by A. S. Teague
I angle my body away from him so that his hand drops from my leg and give him a questioning look. I’m still too shocked at his advance to put a coherent thought together, so I continue to stare at him, my eyebrows raised, and wait for him to say something. Luckily, it seems no one around us has taken notice of my sudden silence.
Leaning towards me, Jake says just a note above a whisper, “Come on, Sidney. You must know I’m interested. You’re beautiful, you know. Why don’t you let me help you celebrate your birthday some more? Just the two of us? Wanna get out of here?”
I want to respond to him, but my mouth is suddenly drier than the Sahara Desert. I take a large swallow of my favorite Pinot Grigio, hoping that it will not only moisten my parched tongue, but also help me figure out what to say. I’m out of luck though, because all it manages to do is give me time to think.
Even though I’m shocked by his declaration, I’m also flattered. With a head full of dark-brown hair that is always perfectly styled and bright blue-green eyes that remind me of the ocean in the Bahamas, Jake is a very good-looking guy. I’ve noticed the other women in the office blush when he talks to them, especially Mindy. He’s also always willing to help out when I have a question or need some guidance balancing the books. But I have a feeling that he has a serious case of little man syndrome.
At only five sevenish, he isn’t much taller than I am. And he seems to try to compensate for his lack of height with a larger-than-life personality and a monster truck. Jake spends the first hour of every Monday morning telling us all about the crazy exploits he had over the weekend, which usually involve big boats, parties, and women. That lifestyle sounds like it would be a blast—if I were twenty-one. But it only makes him sound like someone who’s trying too hard. And it’s a major turn-off.
Regardless of if I am attracted to him, the thought that he’s interested in me is flattering. It’s been a while since I’ve even attempted a date, and for a second, I entertain the thought of saying yes.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Jake once more places his hand on my leg, this time much higher than before, and begins slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth, up and down the seam in my jeans. I’m instantly disgusted and find my voice.
“No,” I say simply.
He raises his eyebrows but continues to practically molest me with his thumb. “No?” he questions.
“Jake, we work together. That would be inappropriate. I’m flattered—really. But no.” I try to keep the disdain out of my voice so as not to make things awkward at work on Monday.
Without waiting for his response, I turn my body away from his and interrupt Mindy’s conversation.
“Hey, lady. Thanks so much for putting this together. I’ve had a great night, but I’m beat. I think I’m gonna grab my check and then head home,” I tell her quickly. All I can think about is getting out of here and away from Jake’s wandering hands.
Mindy shouts, “No way! We are supposed to go out dancing after this. I was looking forward to showing off my white-girl moves.”
“Just because I’m going home doesn’t mean you have to.” I tell her smiling. I’m a little disappointed I’m going to miss her dancing, but if I agree to go out, I’ll never get Jake to leave me alone. Not to mention I have a whole list of chores to get done tomorrow and plans with Connor I don’t want to be hungover for. “I promise that we’ll do this again. And I won’t bail early next time,” I assure her.
Still pouting, Mindy grabs my arm. “Come on, Sidney! It’s not even that late. Let’s just go to one club and I promise that if you wanna leave after we get there. I won’t protest!”
Checking my watch, I see that she’s right. It’s only a quarter to ten.
Relenting, I tell her, “Oh, all right. I’m only turning thirty once. After this year, it’s back to twenty-nine again. I’ll go.”
Mindy squeals and grabs me for a quick hug. “We’re going to Raw! Have you been there?”
I shake my head. I haven’t been to a bar in at least six years.
“Oh my God. It’s the best nightclub in Atlanta. I know a guy working the door tonight, so we are definitely getting in.” She claps her hands and jumps up and down again.
Her excitement is contagious, and before I know it, I’m pumped about showing off my white-girl moves too.
Mark put me through the ringer yesterday as punishment for not having shown up to the media event. I’ve tried to tell him so many times that the morning-after media events are killer. There is nothing I want less than to have to show up and rehash my latest win. I get two weeks off after each fight for a reason. I need to unwind, preferably in a club with a hot piece of ass and a bottle of Crown. Which is probably the exact reason he schedules them so early the next morning.
He’s constantly scheduling appearances and events that start before the fucking sun comes up, claiming it’s just when these things need to be done. But I have a feeling he does it to make sure I’m not out too late the night before. Which is why, as soon as I got up this morning, I called Tripp to talk him into going out to the clubs with me tonight.
“Hey, man. It’s about time you got here. I’ve been waiting around with my thumb up my ass for, like, two hours. It’s already”—I check my watch—“almost eleven thirty. Where have you been?” I bark while rolling my shirt sleeves back down.
“Yeah, I know. Something came up and I got held up. Sorry. Hey, that’s a nice watch. Is it new?” he asks, not bothering to glance up from his phone. Something’s up with him.
But I don’t ask him about it. “Yeah, man. I just got it. Thought I’d treat myself after that win the other night. It’s a Cartier. Looks pretty good, huh? It’s pretty big, but you know what they say? Go big or go home!” I smirk arrogantly.
Tripp quirks an eyebrow. “Really? What I usually hear them say is that big toys are compensating for something pretty small.” He finally looks up and lifts his hand, pinching his thumb and index finger barely an inch apart and pointedly looking at my crotch.
I pop my shoulder in a half shrug. “Well, maybe you should ask your sister if there’s anything I need to compensate for.” Punching him in the shoulder, I immediately regret what I’ve just said. Not because Reb isn’t the hottest woman I know, but because as cliché as it sounds, she’s definitely the sister I never had and thinking about screwing her is the fastest way to deflate my dick.
“Oh, dude, come on. I don’t want to think about my sister that way. How much did you spend on that fucking thing?”
I am all too thankful for the diversion from the thought of sex with Reb. “Not too much. It was, like, two grand. But look at it,” I say, stroking the face and holding it up for him to admire as well.
He just rolls his eyes. “Brec, are we going somewhere? Or would you rather I leave you alone with your watch so you can show it just how much you appreciate it?”
I glare at him. I’ve known Tripp for fourteen years, and if it’s possible, his jokes are still just as bad as they were in middle school.
“Fuck you,” is all I can come up with. “Let’s go. I’ll drive tonight.” I grab the keys off the counter and head toward the exit.
“You sure? I can drive. Last time we went out, you got pretty trashed.” He sways his head from side to side in consideration. “Actually, every time we go out, you get wasted. We should probably just call a cab and save the hassle of trying to figure out how we’re gonna get home later.”
As I open the door, gesturing for him to lead the way, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and clicks only one button before lifting it to his ear. Fucker actually has the number on speed dial.
I press the call button on the elevator and then stare straight ahead as I swat his phone right out of his hand.
“Hey!”
“I’m driving tonight. You can take a cab there if you want, but I’m leaving now.” I laugh as he scrambles after his phone, muttering curse words.
He’s not pissed. But I’ll definitely pay for pun
king him out later. Tripp is my best friend for a reason. He is quite honestly the only person who can not only put up with my shit, but dish it back out just as well.
“You have problems,” he mumbles.
I open my mouth to level him with another Breccan Carlisle classic, “Fuck you,” when he snatches the keys from my hand and darts to the stairs.
“Son of a bitch! You touch my car and I’ll fucking kill you!” I yell after him.
I’d like to say I love my ride, but that’s probably a vast understatement for the way I feel about Velma. She’s a brand-new, absolutely fucking loaded Range Rover. I had them put everything they could in it, and then I took it to a customs shop and had them add even more. There isn’t a single vehicle on the road like mine. I have a list of rules anyone has to all but sign a contract stating they will abide by before they’re even allowed inside her. Velma is my baby, and I’m the world’s worst helicopter dad.
We pull up to the front of the packed club twenty minutes later. The line circling the block is a good mixture of guys who are obviously douchebags and half-naked chicks with fake tits—it’s my personal version of heaven.
After parking, I get out, crack my neck, and roll my shoulders. I have a feeling this is going to be a great night.
“I can tell this is going to be a bad night,” Tripp moans.
“What? Why the hell is it going to be a bad night?” I bump him with my elbow. “Dude, look at all the chicks you have to choose from. Over there.” I point to a group of five girls standing near the back of the line.
They probably spent at least two hours getting themselves all dressed up to come tonight, and the disappointment of being in the back of the line is written all over their pretty faces.
“Let’s go make their night, Trippy.” I purposely use the nickname he hates as I saunter over to the girls. “Ladies! You all look incredible tonight. I’m sure it took you, what, fifteen minutes to get ready?” I smile as all of their eyes light up. “This kind of beauty just comes naturally, right?” I tell them while plastering my most genuine smile on.
The blond chick looks like she isn’t buying it, but the rest of the girls are either blushing or giggling out loud. It’s actually the most stereotypical response you would expect from a group of women.
“It would be a shame to waste this beauty outside all night instead of inside with a drink in your hand. It must be your lucky night, because I can get us all in. By the way, my name is Breccan.” I stick my hand out to the skeptical blonde.
She begrudgingly accepts it. She may be unsure of me, but even she can’t resist the thought of bypassing the hell line and getting inside.
“I’m Aly. This is Autumn, Danielle, Britney, and Krystal,” she tells me while pointing to the girls.
I forget their names the second she says them.
After the introductions, I lead them to the front of the line. I’ve almost forgotten that Tripp is with me until one of the girls starts talking to him.
“Hey, I think Breccan here forgot his manners. I’m Aly. What’s your name?” It’s the icy blonde.
“Oh, Brec doesn’t have manners. That’s why he drags me out with him. I usually spend my night cleaning up his messes and making up for the fact that he’s a complete dick. Anyway, I’m Tripp.” He takes the hand she has outstretched and shakes it.
I waggle my eyebrows in his direction, and he swiftly stomps on my toe.
“Fuck! What the hell was that for?” I bark out.
Before he can respond, though, the bouncer steps in front of us.
“IDs please.” He’s checking the girls out before turning his attention to me. Surprise registers on his face. “Oh shit. Breccan Carlisle. KO. Man, it’s an honor to meet you. I’m a huge fan. Boss said, if you show up, I’m to let you in right away.”
I don’t recognize him and realize he must be new. But it’s obvious the big guy is absolutely star struck. Yet another reason I love what I do.
“Good to meet you too,” I say, sticking my hand out.
“Mike. Big Mike. Man, this has just made my night. Hell, my week,” he responds, vigorously shaking my hand.
I thank him for his support before heading for the door. Tripp grumbles to himself about people always recognizing me.
The music is throbbing and the lights are flashing, and I am thanking my lucky stars that I’m not epileptic, because if I were, I would be flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water. It’s hot as fuck inside, and there’s a mass of people bumping and grinding on the dance floor to the latest song by 2 Chainz.
Once we get to the VIP section, a waitress takes our drink order and I spout off about three different bottles of liquor I want. Tripp shoots me a glare, but I ignore him and scan the crowd.
Half an hour passes and I’ve downed half a bottle of Crown. I can usually hold my alcohol, but dinner was hours ago and the liquor’s gone straight to my head. And my bladder.
“Tripp… Tripp buddy… Trippy…” I slur while waving my hand back and forth, trying to get his attention.
Tripp hasn’t left that girl’s side all night. I can’t remember her name any more than I can figure out why she’s shooting me dirty looks.
Tripp gets up and makes his way over before settling in the chair next to mine. “Brec, I think maybe you should have some water. Shit, I need some water and I’ve had half as much to drink as you.”
Tripp is always the voice of reason. It’s one of the reasons I love him. I begin to tell him just that before my bladder saves me the embarrassment.
I drunkenly sway toward him. “You know what, Tripp? I gotta piss.”
Shoving away from him, I push through the crowd before reaching the hall leading to the bathrooms. I’m nodding my head at a couple guys I recognize when movement on the floor catches my attention. Skidding to a halt, I realize the movement is a chick crawling around on the floor. I write her off as some drunk girl and continue to the bathroom.
When I emerge a few moments later, the girl is still on the floor. Something about her makes me stop. Leaning my shoulder against the wall, I watch her fumble around. It appears as though she’s patting the wall down. Every now and then, she stops and curses before resuming her search. When she makes a face while shaking her hand off, I finally decide to speak.
“Hey. You okay down there?” I ask.
She whips her head in my direction. “Do I look okay?” she snaps.
Despite her attitude, she’s extremely pretty. She has very little makeup on, and her wavy, red hair is all over the place, but it only enhances her natural beauty.
Throwing my hands up, I say, “Whoa. Sorry I asked.”
Not moving to stand, she blows her hair out of her face. “I’m sorry. You wouldn’t happen to have an outlet in your pocket, would you?”
Patting my pockets, I shake my head and then squat down in front of her. “I’m Brec.”
She reaches a hand up and dangles a cell phone charger in front of me. “Nice to meet you, Brock. I’m the crazy chick who has a dead phone.”
I smile impossibly wide. “No, it’s Brec.”
She turns her head back toward the wall.
“Here. Let me help you off this dirty floor. If you want, you can use my phone.”
She takes my hand, the smallest of grins splitting her lips. Standing, I pull her to her feet. She isn’t dressed like the other women in the club. Her jeans fit her like a glove and show off her curves, but they aren’t designer threads. Her tank top barely reveals any cleavage, but it does show off her toned arms.
“I bet I looked ridiculous,” she states, brushing the hair out of her face.
Words flow from my mouth before I can even stop them. “Someone as beautiful as you could never look ridiculous.” Nice line, cheese dick.
Blushing, she shoves her phone and her charger cord back in her purse. “That’s really nice of you to let me use your phone. If you’re sure you don’t mind, I’ll just send my sister a text.”
“I wouldn�
��t have offered if I minded,” I reply, holding her gaze until she shyly glances away. “Here.” I offer her my phone.
She takes the phone and grimaces. “Just one message,” she says before quickly typing a message and then handing it back. “Oh, wait. I should probably delete that.” She snatches my phone back giving me a wicked grin.
I’m lost in her bright, blue eyes as her fingers slide over the screen, doing God knows what in my phone.
Between the booze and this woman, there are no fucks left to give. She could steal the damn thing and I’m not sure I’d be able to protest.
“Thanks again.” She tucks the phone in my hand before turning to leave.
I catch her arm at the elbow. “Hey. Where ya goin’? You didn’t tell me your name.”
She glances up through her lashes while tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “It’s Sidney.”
Sidney.
Sidney.
Fucking remember that, you drunk douchebag.
Sid…ney.
“Sidney. That’s a gorgeous name. It fits you. Are you here alone?” I rush out, doing my best to hide my drunken slur. I pray that she says yes, not only because I’m interested in her, but also because what kind of an asshole lets her crawl around on the ground?
Her gaze shifts from side to side while she smirks. “Are you trying to pick me up?”
“Well, technically, I just did,” I tell her, gesturing to the spot she was just in on the floor.
“Touché.” Her smile grows. “I’m here with some friends, actually.”
Glad she didn’t mention a boyfriend, I offer, “Let me buy you a drink.”
She shakes her head. “Thanks, but no, thanks. I’m not drinking. I was actually about to head home.”
“Well, then let me get you a soda. A water? I hear the bartender makes a mean Shirley Temple,” I counter, determined not to let her leave yet.
She laughs, and the magical sound spurs me on.
“What’s the rush? Husband waiting at home?”
Shaking her head again, she responds, “Nope. Just my couch and Netflix.”
