They parted and each took seats. Within seconds a waitress was at their table, waiting silently to take Martin’s order.
“Wyatt’s not here yet?” Martin asked Jack as he mentally scrolled through the Den’s extensive, nearly limitless, drink options.
Jack shook his head and pulled a cigar from a box in the middle of the table. He clipped the end carefully with a cutter that had also been placed in the middle of the mahogany table. Once it was cut, he placed it between his lips and lit it with a heavy, sterling silver lighter. “Not yet,” he said. “He’s flying in from Texas to see us, so we shouldn’t be too hard on him for being late.”
“He’s still spending time in Austin, is he?” Martin asked.
“Trying to get that hotel off the ground again,” Jack said. “It’s been a PR nightmare since the negative press about connections to the Russian Mafia.”
“Right,” said Martin, recalling the stories he’d read about the Russian Mob’s possible connection with billionaire Wyatt Lightman in the press of late. “The Mafia’s never good for business,” he said.
“Not exactly what clients of a seven star hotel are looking for,” Jack said.
“Seven stars, hm?” Martin asked. He finally decided on a drink. He turned to the waitress, who had been standing silently in wait. “I’ll have a Bourbon Sour,” Martin requested.
Jack puffed the cigar, and then released a cloud of vanilla scented smoke into the air.
It smelled good, and Martin reached for a cigar as well. As he did, he thought of , whose hair had smelled like vanilla.
It seemed that no matter what he did during the day, he thought of her a hundred times an hour. Whether it was a smell, a sight or a sound, inevitably his memory was triggered. He’d be unbuttoning his shirt so change at the gym, and he’d think of the way it felt to unbutton it in front of her.
The way she’d pulled her own top off.
The look of her breasts.
The feel of her breasts.
The feel of her—
“There he is!” Jack said, interrupting Martin’s train of thought. Martin now held a cigar in his hands, and he’d removed the tip. He set the cigar down and stood to greet Wyatt, a man who he often partnered with on investment opportunities.
“You made it,” Martin said, greeting his Texan friend.
“Of course,” Wyatt said. “We need to decide about the InfoForce deal, don’t we?”
“What about catching up with old friends,” Jack said. “And having a drink?”
“That too,” Wyatt said, his usually relaxed southern drawl tight with tension. “But I need to be out of here by seven, so we need to make sure we get to it before six.”
“Alright, alright,” Jack said. “Sit down, man.”
“You need a drink,” Martin suggested, glancing at the waitress who was waiting for Wyatt’s order.
A second waitress returned with his own bourbon. He could barely tell the two waitresses apart.
Both were thin brunettes that filled out the Lion’s Den staff uniform unapologetically. Their bosoms spilled over the top of the tight fitting black dress, and long legs filled the space between tall black fuck-me boots and extremely short skirts.
The outfit usually made him feel aroused, and he noticed the familiar feeling as he let his eyes linger on the women, one after the other. Yet instead of fantasizing about a threesome with the two look-alikes, he found their similarities disappointing.
More of the same, he thought. They’re not special. Not like . She’s one of a kind.
He imagined what she might look like in the Lion’s Den get up as Wyatt placed his order.
Jack started talking, and Martin only half listened to the two banter as his thoughts continued to focus on . What is she doing now? he wondered. He’d gotten her number from Frank, but had not called her.
She might move to London. Let her figure that out first. I don’t want to stand in the way of her dream.
“…with the building?” Jack asked.
Martin focused back in on the conversation, puffing the cigar he now held between his lips.
“Hm?” he asked.
“Man, you’re a million miles away.” Jack noted.
The waitress brought Wyatt his drink, and Wyatt drained half of it immediately, in one gulp. He relaxed visibly.
“Yeah, why so quiet?” Wyatt asked.
“I was just thinking about—sorry. What did you say?” Martin asked.
“I asked about the building,” Jack said “You know, the reason you’re in ?”
Wyatt chimed in. “Right, you bought the place you’ve been talking about on 51st and Park, and I hear you’re gonna demolish and start from scratch?”
Martin sighed. “That’s the plan,” he said heavily, setting his glass down on the table and turning it in his hands. The maraschino cherries knocked against the thick crystal edges of the glass.
“What’s wrong?” Jack said. “Something going on with the permits?”
“I’ve got some connections at City Hall,” Wyatt offered.
“As do I,” Jack seconded.
“No, no, it’s not the permits,” Martin said.
“Something up with the doctor you’re so crazy about? How’s the pain doing?”
“Much better, actually,” Martin said. “He’s doing some pretty progressive stuff with my spine, and he’s got me using this traction device that feels just incredible. Hot and cold treatments twice a week. It’s working remarkably well.”
“Then what is it?” Jack asked.
Wyatt reached for a cigar and began preparing it.
Martin puffed on his own. The hint of vanilla in the smoke was sweet on his tongue, and the tobacco along with the liquor gave him a heady feeling. He tried to put his apprehension about the building project into words.
“It’s been going fairly smoothly,” he explained. “Except that… one of the tenants wasn’t very happy with me.”
“Just one of them?” Jack asked. “That’s not bad. When I bought the Montgomery the whole lot of them were pissed.”
Wyatt attempted to clarify his statement. “Well, yeah. I suppose no one’s exactly happy about it.”
“Except for you,” Wyatt said. “You’re happy you bought the place, right? You deserve this, man! They don’t get it. You need this. So what if they’re upset?”