by Megyn Ward
“You can’t be serious.” I say, holding up the dress my sister has seen fit to punish me with. It’s not even an actual dress. It’s more of a contraption. “There is no way this is going to fit me.”
“Yes, I am,” she says, licking pizza sauce off her fingers. “And yes, it will.” She looks up at me, her beautiful face lit with an angelic smile. “Happy birthday, bitch.”
Forty-Seven
Tobias
I’m starting to believe it’s possible
to die of boredom. I can actually feel my brain starting to soften under the onslaught of heavy bass notes from the dance floor and the high-pitched nonsense the women at the table are tossing around.
Oh my god—did you see what she’s wearing?
Such a slut. She’s not even wearing underwear.
She’s probably a hooker.
Yeah, a fat hooker.
At any moment, it’s going to liquefy and start leaking out of my ears. More out of tedium than actual curiosity, I lift my gaze, catching sight of the woman they’re roasting and feel my focus sharpen. The woman isn’t fat. She’s stunning. A cloud of loose, dark hair. Smooth, olive skin. A bright red dress meant to catch and hold a man’s attention, molded around the most incredible ass I’ve ever seen. She turns and sinks into one of the velvet sofas a few tables away, crossing her legs at the ankle like a Sunday school teacher. Like she can feel me staring at her, she shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
“Not sure if you know this, brother,” Jase says, leaning into my space. “but it’s your birthday, not a goddamned funeral.”
His off-handed comment, meant to be funny, tightens the hinge of my jaw, the clench of it kicking off this weird clicking sound in my ears. It takes me a second to realize I’m grinding my teeth. I force myself to relax, remind myself he has no idea what he’s saying. He’s just trying to help. Thing about Jase is that, usually, when he’s trying to help, it hurts.
The blonde, the one Jase all but shoved in my lap, leans down, pressing her too-firm breasts against my chest. “Want to go upstairs to unwrap your birthday present,” she breathes in my ear, grinding her bony ass against my crotch. The move, meant to turn me on, has an adverse effect. She wants me to take her upstairs, to the club office I share with my brother. I’d rather throw myself off the Chrysler building.
“No thanks,” I say, shifting her off my lap. “I’m good.”
“What’s the matter baby?” She sticks her lower lip out in a ridiculous pout. “You don’t like me?” She says it like she knows it’s a stupid question. Of course, I like her. Want her. Because everyone does.
Instead of inciting what would no doubt be an epic, rich-girl tantrum, I lift my glass, taking a measured sip of my Dalmore 64. I had Mike behind the bar pour me a couple fingers from my private stash. The glass is half empty and I don’t plan on having another. Getting sloppy tonight would be a mistake. Setting my glass down, I give her a bland smile. “I like you fine.”
Instead of pacifying her, my polite answer, coupled with my obvious lack enthusiasm narrows her overly made up eyes into slits. “Do you know who I am?” she hisses at me, the hand on my chest hooking into a set of claws around my hand-tailored shirt.
I know who she is. She’s some sort of actress or model or something. Anyway, she’s famous. Or at least famous enough to pull the do you know who I am? card with a convincing level of self-importance.
I give her a blank stare like I’m waiting for her to answer her own question. She shoots a nasty look at the woman sitting by herself, a few tables over. She obviously caught me staring. “I suppose you’re into fat chicks, huh?”
I turn in my seat. “Matter of fact—”
Sensing disaster, Jase stands. “Who wants to see my stripper pole?” he says, downing the rest of his drink while the girls around him giggle. They think he’s kidding.
He’s not. He had it installed upstairs a month ago.
Setting his empty on the table in front of him, Jase trades it for the bottle of Belvedere, chilling in a block of ice. He stands, holding his hand out to the actress. “I like all kinds of asses,” he tells her, giving her a cocky smirk as he lifts her from her seat beside me.
Rounding them all up, Jase points them in the direction of the private elevator and promises to be right there. As soon as their gone, he turns on me.
“You okay?” he says, sounding genuinely concerned, all pretenses put away.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?” I caught the wince when he bent over. The stiff, careful way he’s holding his spine straight. I’d be willing to bet he looks like he got beat with a bag full of oranges under his fancy suit.
We all have ways of dealing with our shit.
That’s Jase’s.
Jase gives me a smile. “Right as rain, brother.” He glances in the direction of the elevator. “Look, I know you’re not one to celebrate your birthday, I just thought…” He looks back at me and gives me a shrug. He was never one to push or dig. “You change your mind, you know where we’ll be.”
Any other night, I’d be right there with him. In the thick of it. Tonight, I just want to go home. “I’ll keep it in mind,” I tell him and he smiles, even though we both know what I’m really saying.
Not a chance.
Forty-Eight
Silver
So now I’m here, sitting in the VIP section of Level, one of the hottest clubs in New York, wearing a dress that makes me feel like I’m not just regular naked, but naked and on display. Jane and Delilah are MIA. I went to the ladies’ room and when I got back, they were both gone.
And to top it off, I’m not wearing panties. Because my sister is a jerk.
“You can’t wear underwear with a dress like that,” she said to me, shaking her head at me like I’m a lost little lamb.
I stared at her for a full three seconds before I realized she wasn’t kidding. “You’re serious?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?” she said, giving me a puzzled look. She really has no idea how ridiculous this whole situation has become.
“Lilah—” I make a bid for mercy, calling her by the pet name I gave her when we were little.
She holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Panties. Off.”
I look at Jane, hoping for help. There was none to be had. “She’s right, Silver.” Jane gives me a shrug. “Take ‘em off.”
I need better friends.
And sisters.
Tugging self-consciously on the hem of my dress, I pretend not to notice a loud party a few tables over. Skinny blondes who talk about their thigh gap and what designer their walking for in Fashion Week, surrounding a couple of guys who look like male models. One of them keeps looking at me while the blonde on his lap is all wiggle and giggle, doing her level best to get his attention. I’d almost feel bad for her if she hadn’t made a crack about my weight when I walked by.
“The gentlemen at the bar would like to buy you a drink.” I look up and to the right to find an apologetic—looking waitress standing over me. Behind her, a bunch of suits crowded around the VIP bar, doing shots while alternating between leering at me and shooting each other smirks.
“Tell them no, but thank you,” I say, already knowing how it would go. I accept and their leader would see my acceptance as an invitation. He’d come over here and try to pick me up while I sip my free drink, thinking I have some sort of obligation to him because of it.
She gives me a flat smile, before returning to the bar. Now they’re all looking at me at once, trying to figure out their next plan of attack.
Doing my best to ignore them, I pull out my phone and text Jane.
Me: Where are you?
It takes a few minutes for her to text back.
Jane: on the dance floor. Get your ass down here.
I almost laugh out loud. Anything more strenuous than walking in a straight line in this ridiculous dress would be a huge mistake.
Me: No thanks. Can I go home now?
Less than a minute later an
other text comes through.
Delilah: NO!
Below her directive is the picture of me sitting on my couch, surrounded by pizza rolls, or as I like to think of them—blackmail material.
“Hey.”
I look up from my phone to find one of the suits hovering over me, his gaze latched on to my breasts, which thanks to Delilah’s torture device, are on full display.
I should’ve jumped out the window.
“Yes?”
My response seems to snap him out of whatever trance my breasts put him in and he finally looks at my face.
“My friends and I saw you sitting here alone and were wondering if you’d like some company.” He licks his lips, his eyes trailing over me, making me feel like someone just dumped a bucket of spiders over my head.
“No thanks,” I say, looking back at my phone in hopes that he’ll just go away.
No such luck.
“I mean—why not?” he says, pushing the issue. “You look like the kind of girl who likes to have a good time, which is exactly what we’re looking for, so…” More leering and gawking. “Why can’t we all have a good time together?”
“Because I said no,” I say. I’ll be damned if I’m going to explain myself to this douchebag.
He stares at me, eyes narrowing slightly. He’s good-looking enough to be cocky about it and from the look he’s giving me, he doesn’t hear the word no nearly enough. “Who the hell do you—”
“Sorry, I’m late,” a voice says to my left, a moment before the seat beside me dips and I feel an arm slide across my shoulders to pull me close. I open my mouth to tell whoever just decided to put hands on me to back off and end up looking into the deepest, most beautiful pair of dark blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
So deep and beautiful that back off comes out sounding like, “It’s okay.”
“Forgive me?” The arm around my shoulders tighten, pulling me even closer and I melt a little when I feel him press his lips against the pulse hammering at my throat. “My name’s Tobias,” he whispers in my ear. “And you look like you need a rescue.” He pulls back enough to look me in the eye. It’s the male model from across the lounge. The one who kept looking at me. Sable brown hair. Straight white teeth. Firm, masculine jaw. Full, sensuous mouth. And if what I’m feeling through the suit is any indication, a body hard enough to tie my tongue in knots.
Before I can say anything, Tobias shifts his attention to the guy still standing in front of us, mouth hanging slightly open. “Have Mike pour me two fingers of the Dalmore 64, straight, and…” he looks at me, his hand landing casually on my thigh, somewhere between my knee and my ridiculously short hemline. “What are you drinking tonight, love—and don’t say tequila,” he says, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles against my knee. “You know how crazy it makes you.”
“Club soda,” I say. Despite the fact that my lungs feel like they’re being squeezed through a keyhole, the words come out loud and clear. “We wouldn’t want to get too crazy.”
Tobias laughs at my joke before turning back to the guy. He’s still standing there. Still staring. “You heard the lady,” he says dismissively. “Oh, and tack on a nice tip for yourself.”
“I don’t work here,” the guy finally sputters, his face bright red.
“Oh,” Tobias says, cocking his head. “I saw you over here when I walked in, talking to my girlfriend—I just assumed you were a server.” He turns away from me slightly, the hand on my leg sliding away as he faces the guy head on, his jaw going tight. Eyes hard and unreadable. “So, if you’re not a server, that means you’re just some asshole, harassing her and staring at her tits.”
“I just—” the guys stammers—now a strange shade of pink—caught between indignation and terror. “I saw she was alone and I…”
“Well, she’s not alone anymore.” Tobias sits back in his seat with a predatory grin. “So why don’t you and your buddies fuck off.”
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