Don't Tell Ellie
Chapter Two: July 4, 2017

Jack is late. He’s always late. I can’t help but take it personally while I’m waiting on the corner of Jones Alley.

I’m uncomfortable standing here in my high heels, bare legs, and black dress—which in retrospect is way too short and easily misconstrued by a horny passerby.

Have you ever heard someone say they’re jonesing for something? Well, that all started right here on Jones Alley, a product of the dope heads and prostitutes itching for their next fix. So, yeah I’m taking Jack’s tardiness a little personally.

It’s the Fourth of July, the annual celebration of Independence Day. The day where dogs and veterans alike are sent into sensory overload while the rest of us watch the sky light up in barbeque and beer induced stupors.

Boom. Crackle. Fizz.

Blue embers rain down over the city and the homeless guy sitting five feet away from me shouts and takes a swig of something hidden in a brown paper bag. I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling, we all know it’s booze.

I pull my phone out of my purse and click the home button until the screen blinks to life. 8:52 p.m. Jack is really late.

Normally, I wouldn’t be so angry, but we have plans. Yes, that’s right I have plans with my drug dealer who lives in a rundown building on Jones Alley. Jack also happens to be my ex-boyfriend, we’re better as friends, or so I like to tell myself. But, as I said, there is no reason for any self-respecting person to be on this street unless they're in need of sex or drugs, and I happen to be in need of both—thirty minutes ago.

“Eleanore!”

“Ellie,” I correct Jack for the hundredth time as he runs up to me wearing American flag shorts, a white sleeveless shirt, and a backward Yankee cap. I cringe. Doesn’t he know he’s not fifteen anymore?

“Sorry, the subway was backed up. Some drunk guy fell into the tracks,” he shrugs.

Ah, New York. I cross my arms across my chest, and glare at him, “Likely story.”

“Come on, the party’s already started,” Jack winks that—I’m cute and you know it wink—before he throws an arm around my shoulder. He’s lucky he’s right.

Three blocks later I know stilettos were not a great choice. Jack has dragged me to a decent looking apartment building where some guy he knows, Benjamin rents a rooftop penthouse. Even with the elevator ride, my feet are starting to throb.

In the shittiest parts of the city, rent is high enough to give any hardworking person with half a brain an aneurysm. So, it’s not hard to imagine the kind of work Benjamin does to rent something that includes a lavishly decorated rooftop.

By lavish I mean, grossly expensive. Like a celebrity that has more money than he knows what to do with. Benjamin’s party is filled with an array of people. Some men in suits, others in jeans, pot smokers and coke sniffers, CEOs and minimum wagers, and women with too much makeup, some of which are throwing daggers at me the second we step onto the roof.

“Names?” a bored blonde is holding a iPad and staring at us.

“Jack and Eleanore,” Jack responds and I fight against the urge to correct him. The blonde waves us through and Jack is making a b-line for the bar, thank god.

“Two tequila shots, a whiskey sour and one...” he looks at me as if trying to remember what I like to drink, but in reality, he’s never taken the time to learn.

“Heineken,” I say.

The bartender serves the drinks with a smile and pockets the five-dollar bill Jack slides him as a tip.

“So this is Benjamin’s place, what do you think?” Jack asks, downing his tequila shot without cheersing me first. That’s bad luck, Jack.

“Fancy,” I say, lifting my shot to my lips and wincing once the liquid hits my tongue.

“I’m gonna see if I can replace him,” Jack plants a kiss on my cheek before running off and I wish he’d just give me the coke I want.

Two minutes of standing by myself and someone is already trying to be friendly, “Can I buy you a drink?”

I turn to look at the guy who’s decided he’s going to ignore personal space tonight, “It’s an open bar.”

“Well, then let me order you a drink,” he smirks.

He’s one of the suit wearers and he smells good. Like something expensive that says I pick up ten women a night, and he’s got a face to match. “I’ve already got one,” I shake my beer bottle in front of him.

“Come on, Eleanore, share a drink with a friend,” his breath is hot on my neck, and it makes me clench my thighs together. A roll around expensive sheets may be a nice change from the bare mattress I’ll end up on with Jack tonight.

Wait. I don’t remember giving him my name, “Do I know you?”

“Two Heinekens,” he says, ignoring my question and passes the bartender a fifty.

It’s all for show. The suit, the money, the scent. He doesn’t need any of it to get laid, but he thinks women like it. I, on the other hand, don’t give a shit.

“How do you know my name?”

“Marlow,” he says the name softly, a whisper, and he’s watching for a reaction. So I’ll give him one. I grab the new beer the bartender has set in front of me, I take a sip because it’s not the beer's fault this guy is an asshole, and before he can stop me, I dump it on his head.

He’s surprised, but he’s laughing, shaking his head like a wet dog and splattering me with beer. I fucking hate him.

“There you are, Man!” Jack is back and he’s hugging the suit-wearing Douchebag. “This is Benjamin, Ellie.” He steps back and touches Benjamin’s head, “What the hell?”

“Eleanore,” Benjamin smiles, “She’s quite the spitfire.”

Shit. Leave it to Eleanore Brennan to assault the host of the party.

“He said something about my sister,” I say defensively, but Jack is looking at me in confusion. Of course, he is, he has no idea I had a sister, he has no idea I’m the spectacular reappearing Eleanore Brennan from Dutchess County whose entire family is dead. Why would he? We only dated for two years.

“Marlow?” Benjamin asks, sweeping his wet hair out of his eyes. “Marlow is my assistant,” he points to the blonde standing by the rooftop door, the one who checked our names when we entered, “I just asked her who the pretty girl was at the bar.”

“Sorry?” I say, but it’s more of a question because I’m terrible at apologies.

“Make it up to me then,” he says, ignoring the fact that Jack is standing between us. But, technically I’m single and so is Jack.

“You can order me another drink,” I say fighting a smile.

“Another Heineken, please,” Benjamin asks the bartender, but his eyes are still on me. Dammit, he is frustratingly sexy.

I grab the beer off the bar and take a drink, “Better?”

“Not yet,” he moves around Jack and places a hand on my waist. Deep breaths.“I’d like to show you something.”

I’m moving with Benjamin through his party and toward the glass doors that lead into his penthouse. From Jones Alley to a Penthouse, this night just got ten times better. Benjamin’s house is bright and clean, there are about fifty more people inside, sitting on his white couches and drinking at a second bar, most of them staring up at the giant glass ceiling as fireworks explode into the sky. I’m about to see my own personal fireworks, I smirk to myself.

He leads me down a flight of stairs into a long hallway filled with side tables displaying fresh bouquets of some extravagant type of flower and expensive paintings that I’d never be able to identify.

This is probably where his bedroom is, I’m hoping he’s not the kind of guy that wants me to keep my heels on because my feet are officially over it. The pain reminds me of how long I’ve been walking around in this summer heat and I know I should probably freshen up, “Can you point me in the direction of a bathroom?”

Benjamin stops at an enormous set of wooden double doors. He removes his hand from my waist and my entire body relaxes, I wonder if he noticed, “Keep walking straight, the last door on the right. I’ll be here.”

“Thanks,” I manage before continuing down the hall.

How many damn doors does one man need? These can’t all be bedrooms, I think as I pass the fourth set of double doors. My apartment is probably the size of one of these rooms, but that’s okay, at least where I live doesn’t scream Drug Lord!

I’m finally at the last door, I reach for the handle, but it’s locked. Come on, I groan internally. I bet Benjamin keeps all these doors locked. I turn and look back down the hall and pain shoots from my feet to my shins. I’m already pulling my heels off, prepared to march back down the hallway when the bathroom door opens.

It’s her, Benjamin’s assistant, “I didn’t think anyone would be down here.” she says, startled, most likely because she shouldn’t be down here.

“Benjamin told me to use this bathroom. Marlow right?” I try a smile to let her know, I won’t tell anyone I saw her.

“Marlow? My name’s Jennifer,” She flicks her blonde hair over a shoulder and brushes past me, “I’ve got to get back upstairs.”

I’m watching her walk down the hallway, her pink heels clicking on the tile floor. I want to say something, but I’m too caught up in her name. Jennifer. Not Marlow. That son of a bitch lied to me.