The hot bath was a welcome friend.

My eyes closed as my body sank into the deep tub, the lavender and chamomile-infused water seemingly embracing me as I inched into it, sighing softly as my frame nestled against the tub’s bottom.

It had been a hectic six months. Nearly a year earlier, a developer contacted me about coming to work in a planned community along the Indiana bank of the Ohio River, not terribly far from my hometown. The idea intrigued me, less for its proximity to home than for the town that was being built from nothing but gently-rolling hills and the challenges of the position I’d been offered.

When Alan Mercer first shared his vision, I was, admittedly, skeptical. He’d acquired five square miles of somewhat desolate land, several miles upstream from Louisville, Kentucky. On it, he was developing what could best be described as a playground for the youthful and educated. From the mixed-used buildings – with restaurants and retail and street level and apartments and condos above – to the sprawling riverfront park with its golf course, softball fields and amphitheater; to the winery and you-pick-it farm at the site’s fringe; to the enclosed water taxis that went back and forth to downtown Louisville, Mercer had seemingly thought of everything.

My role was to serve as the assistant editor of the development-owned media, keeping residents and visitors abreast of anything and everything that had to do with The Meadows at River’s Edge. The job was a hybrid of journalism and public relations, but about eighty-five percent of the development’s adults and a fast-growing number of its visitors were plugged in to our work, and neither its importance or its salary and significant perks were lost on me.

As my body absorbed the water’s warmth, it struck me how little I was plugged in to my new hometown. Several months had passed between Mercer’s offer and the actual move, and now six months into my new life, I realized I was living an endless procession of ten- to twelve-hour work days, with little to no human interaction after leaving the office.

That had to change.

My thoughts began to drift more deeply into my loneliness. The only man I’d really given a second look during the past six months was Andre Gregory, my editor. About five years older than me, Andre is a rock-solid six-foot-three, with a shaved head and crystal-clear chocolate skin. His smooth, deep voice is the sort one would want melting them to sleep night after night.

At times, the little smiles that often accompany Andre’s glances seemed knowing, almost taunting, causing my tummy to flutter slightly. Even as he’d always interacted with me as a gentleman, his look – THE look – often made me wonder what he was thinking.

But Andre was not only a co-worker, he was my boss. Tempted? Yes. But I could never let it happen.

As my bath lingered, I noticed the water cooling. No longer was steam drifting from its surface and a chill was beginning to run through me. Grudgingly climbing from the tub, I wrapped towels around my body and head and walked into bedroom, surprised to find that more than thirty minutes had passed since I’d sought refuge in the water.

Tonight, I was going out. This playground in which I’d found myself had become a lonely place, and with the awakening of spring and having the weekend off, this wasn’t a Friday night to be wasted as so many others had been since my arrival.

It’s been so long since my last night out, I felt almost inept to dress myself athletic, five-foot-nine frame for anything other than a day at the office. After what seemed like an eternity of indecision, my hand reached into the closet and came out with a hanger that contained a blue, floral-print figure-skater dress. Admittedly, it was almost too short, its skirt reaching just below my tush. But, hey, one can’t afford to spend a rare evening out unnoticed.

It was but a 10-minute walk from my apartment to the club at which I’d decided to spend the evening it. Strolling along the river, it struck me that I was turning some heads as others passed, including one poor bastard whose wife or girlfriend rewarded his glance at me with an open-handed slap to the back of his head.
The journey was both unsettling and gratifying.

The music from Escape was noticeable from about half a block away, its pulse growing louder with each step. The lobby was crowded as was the club itself, but an open table next to the dance floor beckoned, so I sat, relaxed, ordered a vodka and cranberry juice and began taking everything in.

Journalists are awful about mentally picking people apart, perhaps as a defense mechanism as much as anything. As my gaze flowed around the club, I began to analyze the people around me.