I feel my jaw drop. "Did you…did you just quote The Big Lebowski at me?"
He leans down and kisses me. It's not a gentle or chaste kiss, either. There's tongue, and teeth. Maybe a moan, but I'm not admitting to anything.
When he pulls away, he's smiling, all teeth. Predatory. "Look over my left shoulder."
I do, trying to be surreptitious. A glamorously gorgeous woman famous for being the first social media influencer is giving me side-eye over her glass of champagne. Her husband is at her side, sipping whisky, following her gaze.
"Why is she looking at me like that?" I ask, trying not to feel hysterical.
Not hysterical like “hahaha,” hysterical like I need a room made out of pillows and a hug-myself jacket.
"She's trying to figure out who you are, and if she should know you." He snags my hand and hauls me in her direction.
"No, no, no I can't talk to her—" I protest, but then we're in front of them. "Hi! Um. That was loud, sorry. Hi."
She grins and laughs. "Hi. Some party, huh?" Her natural speaking voice is very different from her TV persona. "I love your dress. Who made it?"
"Um…me."
Her eyes widen. "Wow, really? Should I know your name? Have I seen your work on anyone?"
My…friend from the invitation line wanders over. "Her dress, right?" She touches my shoulder and gently indicates I should turn around, so I do, and they discuss the back, the drape of the skirt, the fabric…
The influencer takes my hands. "Well, I'm going to need an exclusive design. Can you do a velour tracksuit, or do you only do dresses?"
Saxon sips whiskey and leaves me to the wolves, the jerk. Meaning, he refuses to answer questions for me. So, I have to interact with these stupidly famous, successful, beautiful women asking me all sorts of questions and requests.
Finally, I have to speak over them. "Okay, hold on, hold on, Jesus. My name is…" I pause and glance at Saxon. "Wait, you said no names."
"Have your agent call mine?" The influencer suggests.
I cackle, unable to keep it in. "Agent? That's a good one."
Saxon finally steps in. He glances at the football player. "I work for a nightclub in Las Vegas. A very, very exclusive one. The kind you need an invitation to even know about. I've seen you there in the past. That's where you can find her. Visit us there, get a VIP table, and I'll bring her to you. You can discuss business in a more conducive setting."
The athlete nods. "Got you."
His girlfriend looks confused. "I've never been there."
"Not exactly your scene, babe. Not mine anymore, either."
The entrepreneur-husband laughs. "I went there, once. Quite a place."
"It's not for everyone." Saxon gathers me in one arm and salutes with his tumbler. "Nice to unofficially meet everyone. We're gonna mingle."
Handshakes and hugs all around, and then Saxon is leading me across the courtyard. It's a journey fraught with tension on my part because, at every turn, I'm jostled by someone famous…
And invariably, the women eye my dress, and the men eye me.
Saxon leads me to the opposite side of the courtyard, under the DJ balcony, where a rock star and his supermodel girlfriend swagger and swan, respectively, over to us. The rock star ogles me, and the supermodel interrogates me about my dress, with the same response as the previous two encounters—namely, shock, and an immediate demand for an exclusive design.
We chat for a while, and then Saxon leads me around the edge of the crowd to a spot by the outer wall, where we sip and he eyes the crowd and I try to keep from hyperventilating.
Yet again, a couple approaches us. This time it's a movie star and her husband, and another…ahem, MARVEL-ous discussion regarding my dress and how I'm the designer, and when can I have one ready for her.
It's our fourth repetition when I cotton on to his strategy.
"You're showing me off," I say, over the top of my drink, which I've been taking baby bird sips of.
