Each time Idara wanted to urinate, Femi ordered the club bouncers to accompany her to the door, he would whisper into their ears; “Make sure no man talks to her please.”
Idara didn’t get it, he was protecting her, or so she thought.
When she returned from the toilet, before she could tell him that it was time to leave for his birthday dinner, she found herself in his arms.
He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t tipsy, but she was. He smelled of summer rain, warm and free, the scent rolled over Idara’s senses in a breathtaking rush. There were other scents, too. Different ones. The tang of clean cotton that rose from his shirt, the hint of sandalwood from his cologne. Yet, beneath, it was the familiar essence of her boss, the scent of wealth, and all the nice things of this world.
She was high on whiskey; she had taken almost eleven shots. she pressed her face to his neck, rubbing her forehead along the side of his jaw. Unlike the other times he’d held just her hands. His heart was racing like hers.
It wasn’t love. She still wondered what she was doing in the arms of this man. It was time to leave, so he quickly picked the car keys from the table and his cards and held her hands firmly. They walked out from Quilox like lovers. When they walked to where the car was, he pinned her body to the car and began to kiss her abruptly. She hooked her arms around his neck and leaned back to look at his face. He was smiling as he paused and said to her; “You smell so good, I feel like eating your whole body.” He kissed her again. It was like he’d just succeeded in winning himself a trophy.
“Why did you have to be my assistant?” he asked. But she mutely stared at his cute face.
When the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled and his mouth was shaped into that sensual curve, she knew that this was deeper than she thought. Deep, masculine dimples framed his lips, folding a crooked line of softness into his cheek. He wanted to kiss her so badly her lips swelled. But she had to think. She was back in the real world now despite that she knew that she was drunk.
The memory of the word she had overheard Femi say the last time overwhelmed her.
“I am sorry Idara, I couldn’t help myself,” he said. He’d thought he was in control of his feelings, but no, the feelings for Idara were too overwhelming that they took over his thoughts and mind.
“My friends are waiting for me, they have been calling,” Femi said.
“Let’s go,” she said as she headed to the car. He held her hands;
“I will drive, don’t worry,” he said.
“Are you serious? This is the first time I will be seeing you drive,” she said with a grin and jumped into the car. He drove speedily to The George’s at Ikoyi at about past eleven, and when he got into the suite in which his birthday dinner was taking place, he was delighted by the sight of his friends.
There were ten of them, all with different types of girls; Caucasians, Black and mixed. They were obviously millionaires, dressed in simple but expensive casual wears, scenting of expensive colognes.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, happy birthday dear Femi, happy birthday to you,” they all sang and clapped in unison.
“Firstly, I am sorry I was late. Thank you so much,” he said and hugged, and shook hands with everyone of them. The girls took selfies with him, and suddenly her arms trembled in his grasp. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. She was afraid to let him into her soul, it would be hard to let go of a man like Femi Omari.
He ducked down so that he could see into her eyes.
“Hey,” he said. She smiled, not looking at his face. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am fine.“
“You know all these men? Let me make an introduction,” he said and took her around the large luxury suite, introducing her as his assistant. There was a soft classic music playing as they walked around.
“This is my friend Governor Asher, we studied together at Harvard Business School in 2006,” he said. She smiled as she shook the hands of the man he called a governor. She remembered his face, she had seen his billboards in Lagos, and then she realised he was the Governor of Lagos state.
“This is Senator Oluwadele Ambode…. Captain Ayintete, Governor Dada…” he went on. The men couldn’t take their eyes off Idara. She seemed like the only girl in the house, unique in all ramifications.
“Femi?” one of his friends called him, he was Caucasian, American precisely. Femi introduced him as Captain Brown. He pronounced his name like a typical Yoruba man.
“Yes man, what’s up?” Femi asked.
“One of my pilots just brought in some girls from Kenya. Beautiful girls, your spec,” he said In Nigerian English.
“I have someone,” Femi retorted calmly.
“That’s your assistant,” Captain Brown said.
“You don’t need to fumble at this party because of that babe. You and I know you don’t date your staff. The girls are downstairs.”
“I didn’t even plan on having girls with me.”
“They are strippers from Nairobi. What the heck am I gonna tell them now?”
“Lodge them. Feed them. They can still strip for everyone here, not just me.”
“Are you sure you and your assistant aren’t fucking yourselves? This isn’t you man.”
“This is me. Get the girls lodged downstairs and let me handle their bills,” Femi said boldly and walked away to where Idara was sitting.
“You’re a desirable woman,” he whispered into her ears.
She smiled, mute and trying so hard to be sensitive. But his frequent stares took away all her senses and lured her to him unconsciously, it was like jazz. He moved behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Would you want to have more drinks?” he asked.
“Just a little,” she replied.
“I am famished,” she said to him. He held her hands and walked to the luxury buffet stand that was displayed by the corner of the sitting room, varieties of native delicacies and intercontinental dishes, colourfully garnished…