Chapter 19: A call
The music in the VIP section was a muffled thump compared to the seismic bass shaking the main floor. Tessa watched the human current below, a swirling, sweating mass of limbs and neon-lit faces. The giant cocktail bowl was half-empty, a sugary bomb detonating warmth through her veins.
She stood up, the motion fluid. The green silk whispered against her thighs. “This place is great,” she said, her voice carrying a newfound looseness. “I’m gonna dance.”
Trevor looked up from his phone, a skeptical arch in his brow. “In those heels? That’s a blood sport.”
“I’ll risk it.” She gave a small, defiant shrug, the bare skin of her shoulders gleaming under the low lights. She didn’t look at Mr. Chang, who was now animatedly explaining something to Kimberly, his hands carving shapes in the smoky air.
She navigated the steps down from the platform, the descent making her aware of every muscle in her calves. Then she was absorbed into the crowd.
The sound was immediate, a physical wave that hit her chest. The air thickened with sweat and perfume. Strobe lights fractured time, freezing grins and tossed hair into disconnected snapshots. She found a pocket of space near a towering speaker stack and let the rhythm move into her. It was awkward at first, a conscious shifting of weight. But the alcohol in her system acted as a lubricant, dissolving her self-consciousness. She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and just felt it. The bass line travelled up through the soles of her feet, into her bones. For a few minutes, there was no Vance Publishing, There was just the beat and the dark and the feel of expensive silk on her skin.
Hardin leaned against a sticky wall, his second cup of whiskey already empty. The barbed wire on his shoulder itched, a fresh prison beneath his shirt. He scanned the dancing crowd without seeing them, his vision tunneling through the haze.
A pair of hands snaked around Hardin’s eyes from behind. “Guess who,” a voice chirped in his ear. “I’ll give you a hint. She’s super hot, a lot of fun, and loves to fuck.”
“Mother Teresa,” Hardin said, his voice flat.
The hands dropped. Molly stepped in front of him, her expression one of mock disgust. “No, eww.” She did a little spin in her crop top and short skirt. “I know I look amazing. I’ve had no carbs in like eight weeks, but I’m feeling amazing.”
“Wow,” Hardin said, rolling his eyes so hard he felt a strain. He pushed off the wall.
Tessa had her eyes closed, her hands raking through her hair as she swayed her hips to the throbbing bass. She was lost in it, a small, serene smile on her lips. A guy in a tight black shirt moved up behind her.
A guy in a tight black shirt moved up behind her. His hands settled on her waist, fingers pressing into the silk. He moved with the rhythm, his body close against hers.
She didn’t open her eyes, just kept moving, lost in the swell of the music and the faint peach burn on her tongue. He turned her around smoothly, his hands sliding to her hips to face him. Her eyes stayed shut, a small smile still playing on her lips as she swayed.
In her mind, it was him. The hands felt possessive, certain. The scent was wrong—cologne and cheap beer instead of ink and soap—but her brain, fuzzy with sugar and vodka, painted over the details. Hardin flashed in front of her closed eyelids, the memory of his stormy blue eyes, the way his jaw tightened when he was trying not to look at her.
She leaned in.
He cupped her face, his thumbs rough against her cheeks. Her arms wound around his neck, her fingers tangling in hair that was too short, too gelled. His other hand came up, cradling her cheek, and she felt the cool metal of a ring.
His mouth met hers.
It was hungry, all wet pressure and searching tongue. For one disorienting second, she leaned into it, the familiar ache of missing him flooding her system. Then her senses screeched back online. The hands were too clammy. The body against hers was shorter, stockier.
She pulled away, a sharp, reflexive jerk of her head.
Her eyes flew open.
A stranger stared back, his face confused, Some random guy with a smug, expectant look already forming in his eyes as he moved in to kiss her.
“No,” Tessa gasped. She planted her palms flat against his chest and shoved, hard. The force sent him stumbling back a step into the grinding crowd.
He held up his hands, shrugging, his expression shifting to annoyed indifference as he melted back into the sea of bodies.
The music pulsed, obscenely loud and cheerful. Tessa wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, sickening beat. The green silk felt cheap suddenly, a costume. She turned and pushed through the dancing mass, needing air, needing the illusion of space.
She didn’t look back toward the VIP section. She just walked, her heels clicking a hurried, retreating rhythm on the polished concrete floor, away from the dance floor, for one devastating second, tasted like a ghost.
She pushed through a fire door marked 'Balcony', the sudden quiet in the tiled hallway a physical relief. Her breath came in shallow hitches. She fumbled catching the railing.
She braced her hands on the cool porcelain sink, her head hanging low. Her phone weighed a ton in her clutch.
Her thumb moved on its own, unlocking the screen. The message thread was a canyon of his unread pleas. Tessa? Can we talk please? I’m sorry. A month of silence from her side. The ache in her chest, sharpened by vodka and shame, became a decisive pressure. She started at the call button before pressing it.
Molly came over to Hardin, planting herself right in front of him. “What do I have to do to make you forgive me? I know I’ve been really bad.” She pouted, reaching to touch the fresh ink on his shoulder.
“Worse than bad,” Hardin said, not looking at her.
She sat in his lap, her weight familiar and unwelcome. “You like it when I’m bad. You know you miss me.” She looked at his lips, her own parting.
He leaned in close, his voice a low crackle in her ear. “Now get the fuck off me.” He shoved her off with both hands. She hit the floor with a yelp, her drink splashing across the sticky concrete.
“What the fuck, Hardin!” she screamed, scrambling up.
He was already walking away, his shoulders tense knots under his shirt. The pulsing lights made the new barbed wire look like it was moving.
“You didn’t mind fucking me before!” she shouted at his retreating back. Her voice turned shrill, clawing for a wound she knew was there. “Oh, let me guess, you’re still moping over that stuck-up bitch!”
He whirled around. “Don’t you fucking talk about her, okay?” The words weren’t a shout but a guttural command that cut through the bass line.
“Look at you!” she jeered, advancing a step. “You look like a lost little puppy over some Mary Virgin turned skank who doesn’t even want you!”
Hardin walked out as she was speaking, shoving the main door open with a force that slammed it against the outside wall. The cool night air was a slap. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out, ready to ignore it, and stopped walking.
Seeing Tessa’s name on the screen was like a punch to the sternum.
He froze on the littered sidewalk, the college Partys thump fading behind him.
He stared at the screen, the world narrowing to her name in glowing text. He swiped to answer, his hand unsteady as he brought the phone to his ear. “Tessa?” he said, the word tight.
A burst of muffled bass and her voice, airy and unfocused, filled his head. “Hi, I just uhhh wanted to inform you that I look hot and you’re missing it.”
The sound of a club, the specific synthetic thump of a high-end sound system, not a college house party, registered instantly. His grip tightened on the phone. “Tessa, where are you?” He could hear the fuzzy lift in her words, the dragged vowels.
“Ohh somewhere that you’re not.” She giggled, a sound that grated against his nerves.
A cold dread slithered down his spine. “Tessa, I have your location, I can find you. How much have you had to drink?”
“Ohh, like five.”
“Five what?” he demanded, already turning, his feet carrying him back toward his car parked crookedly on the lawn.
“Ummm, Sex on the Beaches. Or is it Sexes on the Beaches?” She laughed again, a loose, careless sound. “That could’ve been fun.”
“You are wasted.” He bit out the words, fumbling for his keys in his pocket.
“Oh Hardin, I’m a commander. I’ve been the commander all night. Conman—what’s it called?” she yelled, the sound suddenly distant as if she’d pulled the phone away from her face. Then her voice was close again, a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “I’m not wearing any underwear, ahhhh.”
A white-hot spike of jealousy, laced with sheer panic, shot through him. “Tessa, who are you with?” He was running now, the gravel of the driveway crunching under his boots.
Her tone shifted, the playful vapidity dissolving into something plaintive and raw. “Why haven’t you called me?”
The question, so oblivious, so utterly unfair, ripped a groan from him. “Tessa, I’ve texted you a hundred times. You haven’t replied.” He wrenched his car door open, sliding inside. The interior smelled of whiskey and his own desperation.
“I actually have to go,” she said, her voice shifting again, adopting a falsely bright, formal tone. “But it was nice talking to you, Mr. Hardin Black. So, bye-bye.”
The line went dead.
He sat in the dark car, the silence after the call more deafening than the music had been. He stared at the black screen, then hurled the phone onto the passenger seat. It bounced against the leather. He slammed his palms against the steering wheel, once, twice, the horn letting out a short, strangled bleat.
“Don’t. Fuck, Tessa.” He said it to the empty air, to the ghost of her voice.
He snatched the phone back up. His thumbs flew over the screen, pulling up the location-sharing app they’d never turned off from a simpler time. A tiny, pulsing dot appeared on a map downtown, nestled among the grid of high-end bars and clubs. The Montgomery Hotel was two hours away from the dot.
The engine snarled to life. He shoved the gearshift into drive, his tires spitting gravel as he peeled away from the curb. The city streets blurred past his windows, streetlights streaking into continuous ribbons of sickly yellow. Every red light was a personal vendetta.
He beat his fist once against the steering wheel, the impact a dull thud against the squeal of braking tires. The city whipped past his windows, a smear of neon and shadow.
The cacophony of the club hit her anew, a wall of sound that felt aggressive now. She scanned the seething dance floor, the memory of clammy hands making her skin crawl. She needed to find Trevor, to find the group, to find something that made sense.
“TESSA!” The voice cut through the bass, sharp and familiar. She looked over, seeing him leaning against a pillar near the VIP entrance.
“TREVORRR!” she yelled back, weaving through the crowd toward him. Her walk was careful, a conscious negotiation between her brain and the unsteady floor.
“I’m drunk, uncomfortable, I’m leaving,” he announced, his words precise but slightly slowed.
“No, me too!” she agreed, grabbing his arm for balance. “Can we order room service? I want fresh fries and ice cream.” She punctuated the request by booping his nose with her finger, the gesture absurd and childish.
He laughed, a genuine, surprised sound, and followed her as she headed for the exit. The cool night air outside was a physical relief, quieting the thrum in her skull. They stumbled toward a line of waiting taxis, their footsteps echoing in the sudden stillness of the concrete canyon.
“Fries and ice cream,” Trevor mused, hailing a cab. “That’s a profoundly disgusting combination.”
“It’s a perfect combination,” Tessa insisted, sliding into the backseat. The vinyl was cool through the thin silk. She gave the driver the hotel address, her voice steadier now that the music was gone.
Trevor slumped beside her, resting his head against the window. “I’m never drinking anything that comes with a hundred straws again.”
The cab pulled away from the curb, joining the river of taillights. Tessa watched the city scroll past, her reflection ghostly in the glass.
The taxi idled outside The Montgomery. Trevor fumbled with his wallet, over-tipping the driver in his fog. They emerged into the hushed, opulent lobby, their rumpled, club-stained presence a stark contrast to the marble and whispered conversations. The clerk at the desk glanced up, his expression politely neutral.
“Two orders of fries,” Tessa said to the elevator buttons as they ascended, leaning against the wall. “And one chocolate ice cream. No, two. One for you.”
“I don’t want ice cream,” Trevor said, eyes closed.
“You’ll want mine,” she stated, as if it were obvious.
The elevator chimed.
The elevator doors slid open on her floor with a soft sigh. The hallway carpet, a deep burgundy, swallowed the sound of their uneven footsteps. Tessa fumbled the key card twice, the green plastic slipping in her damp fingers, before the lock flashed green.
She pushed the door open to the sprawling suite, the city’s skyline a silent, glittering panorama beyond the dark glass. The oppressive energy of the club evaporated, replaced by a sterile, air-conditioned calm. She kicked off her heels, one skittering under the sofa.
“Fries,” she announced to the room, as if summoning them by will. She found the room service menu, a giant leather-bound tome, and dialed the number, ordering enough food for six people.
Trevor wandered over to the window, his silhouette dark against the glittering grid of the city. “You know Vance is expensing this, right?” His voice was tired.
“He told me not to worry about packaging,” she replied, the phone still to her ear. She echoed Kimberly’s words from earlier, but they felt hollow now. She gave the room number and hung up.
They sat in silence, the distant hum of a minibar fridge the only sound. The adrenaline and alcohol were receding, leaving a gritty, hollow fatigue in their wake. Tessa drew her knees up to her chest on the enormous sofa, the green silk pooling around her. She felt exposed, the memory of the stranger’s hands imprinted on her skin.
A discreet knock came twenty minutes later. A waiter wheeled in a cart laden with silver domes, a mountain of crispy fries, two towering bowls of chocolate ice cream, and a bottle of mineral water. Trevor signed the check with a flourish.
They ate without speaking at first, the salty, greasy fries a perfect anchor. Tessa scooped a large bite of ice cream, the sweet cold a shock. She held the bowl in both hands, letting the chill seep into her palms.
They went into Tessa’s suite sitting on the couch with their ice creams. “Nothing like a chocolate ice cream at three in the morning,” Trevor says laughing, a fry poised in his other hand.
“Yeah,” Tessa said, the forced cheer evident. “It sounded better in the moment.” She put the half-eaten bowl on the coffee table with a soft clink.
The sugar crash was hitting, mixing with the vodka to create a weary, melancholic clarity. She tucked her bare feet beneath her.
“So Tessa,” Trevor began, leaning back and surveying her with those analytical eyes. “Why the hell are you in publishing?”
“Well, I love to read,” she said, the simplest, most honest answer.
“That makes sense,” he conceded, nodding slowly.
“What’s your favourite book?” she asked, turning the question back on him.
He laughed, a single, sharp exhale. “It’s The Principles of Economics by Alfred Marshall.”
Tessa shook her head, a genuine smile touching her lips for the first time in hours. “No, it’s not. I mean like, I mean fiction. Like a real book.”
“I don’t do fiction,” he stated, gesturing vaguely at his own crisp, dark shirt. “I mean, have you seen how I dress?”
“Fiction’s an escape from reality,” she said, her voice gaining a little warmth, a little of her old conviction. “It’s a way that you can live a hundred lives. Or even a thousand.”
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “I don’t need to live a thousand lives,” he said, his tone final, almost bleak. “And I would rather watch paint dry.”
The dismissal, so casual and complete, ignited a spark of frustration in her chest. It felt like a dismissal of her entire world. Her eyes landed on the unused linen napkin, neatly folded beside the room service cart.
Without thinking, she grabbed the cloth napkin off the table and threw it at him. It was meant to be a playful gesture, a light rebuttal.
It wasn't.
The napkin, heavier than she anticipated, unfurled in the air. It struck the large, almost-full glass of red wine he had poured for himself moments before. The glass tipped, wobbled for a heart-stopping second, and then poured its entire contents directly onto the front of his pristine white shirt.
A deep, spreading burgundy stain erupted across the fabric.
Time stopped. Tessa’s hand flew to her mouth. Trevor looked down at his ruined shirt, then slowly back up at her, his face a mask of utter, stunned disbelief.
“I, wait,” she stammered, horror dawning. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Trevor stared at the dark, saturating bloom on his chest. “You have got to be kidding me.” The wine was cold where it had soaked through to his skin.
Tessa scrambled off the couch. “I’m telling you, I know what I’m doing. You just have to soak it before it stains.” She rushed into the marble bathroom, the sound of the tap running loud in the stunned quiet. “Can I have your pants?”
“Tessa.” Trevor’s voice was flat, caught between amusement and genuine annoyance as he followed her to the bathroom doorway.
She turned, hands dripping. “Give me your pants. Otherwise it’s gonna set.”
With a resigned shake of his head, he undid his belt and stepped out of his trousers, handing them to her. He stood in the expansive suite in his crisp white shirt, now ruined, and a pair of navy boxer briefs. Tessa took the pants and shoved them into the sink basin, pushing them under the running water alongside his shirt.
She heard a knock. Then her name, called from the hallway. The voice was muffled but unmistakable, a low vibration that cut through her alcohol haze.
“Is that Hardin Black?” Trevor asked, his head tilting toward the door.
The water roared in the sink. Tessa’s heart, which had been beating a slow, weary rhythm, suddenly slammed against her ribs. She walked towards the door, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet, leaving wet footprints.
Hardin got out of his car, the door slamming shut with a crack that echoed in the hotel’s underground garage. His body ached from the two-hour drive, a tight coil of anger and fear that had propelled him the entire way. He took the stairs two at a time, his boots scuffing on the concrete, the fresh tattoo on his shoulder burning with a persistent, raw throb.
He found her hallway, a long, silent tunnel of identical doors. He knocked on hers, the sound sharp and demanding. “Tessa. Open the door.” He knocked again, harder.
Tessa opened the door, looking at him. Her blonde hair was mussed, her makeup slightly smudged. The green silk dress seemed out of place. “Hi. Are you trying to get me kicked out of this place?”
He went inside without waiting for an invitation.
“Yeah, come on in, why don’t you,” she said to his back, closing the door softly.
The suite was huge, littered with the evidence of her night. Two empty ice cream bowls, a greasy fry basket, glasses on the table. His ocean-blue eyes, stormy and bloodshot, scanned the space and landed on the closed bathroom door. A low, possessive rumble started in his chest. He crossed the room in three long strides and yanked the door open.
Trevor stood by the sink, his shirt and pants submerged in a basin of pink-tinged water. He was shirtless. In boxers. He turned, offering a wry, uncomfortable smile. “Hey, Hardin. How you been? Good to see you.”
Hardin looked at him. The coil inside him snapped.
“Fucking Trevor.” He yelled it, the words a guttural explosion of rage that seemed to shake the glasses on the table.
Tessa moved instantly, placing herself squarely between Hardin and the bathroom door. “Hardin, stop.”
Trevor held up his wet hands. “You know what, I’m just gonna go.”
“No you’re not.” Hardin said, the words dropping to a deadly calm. He took a step forward, his gaze locked past Tessa, on the half-naked man in her bathroom.