We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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The huge neon blue sign of the lounge flickered at a distance as I parked my car.
It was already over nine thirty, and I deeply regretted the impromptu four hour power nap I had taken, after straight-up downing a sealed box of Cheerios. Trying to walk fast as I could in the pointy heels, while avoiding a trip and fall over the condensed snow, I didn't realise the ting of the rustic bell attached to the door latch— my eyes taking a little too long to catch hold of his unnerving gaze.
He was leaning on the bar counter, sipping on a strawberry daiquiri resembling his tousled hair. His tanned skin peeked through the translucency of his white shirt, and in all the right places, leaving it to the barmaids to eye my arm candy with steady attention.
Those graphic tee days were so much better.
I entered inside and promptly pulled off my denim jacket. He looked at me; a gasp leaving his throat instantaneously. The cocktail glass in his hands slipped through the sudden numb of his fingers, breaking the onlookers fantasies along with itself.
He trudged in my direction with a mischievous grin lingering on his lips. "Have you seen my girlfriend?" His hand slid across my waist, pulling me closer.
"Nah, but she would be very upset on catching us red handed, doing this." I brought my lips over to his, breaking my hitched breath loose. My fingers grazed his neck while I basked in the musky scent of his cologne, deepening the forest illusion of his hazel eyes.
He pulled apart slightly, our foreheads touching. "By the way, you look beautiful."
I could only smile. I had picked out a wine red strap dress from the closing window display of Zara— the hem of the chiffon material, by pure luck, reaching just above my knees and not too low as to highlight the evident plump of my ankles. The smoky eye makeup, on the other hand, was a rather conscious choice, and the compliment assured me that the tear stains weren't visible anymore. A sense of relief washed over me before butterflies could.
"So, lets put those barmaids to work." We ordered a couple of vodka shots as a part of our ritual. The why of it dates back to how we found this place, rather discovered on an eventful night to say the least.
Some four years back, when we were drunk out of our senses and madly roaming the city, we chanced upon this dingy little lounge. Apart from the impromptu wet t-shirt contest and an even more spontaneous marriage proposal, it was undoubtedly one of our best nights in New York. "You know, you can't handle those shots," he said, grinning at me.
If only he had any idea of how badly I needed to wash down this horrendous day with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a joint in another. "It's Valentines Day, and this is a great opportunity for you to step up and prove how great of a boyfriend you can be."
"Valentines is overrated. I have been handling your drunken ass since 2006."
"Yeah, whatever." I couldn't help rolling my eyes. "Then I hope you won't mind if my present doesn't match up to the regular standards of Valentines."
