Choose Me

by Donya Lynne

  “Come on, Ed . . .” I know he’s only putting on a brave face, but God love him. He’s trying.

  “Hey, it’s all in how you frame your brain, Grey. If you think of something as a good thing, then it becomes a good thing. And I’m choosing to think of my breakup with Anabel as a good thing, not a reason to mope.” He stands to the side and shoots off a text—I’m assuming to Mike—while I take my next shot. I drop the five ball in the side pocket, and then Ed starts up again. “Would you rather I mope? I can do that if it makes you feel better. But I think it’d be a lot more fun and productive to go out, have a few drinks, have a good time, and forget about my shit life for a few hours rather than sit around here and wallow to Gone in Sixty Seconds.”

  “Actually, I think American Pie is on tonight,” I say dryly, as my next shot just misses going into the side pocket.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s much better.” Ed rolls his eyes, lining up a shot.

  His phone rings, and he answers, putting the call on speaker.

  “Hey,” Mike’s disembodied voice says. “I just got your text. What’s up?”

  Ed sets his phone on the side of the pool table as he leans back over his cue stick. “I’m trying to convince Grey to a night out with the boys. You in?” He hits the cue ball but misses the pocket.

  Mike pauses as if he’s checking with his fiancée. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got a few more weeks of bachelorhood left. Let’s see how much trouble I can get into. Maybe I’ll convince Andi that I’m not worth the effort.” I hear Andi’s voice in the background as she protests, and then Mike yelps before laughing. “Ow, honey.” More laughter.

  Ed grins. “Andi, we promise to keep him out of trouble.”

  “You’d better,” she calls from the background.

  Ed glances up at me. “You in, Grey?”

  “I don’t know, guys.” The bar scene doesn’t appeal to me anymore. It hasn’t for a while.

  “Where you thinking of going?” Mike asks.

  “Alesca,” Ed says without hesitation.

  Mike pipes up again. “That new place downtown?”

  “Yep. It’s the hottest club going.”

  I don’t want to go to Alesca. Yes, it’s new. Yes, it’s where anyone who’s anybody goes on Saturday night. Yes, the rich and famous play there. But it’s also a meat market. The kind of meat market that won’t be able to handle the meat I have to market. We’re talking wall-to-wall young, virginal maidens. The kind of women who are young enough that you can still call them girls and they won’t be offended. Even the ones who are over thirty act like they’ve never truly grown up but are simply there to upgrade their gold-digger status.

  No thanks.

  “I’ll pass, guys. I need to stay here and paint. But you two should go.”

  “No! No way, Grey!” They both verbally accost me.

  I step back and hold up my arms as if I’m warding off a pair of charging bulls. “Guys, I’m not going to subject myself to that shit again. There’s only five reasons why people go to a place like Alesca.” I start ticking them off on my fingers. “They want to see who else is there, they want to be seen by who else is there, they want to throw their money away on ten-thousand-dollar bottles of champagne to show everyone else who’s there how important they are, they want to buy, sell, or do designer drugs with the best Denver society has to offer, or they want to get laid.”

  “And your point is?” I can hear Mike’s smirk over the phone.

  “My point is, I’m not interested in any of those things.”

  “Grey, quit being a douche,” Ed says. “You know you want to get laid more than any of us.”

  Mike pipes in. “Grey, you’ve gotta go, man. Other than my bachelor party, this is probably the last time we’ll all be able to get together for a while. We need to hang out one more time, just the three of us, if for no other reason than to celebrate my last few weeks as a bachelor and Ed’s return to the single life—and that is cause to celebrate, by the way.”

  Ed flashes me a glance that reeks of I told you so.

  “Come on, Grey,” Mike continues. “It won’t be the same without you.”

  In the end, I agreed to join my best friends for a night on the town. I owed it to Ed to be there for him the way he’s always been there for me, and the more I thought about it, the more I had to admit I could use a night out. I’d been working like a fiend ever since returning from New Zealand.

  As we make our way through the club, young, feminine eyes turn and stare, and my ego finds the rousing stroke it’s been missing for the last couple of years. That’s dangerous. Especially for me. When a woman looks at a man like that, the message comes through loud and clear. A heated glance, a tender smile, and maybe the subtle lick of red-stained lips, and the fantasy begins.

  I’m not immune to the fantasy. Since I’ve gone so long without the real thing, the fantasy is sometimes all that sustains me. Consequently, it affects me more than it does most men, because I want the fantasy. I want the woman who begs for my cock. The woman who hungers for it and stares at it, hypnotized by lust. The one who can’t get me alone fast enough to fall to her knees and swallow me down her throat. A woman who weeps at the pleasure I can give her.

  The only weeping I’ve made women do is the kind that comes with pain.

  The fantasy evaporates at the thought.

  I shake off the seductive glances and follow Mike and Ed up a winding flight of stairs to the second level. Tables pressed against the banister overlook the dance floor below, and we find one that’s vacant.

  “I told you this place was hot,” Ed says, glancing over the banister at the people dancing one level down, where scantily clad women grind against men wearing both ten-thousand-dollar suits as well as ten-dollar T-shirts.

  Alesca has become Denver’s great melting pot. You can just as easily find a waitress from the diner down the street or a retail employee from the local mall on the dance floor as you can a point guard for the Denver Nuggets or a high-priced attorney. And the drug dealers cater to them all.

  Oh, and gold diggers. There are plenty of gold diggers, here, too.

  If I can get out of here tonight without attracting one of those, I’ll consider the evening a success.

  _________

  Katherine

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. Rather, I can’t believe I’m wearing what I’m wearing. How did I let Jess talk me into this shimmery pale-yellow cocktail dress. It reminds me more of lingerie than anything that should be worn in public. Classy lingerie, mind you, but still lingerie.

  The bodice accentuates my full breasts but I worry that the spaghetti straps will snap under the pressure and flop my boobs out for all the world to see. I know I’m being irrational, because this is a designer dress, not some Blue Light Special I grabbed off the clearance rack at Kmart. The thread used to hold this dress together is probably made of gold-plaited silk, given the amount I paid for it. And for that reason alone, the dress is built to last. There shouldn’t be any wardrobe malfunctions of any kind, boob-flopping or otherwise.

  Pleated yellow satin creates a wide-belted empire waist under my breasts that reminds me of a slinky baby doll nightie. Layers of wavy butter-colored chiffon create a playful, swishy skirt that hits just above my knee, which is a lot shorter than I’m used to. If anyone at the office saw me showing this much leg, they’d bust something.

  “You look stunning in that dress,” Jess says as we cut through the crowded club to the bar.

  “I feel naked in this dress.” I have to shout to be heard over the thumping techno beats.

  Platforms are built around the interior at various levels, with winding staircases leading from one to another. Some are unfurnished for dancing while others contain massive leather chairs and couches, but all are surrounded by gleaming gold and silver banisters. The effect is opulent and artistic. Eighties excess in modern times.

  Bass-heavy electronic beats reverberate through the speakers, and the place is voltaic with magnetis
m. I’m drawn in, consumed by the vibe pulsing around me. I can feel myself detaching from reality and absorbing the hedonistic energy spinning the patrons into a gluttonous mass of humanity. Everyone is here to forget who they are and become someone else for a few hours. Even me. Otherwise I wouldn’t have worn this dress.

  Jess shoves a turquoise cocktail in my hand and grabs my forearm. “Let’s go scout our options.”

  I nod and follow her into the belly of the beast that is Alesca.

  _________

  Greyson

  Alesca is certainly living up to the hype. The music is trendy and fresh, pumping hard enough for those who want to dance but with enough sensuality to fuel a few heavy make-out sessions both on and off the dance floor.

  I’m doing my best to avoid eye contact with any of the prowling women, because while I may be disciplined in many areas of my life, I’m smart enough to know how weak I am when it comes to walking away from the promise of sex and the hope that maybe, just maybe, this woman will be The One.

  I don’t think I’m ever going to learn my lesson, but hey, at least I haven’t given up hope. Most people do. My dad did.

  I lift my scotch and soda. Then freeze. The glass is suspended halfway between the table and my mouth.

  Holy hell, who is she?

  My gaze locks on to the stunning beauty in a pale-yellow dress. Even in the dim lighting, the dress stands out against her lightly tanned skin. She has long, reddish-brown hair that hangs from a loose updo I’d like to wrap around my fist so I can tug her head back and drink in her dewy skin and dark, shimmering eyes. She appears fascinated with the club, maybe even a little lost and out of place, as if she’s not sure why she’s there but can’t seem to pull herself away.

  And don’t I know that feeling?

  There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t figure out what. I just feel like I’ve seen her somewhere before. All I know is that I don’t think I’ve ever been so instantly attracted to a woman as I am to her, as if I’ve known her intimately in another lifetime and can’t believe I’ve been fortunate enough to find her again in this one.

  As the music changes and I take a sip of my drink, her gaze lifts as if she can feel me watching her. A second later, her eyes meet mine. She blinks and visibly draws in a breath.

  Even from across the room, a mysterious chemistry erupts between us, and I can’t tear my eyes away. If I do, I fear she’ll disappear, and I don’t want her to disappear. I want to keep staring at her. But even more, I want her to continue staring at me. The longer she does, the more real the invisible link between us becomes.

  And the fantasy begins again. It sucks me in hook, line, and sinker, and I already know I’m going to do something tonight I’ll probably regret. But I can’t stop myself. Not with her.

  I down the rest of my drink in one swallow. I need the liquid fortification. Because, yeah, I’m about to do something unbelievably stupid.

  Like I said, I’ll never learn.

  _________

  Katherine

  I tear my gaze away from the tall glass of cool water on the balcony who’s been eye-fucking me for the last minute and nudge Jess.

  “I think I found him.”

  “Who?” She glances around then meets my gaze. “Oh!” Her eyes go wide, and her mouth drops open. “You mean . . . Mr. Manhunt?”

  I nod.

  “Where?”

  “The balcony.” I bob my head in that direction. “Grey shirt. Dark-brown hair. The one with a jawline that can cut glass.” Of all the men I’ve chosen for my summer romances, this guy is the hottest yet. The question is, is he packing?

  Jess frowns as she glances up to the balcony. “Where? I don’t see—” Her gaze drops and she’s staring over my shoulder. “Oh . . .”

  A shiver races down my back, and I know by the look on her face that he’s standing right behind me.

  “Excuse me.” His voice is deep and manly, and my stomach drops then buoys back up against my diaphragm.

  If just his voice can elicit that response, I can only imagine what the rest of him can do to me. Or perhaps I’m merely hopeful. I have to remind myself that for all the potential of my last four summer flings, none lived up to the hype.

  I turn, and he’s more striking up close than he was on the balcony. Taller, too.

  Sometimes men are more attractive from far away, but when you see them up close, not so much. When they’re right in front of you, it’s easier to see the imperfections in their skin or that they don’t take the best care of their teeth. Or maybe they have an off-putting scent, whether natural or cologne.

  With this guy, there are no imperfections. His teeth are straight and white, and his healthy, weathered skin tells me he spends a lot of time outdoors. Based on the width of his shoulders and his tapered waist, I’d say the time he spends outdoors is spent doing he-man activities such as chopping through ten-foot wide tree trunks with an ax and throwing boulders. He’s obviously chiseled under his grey button-up and black slacks. Are those Armani? As for the way he smells, I feel like I’ve stepped into a crisp, clean shower in a rainforest. I just want to run my nose up the side of his neck, inhaling like a coke addict.

  His smile widens as his hazel, grey-blue eyes narrow slightly, and I realize I’m staring.

  “I was hoping I could buy you a drink,” he says.

  It’s simple as far as pickup lines go. Simple and polite. I like polite. It means he’s not a jerk. Or at least not a total jerk. Or maybe he’s just a smooth operator, but I don’t think so. There’s a gentle kindness in his eyes, as if he’s been rejected one too many times and, while he’s not willing to give up, he’s more cautious now about the women he approaches. Whatever the reason, I feel honored that he’s chosen to approach me.

  My turquoise-colored cocktail is almost empty, so I smile and place the glass on the polished bar. “Sure, okay.”

  “And your friend?” He gestures invitingly toward Jess as he flags down the bartender. “What are you two drinking?”

  Jess squeezes up beside me. “It’s called a Caribbean Mist.”

  The bartender stops in front of us and leans in.

  “Two Caribbean Mists and another scotch and soda please.” He sets his empty glass on the bar.

  The bartender nods brusquely and runs off to fix our drinks.

  “My name’s Grey,” he says, speaking loud enough to be heard over the music.

  “Grey? Really?” I can’t help smiling. “Like the name of a certain character from a certain book that shall remain nameless?”

  He rolls his eyes impishly, and his cheeks flush. “I’ve never read that book, so I barely know what it’s about, just what I’ve heard through the grapevine.”

  “You should read it. It’s a pretty good book. Very educational.”

  He flashes me his perfect smile, and it makes the sexy dimple in the center of his chin more pronounced. “I’ll think about it.” He studies me for a moment. “My full name is Greyson. It’s a family name. But everyone calls me Grey. I promise I don’t hurt women for pleasure or anything like that.” His slashing eyebrows tick inward as if the idea of hurting women makes him uncomfortable, which scores him extra brownie points.

  I pretend to be affronted. “You don’t?” I gasp dramatically. “That’s too bad. Here I was hoping you’d tie me up and flog me senseless.”

  His mouth falls open, and he appears both lost for words and completely thrown.

  I laugh and place my hand reassuringly on his forearm, which is resting on the bar. “I’m only kidding, Greyson.”

  Relief washes over him, and he smiles again. “Ah, okay.” He averts his gaze and chuckles tightly. “You had me worried for a second.”

  Then he does something I don’t expect. Something that makes me stop laughing and draw in a shaky breath.

  He places his hand over mine.

  He’s still chuckling, his gaze averted almost shyly, and yet this casual, effortless touch feels more intimate than if he’d re
ached under my dress and caressed my inner thigh. I don’t even think he’s realized what he’s done. As if comforting people comes naturally to him . . . to the point that he doesn’t even think about it.

  But his touch isn’t comforting at all. At least, not to me. It’s sizzling. It’s arousing. It’s all-consuming.

  His palm is callused—but not unpleasantly so—and it’s warm and dry. I don’t know what it is about rough hands—man hands, as I call them—but they turn me on. To me, calluses are a sign that a man not only works hard but plays hard, and given Greyson’s physique and demeanor, I’d say his calluses are caused by both. He strikes me as the kind of man who climbs mountains or runs military-grade obstacle courses for fun. He has a Special Forces look about him. Like he’d look as good dressed in SWAT gear, holding a semiautomatic rifle, as he does dressed in the shimmery grey shirt and black tailored slacks he’s wearing tonight.

  All I know is that the moment his hand touched mine, an electrical current traveled up my arm, strengthening the strange connection I feel with him.

  He becomes aware that I’ve stopped laughing and turns toward me. What he finds on my face makes his smile fade, and a moment later, lust-filled enchantment seeps into his expression. His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, and I suck in my breath, which in turn makes him suck in his.

  “What’s your name?” he asks, moving closer.

  “Katherine.”

  “Katherine.” He rolls my name over his tongue. Who would have thought my own name could be an aphrodisiac. But the way it sounds rumbling across Greyson’s vocal chords is enough to make my insides quiver and my neglected libido stand up and take notice. “You have a beautiful name.”

  I’ve never thought my name was beautiful until just this second. “Everybody calls me Kate.”

  “I like Katherine.”

  So do I, especially when he says it. “Then you can call me Katherine.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, and the rest of the people in Alesca briefly fade away. “I like Greyson myself,” I add. Greyson is a rugged yet sophisticated name. Grey is just kind of blah. Kind of like the color.

  His hand curls over mine and squeezes as he draws in a deep breath. “Then you can call me Greyson.”