Eric’s face is the last one I expected to see. But he’s standing there looking at Mick and me. I excuse myself and pull him to the side.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“How are you?” he queries, ignoring my question.
“You need to go,” I say.
“Why?” he asks. “Because of that guy?” he jerks his head in the direction of Mike and makes a derisive snort.
Mike sees this and I realise I have to make a decision. He’s much larger than Eric and can easily beat him to a pulp. We can’t have that. I’m still attracted to Eric. But I can’t have him thinking he can show up whenever he likes to disrupt my life.
“I’m with him tonight, so you need to go,” I repeat.
I must confess that having two men circling each other, ready to throw down for you is pretty good for the ego. Lookswise, there’s no comparison between the two. Eric looks like a super model and is a pilot. Mike, on the other hand, is overweight, average looking and I’m unsure what he does for a living. Someone mentioned that he’s an adviser to the president. Whatever that means.
“I’m not letting you go,” Eric says. He smiles and walks away.
“You want to tell me what that’s about?” Mike asks.
“He had his chance with me and he blew it,” I say. “Don’t make the same mistake.”
He doesn’t ask any more questions and just seems happy that I’ve chosen to be with him. I haven’t really; I’m just playing the games women employ to make the man they really want jealous as hell.
The next time I see Eric, he has a table filled with beautiful women. Well, that’s how he rolls. I ignore him and flirt with Mike, laughing loudly at all his jokes, having my hand linger on his arm and getting plastered. When he suggests we go to his place for a nightcap, I agree. We walk out together and I don’t even glance in Eric’s direction.
Mike lives in Westlands, a good distance from the club. It’s a nice place, a little too nice for a bachelor. The furniture is simple but elegant. He has nice taste. But it’s also a little sanitised. There isn’t even one picture, anywhere. Nothing personal. Anyone could live here. It’s like a hotel suite. There’s nothing distinguishing it as his personal space. I wonder briefly if he’s house-sitting for someone.
“Feel free to look around,” he says.
It’s a three-bedroom apartment. Two of the rooms have double beds and the third one has twin beds. Why all the sleeping space? He lives alone; why not turn one of the rooms into a den or something of the sort? The wardrobe in his room is locked. Safe? Firearm? Camera? Yes, I’m paranoid like that.
“What do you want to drink?” he shouts from the kitchen.
I make my way to him. He has every drink known to man in his cabinet, but I stick to red wine. I’m very tipsy. We sit on the sofa and I’m not sure what we talk about, I don’t remember. But I feel comfortable. I like his aura, this guy. He comes across as pretty solid and genuine. I’m weighing whether I should sleep with him or not.