me to him. “We met at one of the football games. She was actually on a date with another student when we wound up with seats right next to each other.” He looks down at me and beams while I stare at him blankly, wondering how he can look so genuine right now. Genuine about a story I know to be fiction.
“Ah, so you wanted a real man,” Gregory says. “Smart girl.”
I turn to him, my breath catching. No one seems to notice.
“I miss the games,” Gregory’s shadow says, her lower lip pouted.
“You didn’t even go to Harvard,” Gregory retorts with open contempt.
She flushes. “I can still enjoy supporting your alma mater, dear.”
“Excuse me,” I say, breaking away from Robert. It suddenly feels stuffy in here. And crowded. A little hard to breathe.
Robert takes my wrist to stop me from leaving, turning his back on the couple.
“Where are you going?” he asks, a warning in his tone. I’m embarrassing him.
My mouth opens, ready to blurt out the hurt I feel for him bullshitting about how we met.
I worked for a maintenance company that was contracted out to Robert’s office building. He worked late nights, and I happened to be the one to empty his trash cans.
Essentially, I was his janitor. Sexy? Maybe not. Shameful? A little. But is it that embarrassing for him? For his friends to know that my spoons are made of stainless steel rather than silver?
It hurts. A lot. My stomach feels like it arches into my chest, taking up the space my lungs claimed at birth, but I don’t voice this. I won’t yet. Not until we’re out of here, away from his friends.
Maybe he has a good reason for lying. Maybe he isn’t ashamed of me. Maybe he’s simply saving me from my own humiliation.
Maybe…
“I have to pee.”
Robert’s face hardens a smidge, and his grip on my wrist tightens. I lower my eyes to it and pull away.
“You’re going to the washroom?” he asks. It takes several seconds for me to realize he isn’t confused by what I said. He’s correcting me.
“Yes.” I give a slight nod.
The couple laughs again, and I peek around Robert at them. They aren’t looking at us, but I get the gut-wrenching sensation that they're laughing at me. That the whole room is laughing at me. That Robert is laughing at me.
“Excuse me,” I barely get out on a breath as I break away. I weave through people, no idea if I'm getting closer to the bathroom or not, but I change destinations when I see a set of doors leading to the balcony. I practically run toward it, my heart thumping in my ears.
I burst through the door and stumble toward the balcony, slapping my hands on the rough stone and closing my eyes while I suck in gasps of air.
I don’t belong here.
I really don’t belong here.
My eyes sting, and I suck in my bottom lip, my teeth sinking into supple flesh as I bite back tears. How pathetic would it be if I started crying here?
I shouldn’t let these people do this to me.
At this thought, I suck in air through my nose, forcing my lungs to fully expand before letting out a slow exhale. I step out of my ridiculous heels and let them topple over onto the concrete.
What I wouldn’t give for some wedges right about now.
“Are you all right?”
I gasp and jump at the accented voice.
A hand flies to my chest as I spin to face the stranger, my lips lifting into a forced, chagrined smile. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” the stranger says, his honey brown eyes studying me like a lion watching a gazelle.
Instantly, I notice how handsome he is.
And instantly, I feel guilty for it.
“No.” I swat his apology away. “I just didn’t see you there.”
“You seemed preoccupied.”
My lips dip, and I swipe a loose strand of hair from my face, the maneuver giving me a brief reprieve from the stranger’s penetrating gaze. I don’t know that I could be any more embarrassed tonight.
I nervously chuckle and smile at him. “Right. I, uh… I just needed some air.”
“Were you having a panic attack?” He rests his forearm on the railing and casually leans against it. He sounds curious. Not at all concerned. I’d think he was an asshole if I wasn’t surrounded by worse people studying me, searching for reasons I’m not good enough to be here. At least he doesn’t have a slight curl to his lip like the others.
Still, I do have some pride left.
I stand up straight, feeling more ridiculous without my heels than I did with them on, and shake my head.
“Of course not. Like I said, I just needed some fresh air. It’s stuffy in there.”
His lips lift ever so slightly.
Dick.
He slowly nods. “I can agree.”
His eyes lower while he unabashedly takes me in. Him lion, me gazelle.
My eyes narrow to slits, and as much as I try to fight the impulse, I tug my dress up to hide my cleavage.
“Right,” I mutter.
As if this guy thinks this place is stuffy. He’s probably right at home. I mean, come on. He’s in a black suit that’s fitted so well, it looks like a second skin, with a red tie the color of fresh blood. His hair looks like he paid someone a thousand dollars to comb each individual strand in place with just the right amount of gel in case any follicle dares defy him.
This guy belongs here. The only thing that makes him stand out from the others is the fact that he’s hot as hell.
Not that it matters.
“You’re not used to these events, are you?” Again, his eyes lower, moving until he’s taken in every square inch of me.
Goosebumps break out on my arms, and my nipples harden. I keep standing tall, letting my irritation at the obvious perusal of my body show, but underneath I’m praying my face isn't reddening.
Finally, he meets my eyes, and I inject as much contempt as I can into my glare.
Fuck rich people thinking they can do whatever they want.
Fuck me for liking it.
He frowns. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend you. I only ask because your dress is a little crooked. You look uncomfortable.”
My chin lowers to my chest as I look down.
If my face wasn’t red before, it is now.
He wasn’t even checking me out. He was studying me like everyone else here has.
I really do have a sign that reads ‘doesn’t belong’ dangling from my neck, don’t I?
“Oh.” I straighten my dress and laugh, dying inside as I run my hands over my face.
I am such a fucking idiot.
My shoulders sag as I drop my hands to my sides. This stranger has me figured out. No doubt about it.
At least he has the courtesy to point out my discomfort instead of silently judging me only to snicker behind my back as soon as I walk away.
At least he’s honest.
“This isn’t exactly my crowd.”
“No?” he asks as if he doesn’t already know the answer.
I shake my head.
The unlit cigarette between his fingers catches my attention. I don’t normally smoke, but fuck, I could use some nicotine right about now.
“Could I bum one of those?” I ask, pointing at his hand.
“What?”
“The cigarette.” I point again. “Could I have one?”
He stands up straight and looks down at the stick like it’s his first-born child I just asked him for.
“Sure,” he says, holding it out to me.
His longing expression makes me hesitant to take it, but when I do, I smile appreciatively. “Thanks.”
He takes out a lighter, and I pop the cigarette between my lips before leaning toward him. He strikes the lighter and hovers the flame over the tip, sending a tingle over my neck.
Something about it feels … intimate.
I suck in, pulling smoke into my lungs. It feels good. Sort of like hot sex with a bad boy. Horrible for you but worth it.
Okay, the cigarette isn’t that good.
Why am I thinking about sex?
When my lungs start to protest, I tilt my head back and exhale.
“Fuck, I needed that,” I say like I’m post-orgasm. I laugh and straighten my neck to look at the man. “I have no idea what I’m doing here.”
“Little out of your league?”
I consider this a second before shrugging. I take another pull, then turn my head to absently blow to the skyline, as if New York could use the extra pollution. “I don’t know if I’d put it like that.”
On the one hand, sure, this is kind of out of my league in the sense that I don’t belong here and these people would never accept me. On the other, why do I need them to? They aren’t better than me. They aren’t in a better league, they’re just playing a different sport. Croquet or some bullshit.
“How would you put it?”
I glance inside, remembering the sharp-nailed woman. The one who doesn’t even have her own name recognized but that would tear me apart as a juicy piece of gossip.
I meet the man’s gaze. “Rich people are judgmental as fuck.”
He grins like he’s amused. “You don’t say?”
“Seriously, what is even the point of this thing?” I ask, flicking a hand toward the gaping door. My ears start to heat. “I mean, how necessary is it to spend all this money throwing a party? Couldn’t they have just donated the money they would’ve spent on their ice sculpture to ALS directly? Do they need the tablecloths that cost more than my tuition?”
“Tuition?” he asks, his head tilting.
I halt my rant, suddenly feeling self-conscious, and close my mouth a moment. It’s probably good that he cut me off. Talking shit about Robert’s peers is probably not the nicest girlfriend move. “Yeah, I’m in law school.”
I bring the cigarette to my mouth but pause when I remember the way he looked at the thing. I glance at his hand, cigarette free, and lower the smoke. “I didn’t take your last one, did I?”
He shrugs. “It’s fine.”
I hold it out to him. “Shit, sorry. Here, we’ll share it.”
He waves me off. “I’m good.”
I raise a brow. “I promise I don’t have cooties.”
“Really, you keep it.”
“You’re sure?”
He nods and smiles, his hands tucking into his pockets like he isn’t sure what to do with them. I’m pretty certain he’s lying, but it’s sweet. He actually gives a shit about someone other than himself. How chivalrous.
I look inside, wondering if Robert would do the same.
Of course not. He’d be pissed if he knew I was smoking right now. But still…
My mind wanders to a piece of advice I got as a child.
I wasn’t close to my mom growing up, but I was very close to my neighbor who babysat me while my parents had their date nights and whatnot. I was probably ten when she told me to only marry a man who lends you his jacket when it’s cold. Cliché, right? Stupid. Especially in this day in age when men’s body heat is supposed to equally matter to women’s, but I still purposefully wear sleeveless dresses when going out on dates.
Robert’s never offered me his jacket.
I blink away the thought and turn back to the man.
“Sorry if I offended you, by the way.”
His glazed eyes meet mine like he’s waking up from his own thoughts. “For?”
“I’m assuming you’re here by choice and don’t appreciate my ‘rich people suck’ babble. I’m really just nervous, and this is how I cope with that. Ignore me.”
His eyes lower, probably to silently critique my outfit again, but he quickly raises them back to my face. “No offense taken.”
“I’m Lib,” I say, holding out my free hand.
He takes it, the warmth of his firm grasp hitching my breath. “Angel.”
“Nice to meet you.”
He dips his chin and lets go, his fingertips brushing my palm as he pulls away. I drop my gaze to the delicious bit of friction on impulse. “You as well.”
His light accent makes everything he says sound serious. Important. Like no word is wasted. Or maybe it isn’t his accent, maybe it’s just him. But the accent helps. It’s kind of sexy too.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I take a final drag while I try to place the part of the world he’s from. The accent isn’t heavy enough for someone who lives outside the US, but he’s definitely not from here.
Spain, I think. Though it could be somewhere else. To be fair, Spain is the only foreign country I’ve ever been to. But I’m still pretty sure it’s Spain.
I put the cigarette out on the stone railing and leave the bud there.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
He blinks like he’s surprised to hear me speak, lost in thought again. “Pardon?”
“You have an accent.”
He leans against the railing. “Spain. Madrid, to be exact.”
“I thought so.” I smile. “I studied abroad for a semester a couple of years ago. Incredible place.”
He nods. “It is. I miss it.”
Miss it.
I was right. He lives here.
“So do I.” I give him a playful wink, feeling for the first time tonight that I have something in common with one of these people. “What made you move to New York?”
“I didn’t,” he says. “I’m only visiting.”
“Ah.” I nod.
Damn. I was wrong.
“I’m enjoying it, though. The women here are interesting.”
I shift closer to him, curious as to what he means. “How so?”
He looks down at my feet, and I try not to follow his gaze.
Oh. I’m interesting. The barefoot girl having the panic attack.
That doesn’t seem like a compliment.
I bend to stand my heels upright. “Well, I should get back in there,” I say, stepping into the death traps. “Nice talking to you.”
I brush hair out of my face, give him a tight smile, then head for the door.
He grabs my arm, spinning me toward him.
I don’t know if I’ve seen too many movies or what, but when our eyes meet, I feel something spark. A scene plays in my head where he kisses me, hard and passionate. The ‘interesting’ woman from America.
I can’t say I hate it.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
He smiles apologetically and lets go of my arm. Then he just stands there.
I wish I could lie and say I’m not disappointed.
Boyfriend, Liberty. You have a boyfriend.
“Yes?” I prompt, my voice a little too heady.
His mouth opens to speak, but his attention moves to the doorway. I look over my shoulder at a blond man dressed in an equally impressive suit as Angel but not wearing it quite as well. Robert walks up behind him.
Oh, fuck.
Guilt startles me, and I turn and take a step away from Angel, afraid my thoughts will show if I stand too close to him.
“There you are,” the blond man says to Angel, annoyance evident in his tone. His eyes stray to me, and heat immediately ignites in them.
I ignore it and focus on Robert. “Hey, honey.”
He walks up, and it isn’t until he reaches me that I realize I’m biting my lip. I quickly release it.
“You disappeared.” Robert puts his hand on my shoulder. “I was worried.”
“I just needed some air,” I say, my voice a little too high pitched.
Robert looks at Angel, and his smile grows, but I’m pretty certain it’s forced. Angel better pray Robert doesn’t know a hitman. “I see you met Mr. Ramos.”
My brow furrows.
Huh?
Robert wraps his arm around my shoulder possessively, his touch all but gentle.
He’s pissed.
If I thought I’d embarrassed him before…
Fuck. I’m a terrible girlfriend.
I restrain myself from looking at Angel and look at the blond man instead. He’s shamelessly leering at me. There’s no misunderstanding his intentions. He isn’t sizing up my outfit, he’s straight up undressing me. Right in front of Robert.
Ass. Hole.
“Do I know you?” Angel asks Robert. I don’t take my eyes off Blond Douche.
Robert pulls his arm away, and from my periphery, I see him hold his hand out toward Angel. “Robert Gaumond.”
“He came to the island once,” Blond Douche explains, finally dragging his eyes from me. “I introduced you.”
“Island?” I ask, turning to Robert. All Robert does is work. I don’t remember him vacationing.
Robert clears his throat. “Mr. Hansley owns a small, private island near Fiji. He was kind enough to invite me to a function there once.”
Oh.
“You’re welcome back anytime,” Blond Do—er, Mr. Hansley—says, his gaze aimed at me. “Feel free to bring your pretty, um…” His eyes lower then slowly climb back to my face. “Date.”
Date.
He may as well make air quotes with the way he says the word.
He means…
Is he calling me a fucking hooker?
My eyes widen and blood rushes to my cheeks, partly from anger and partly from mortification.
Is that what I look like to these people? A prostitute?
“Right, I remember now,” Angel says to Robert. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you,” Robert responds. “And thank you for keeping my girlfriend company.”
That was pointed.
Fuck, he’s jealous, isn’t he?
Why didn’t I just go to the bathroom?
“Sorry if I’ve stolen her.” Angel tips his head toward me.
Robert waves it off to show it isn’t a big deal, although I can see in his rigid posture that it is.
“I’m happy Sawyer had you tag along on this trip. I was actually hoping to run a few business ideas by you.”
“Of course.”
I stare at the man, Sawyer, who continues to ogle me. The pointed comment may have been at Angel, but am I the only one seeing this shit? This overt disrespect?
And this is Angel’s friend? The chivalrous dude?
I almost laugh at myself. He’s probably an asshole too.
Show me your friends, and I’ll show you your future.
I bet my dress wasn’t even crooked.
Robert puts his hand on my shoulder. “Darling, could you find Mrs. Ash? She’s been hoping to talk to you all evening.” My shoulders sag at the hint of condemnation in his tone.
This is the first event he’s taken me to as his date, and with the way it’s going, it’ll probably be the last.
I don’t even know how I feel about that.
I nod and move to leave, but he touches my arm, so I pause, looking at him expectantly.
“Don’t you want to say goodbye to my colleagues, dear?”
His colleagues? You mean the ones eye-fucking me?
I try to swallow my pride as I look between Angel and Sawyer, try to put out the fire inside of me. If these guys are somehow important to Robert or his business…
I guess I can suck it up.
“Bye,” I mutter.
Sawyer snickers when I walk toward the door, and I shoot a glare his way.
“Pleasure meeting you,” he says without an ounce of shame.
I look at Robert, thinking maybe he’ll stick up for me, but he doesn’t, and it makes my heart sink. I can’t get my neighbor’s advice out of my head.
I turn and head back inside, in search of some woman I may or may not have met but certainly don’t remember.
All the while wondering if I’ll ever be offered a goddamn jacket.