Trapped in his End Game (Series)

I’m sitting in what looks like a bar from the 1920’s in Midtown East. The dark wood decor combined with the deep red seats makes a very masculine-looking theme. Behind the wooden bar is a wall of opaque glass, hundreds of tiny rectangles of glass, where only the boldest colors from outside filter through. Everyone’s dressed up for this place, including me, but I still feel completely out of touch.

I don’t know why Steve picked this place.

Maria made me sign up for match. com, and I’m waiting for my first date in-oh, years.

God help me.

I’ve no idea what you’re supposed to do after a first date. Suppose he wants to kiss me? Will he expect that?

He’s ten minutes late and I’m already half-wishing he doesn’t show up so that I can go home. I must look so stupid sitting here by myself, sipping my rum and coke. I study the rich details carved into the wood and hardly pay attention to the dumpy man standing in front of my table.

“Adriana?”

How does he know my name?

I recognize his face as the one matching Steve’s profile picture, although he’s about thirty pounds heavier.

Son of a bitch.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Steve’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, which looks several sizes too small. His brown hair lies flat on his head, lifeless. He’s at least five years older than that profile picture and his body is not at all “athletic” like he claims.

It pisses me off that he lied, but it angers me even more that he couldn’t even have the decency to wear something nice. I’m in a dress and I spent a half-hour trying to figure out how to use Maria’s makeup. He looked like he just rolled out of bed.

“Wow,” he says with wide eyes. “You look really nice.”

You don’t.

I want to retort with something bitchy. After all, he did deceive me.

“Thanks.”

Steve sits down and flags the waitress, ordering beer for himself. We stare at each other in quiet discomfort. I’m already counting down the minutes and I wonder if I should excuse myself to the bathroom and get an emergency phone call from Maria. Steve turns out to be an unemployed recording artist. He makes me listen to his awful, chip-tune music for ten minutes while my brain feels like it’s about to explode. He talks about it for half an hour, and by then I’ve checked out completely.

Instead, I spend the date thinking about the kind of man who does interest me. Not Steve, that’s for fucking sure. A tall, olive-skinned man dressed in a suit floats in front of my vision. Just remembering his hands traveling up my back makes my neck flush.

Steve gives me a strange look.

Oh, shit. He’s still talking.

“Um-what?”

“I said, do you want to split the bill?”

You’re fucking joking, right?

“Sure,” I say through tight lips.

Not that I’m a conservative person, but he can’t even pay for a drink on the first date? Jesus Christ.

His face crumples slightly. “I’m sorry, I know this must seem like a complete joke. I’m pretty broke.”

For the first time, I feel something other than hostility towards him. “I know what that’s like, believe me.”

The waitress comes and we slap some cash down. I get up to leave. Finally.

This must be the shortest date ever.

To my surprise, Steve quickly follows suit. He looks just as anxious to leave, and I feel a little insulted by it. Frankly, I’m still angry.

He sticks out his hand. “Better to get it over with early, don’t you think?”

“What?” I say uncomprehendingly as I shake his hand.

“Well, you didn’t really seem interested.”

He gives me a sad little smile and I feel a little bit bad about my behavior. I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that I lost interest the moment I saw him.

“Bye, then.”

Whatever.

I watch him disappear down the burgundy, carpeted steps to Grand Central Terminal. Opening my purse, I see that I’ve a text message. From Vincent.

Heat rushes into my face as if I’m sitting in front of an open flame.

Tomorrow. 6 p. m. The Paramount in Times Square. 22nd floor, room 208. Don’t be late.

That’s it. I try to scroll down for more, but there’s nothing else.

I guess that’s all he wants from me. I’m just another person on his payroll. Then it’ll be easy, won’t it?

I’m not sure that I’ll be able to walk away.

* * *

“I don’t understand why you’re getting ready if you’re going to quit.”

I sigh furiously at Maria’s judgmental tone as I’m trying to apply eyeliner, squinting as I try to draw a straight line. The pencil trembles and smudges over my lid.

Fuck. I suck at being a woman.

“He sprang it on me last minute after that disaster of a date. What am I supposed to do? Cancel on him? No fucking way.”

I’m wearing a red knit dress with art deco designs. I also decided to follow Vincent’s advice to show more skin-er-cleavage. The girl in the mirror is a stranger to me. She’s the girl I’ve always admired from afar, but I was always too busy studying or too broke to do anything about it. Now she’s standing in my cramped dorm room, surrounded by Maria’s One Direction posters. She doesn’t look like she belongs here.

“I look like Jessica Rabbit.”

“I’m sure all those grease balls will appreciate it,” she chuckles.This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

The red-orange lip-gloss I apply completes the package. Goddamn, I look like a real woman. The dress hugs every inch of my curves and I tie up my hair, letting loose a few tendrils down my face. I’ve never looked this good in my life. I didn’t know it was possible.

“I’m going all out tonight. One last game. I want to get thousands and thousands.”

What was the difference between a waitress wearing a low-cut shirt to get bigger tips and this? Nothing at all.

Ah, but you’re not just doing it for bigger tips, a slimy voice inside me says. You want him.

Of course, I want him. Any red-blooded female would want a man who looked that good in a suit. But he’s off limits.

After getting ready, it seems like a waste of my effort to descend into the subway, but I can’t afford a cab.

“Please be careful. Call me when you’re done.”

Her hovering behavior might be annoying to some, but for someone who has never had a parent care about where she was or what she was doing, it feels comforting. Like there’s at least one person in this city of two million people who cares about me.

I hobble down the steps of my dorm in my taupe heels, ignoring the admiring looks thrown my way, but secretly loving them.

How am I going to tell him I quit?

Every time I try to practice, the words freeze in my head. I can just see him glower. I remember the way he held my arm so tightly just because I wanted to take the subway and my blood feels like ice. It won’t be easy telling him no.

The subway is packed with students already fresh out of finals. Everyone’s dressed up, ready for a night on the town, and so am I. I take 7th Avenue Local all the way to 50th street, where the gargantuan, flashing screens are so distracting that I almost trip over a sidewalk. It’s so loud, so noisy-there are hordes of people on the sidewalks and cars honking nonstop. It’s New York City’s chaos at its peak. There are garish ads for every major company and the whole block looks like a flashing, out of sync rainbow.

I don’t know why the hell Vincent would host a card game in the middle of Times Square. Crossing the street, I bypass the superhero street performers and walk beside the theaters, where people are standing in line for Wicked. A giant Scientology building with at least ten TV screens blares with a constantly streaming welcoming video. Then I see it: The Paramount.

My jaw drops as the gilded doors open. It’s dark inside-extremely dark, nothing you would expect a hotel lobby to be like. Flashing purple lights and club music pounds through the carpeted floors. It looks more like a lounge than a hotel. A strange perfume smell fills my nose as I head for the elevators. Tacky wallpaper covers everything.

Heart pounding, I press the button in the elevator for the 22nd floor and I try not to think about what I’m going to say, but of course I have to think about it.