Now they were getting a divorce and she was on the prowl again. Since she and her husband separated two months ago, she’d met and discarded two “loves of her life” both holding this title for less than a week.
She was looking for number three.
Her hunting ground wasn’t normally Slade or other clubs. At twenty-nine, even Sandrine knew she was beyond that. She mostly hunted high-brow charity functions, dragging, on occasion, Vivica (who was now at a different hotel with no “assistant” in her manager title and a huge pay hike) or, more frequently, me along with her.
But she wasn’t averse to hitting the scene.
She also wasn’t averse to getting her groove on, getting hammered and doing stupid stuff.
Like, obviously, she was doing now.
I moved into the kitchen.
“I’m about to leave. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Move your ass, girl, or Knight will be activating the cleanup crew to mop up blood after a very messy homicide,” Viv replied and I grinned.
“Gotcha. There in fifteen.”
“Later.”
“Later.”
I disconnected and shoved my phone in my red clutch. It was one of fifteen clutches I owned, seven of these being red. My dress was also red and it was one of about fifty that I owned, around thirty-five of those being red.
This wardrobe enhancement was because I liked to be around Knight and our schedules, me at the spa during the day, him at the club at night, except for Sundays, meant we didn’t have a lot of time together.
So I often went to Slade.
I did not know any of his “girls” but I did suspect, from some looks, some comments (not overt but thoughtful and respectful) that a number of them came to my spa. When I cottoned onto this, they shocked me. They weren’t exactly what I would think of as professional, classy call girls. They also weren’t skanks. They just looked like, well… women.
But I did know most of his waitresses and bartenders, there was a heavy turnover of both so there was always a new one, and all of his bouncers and security. Those didn’t turnover. Knight was selective, he trained them carefully, treated them right, they respected him, he returned the favor, paid well and they stuck.
So I had Knight on occasion, his staff and often Vivica, Sandrine (unfortunately, these days) or one or several of my other friends would show and keep me company.
I also had my own, small VIP section. The last time Knight gutted the club, he’d had it built for me. It was higher than the others, could accommodate around ten people, was fit for comfort, had some cool-as-heck screening that provided some privacy though you could shift to see whatever you wanted to see but it was also positioned so, from his window, Knight could see me.
When at Slade, I hung in Knight’s office or in my section with myself, his staff or my friends.
I was never bored.
I usually showed around ten, left around twelve thirty. I didn’t see a lot of Knight but I saw him and I knew he also saw me.
And I knew, even though he never told me, he liked to see me.
So I often went to Slade.
I was about to make a move to the front door when something caught my eye.
A flash of bright red.
I knew Viv needed me but still, I took a moment and surveyed the space.
Although there was nothing wrong with them, I got rid of Knight’s counter appliances and replaced them with the same but in red. On the end of the bar delineating the kitchen from the living room there was a tall, slender, red vase that widened at the top that we paid a florist to come once a week and fill. She also filled the squat, magenta, cylindrical vase that sat on the chest at the upper landing by the wall in the living room. And, at Knight’s demand, every week there were new flowers arranged in the two round, black vases in our bedroom, one on the coffee table in the seating area, a smaller one on my nightstand.
These were always, exclusively, perfect ivory roses.
Also Knight’s demand.
I’d kept the rug in the sunken living room but got rid of the streamlined, leather couches that did not invite lounging or, well, anything. Now they were black, slouchy suede couches that practically begged you to kick your shoes off and relax. They were covered with different size toss pillows in magenta, aubergine and dark gray.
I’d also gotten rid of the print that didn’t do anything for me. Getting what Knight called a “wild hair”, I’d hired a professional photographer to come when Knight’s parents were in town. I invited my posse, Knight invited nobody and we had a party while the photographer took photos. Now on that wall was a custom-made mess of interlocking, multi-shaped and sized black frames with ivory matting and black and white candid photos of family and friends.
Now that made me feel something.
And the black bowls on the chest were gone. Even though the wall above it was filled with photos, along the top off the vase of flowers, the chest was filled with more.
And those were just Knight, me or us together. Color and black and white, in Slade, at Thanksgiving at Rhashan and Vivica’s, at my spa, at Sandrine’s crazy wedding, in our apartment, dozens of silver framed photos sitting on the chest, jumbled. You had to get close really to see any of them. But I loved them. Mostly because Knight loved them too. So much, he got into it and, not often, but it happened, I’d be sitting on the balcony or at a stool at the bar, I’d turn my head and see he was taking a picture of me.
I returned the favor.
I loved the photos someone else took of us together.
The photos we took of each other were a close second.
It wasn’t much (though it all cost a fortune) but it made Knight’s apartment our home. It didn’t look like a museum. It felt like a place where people lived happily. Something which was true.
Even though it still was kickass.
I grinned to myself and walked out of the kitchen, switching off lights on my way. I went to the hall closet, got my sleek, black, to-the hip evening trench with the soft sheen and shrugged it on.
Then I walked to the door and stopped at the narrow table I’d put there that had a big, oval bowl on it where we tossed our keys. I grabbed my keys and looked up.
Then, as it always did when I saw it, pure joy slid through me.
Knight’s only addition to making our house a home, outside my ivory roses in the bedroom, was what was mounted on the wall above that table. It was hanging there, I knew though he did not say, so we would see it every time we came home and dumped our keys there and every time we left.
When I moved in, he’d found the faulty cell phone I never got around to throwing out probably because it meant something to me. Then he’d had it mounted between two sheets of square glass framed in a black frame.