LUGIA:Thread of love

Chapter two- Escapism as usual

Dancing in heels should be an Olympic sport!

Soft gasp beside me trickles my ear and my legs coil around each other. 

Pairs of white sneakers appear and a hand stretches forth. With a shaky step, I haul my body upward with his hands, and flash the freckle face in front of me a toothy grin. Glancing around for Amber but she's nowhere to be found again, I limp my way into the crowd. It takes moments before I spot a man behind the counter mixing drinks.

I slide onto the stool, reading the menu. A particular exotic drink catches my eye—Shirley Ginger.

'I would like to order a Shlur-ee Gingar.' My jaw stretches for the correct pronunciation.

The bartender grins at me, holding a jar in his hand. 'Having a good time?' he asks.

I nod vigorously as my finger taps the counter in rhythm to the beat, my eyes peer sideways over my shoulder.

A sheer clothing beside me immediately snags my attention and a sense of familiarity washes over me about the person's dress. I rub my eyes with my fists to make sure I am not hallucinating.

'Wait.... is that a Veinblein?' I blurt out loud before, I slap my two hands above my mouth because of how loud my voice is despite the loud music blaring and how people nearby look weirdly at me.

But who can blame me? It's the great 'Veinbein', named by the media and worn by seven billionaires including the designer. Nobody imagined Lorenzo, the old designer of LUGIA could  come up with the idea. Not that he wasn't good—just his ability to evolve in fashion. Its fabric is made purely from lotus, a very rare silk, with little diamond dots as a floral pattern.

 The man turns sideways and stares at me. 'What if it is?' his gruff voice asks.

'No way! How did you get it?' My finger wags up and down. 'Only seven people wear it, and you don't look like one of them, unless...'

His upper lip curls downward and his ruffled hair whip as he turns fully to face me. '—Unless?'

My eyes open wide not only because of bulging muscle and his sculptured face but because this is a woven tropical pattern instead of a floral pattern. My voice shrills, 'Unless it's fake.'

Why did the thought not occur to me earlier?

Recently, the police arrested a French designer for plagiarised design; he—the French artist copied everything except the fact that the diamond dots were replaced with cheap copper. Multiple charges were filed and the news went viral.

Con artists at their best!

'How will someone like you know that?' His pouty lips firm into a thin line and his small eyes size me up and down. 

My nose flares up and my mouth opens to reply to this arrogant jerk but a loud noise pulls me out.

'Miss, here's your Shirley ginger,' the waiter says, placing it on the counter.

The half-full champagne glass shows my mini reflection, and I cringe; my lips are slightly pouty and streaks from smacking together, and mascara smudges all over eyes 

Clothing -wise I am wearing a wine leather skirt that rests above my ass cheek and a tube top spilling out a little cleavage.

In other words, I look like a clown. 

I take a sip of my drink, and the man's gruff accent asks again, 'What gives you the impression I am wearing a fake? Don't you know who I am?'

I visibly roam my eyes at him, chiselled jawline with a light stubble,   small lips with a pleated grumpy expression —he looks like the upgraded version of Shrek with tons of fake clothing.