It’s my seventeenth birthday and instead of celebrating like most girls my age, I’m two minutes away from passing out. I shouldn’t have walked home in the rain yesterday, especially since I had already been feeling under the weather. But what else was I supposed to do? I couldn’t sit in school any longer, the security guard needed to lock up.
“Hey, you…You okay?” someone asks. I can’t open my eyes, my head hurts too much, but it sounds like Becky, one of the girls who lives here in the foster home with me. The throbbing in my head is so excruciating, it feels as if my eyes are going to pop right out of their sockets, and even my ears ache.
“Ms. Sally,” I hear the girl yell. “Ms. Sally, I think there’s something wrong with Lola.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the old woman hollers from downstairs. “I’ll be right up.” I bet she has a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth and is watching Wheel of Fortune. She has no intention of coming “right up.”
I groan again as the pain gets worse, press my thumbs against my temples, and pray to God that the pain just goes away.
Chapter 1
Fox
I step out of my new yellow Corvette, reach inside and slip on my dark gray Armani jacket, patting it down the front to make sure there are no wrinkles or lint. It’s hot and humid outside, like every Miami Beach night, and I can feel my crisp white shirt start to stick to me almost immediately.
As I walk around the building that houses my place of work, Panic nightclub, I see the woman who’s been driving me crazy since she started working here as a bartender a few months ago. Funny, though, she has no idea who I am. Or, if she does, she does a very good job of pretending I don’t exist.
But I’ve always loved the chase….
She’s a few feet ahead of me, a big colorful bag crossing her torso. She’s wearing a black tank top with the Panic logo, black jeans that end right by her ankle, and little boots. She walks in confident strides, long lean legs, her purse and long black hair swaying with every step. If she turned around I know exactly what I’d see. Pale skin, blue eyes, long dark lashes, and red lipstick. There’s something almost gothic-looking about her. Maybe it’s the paleness combined with the dark features. Whatever it is, she is fucking stunning.
“Hey, Fox,” Yessie, another bartender, stops me. She’s pretty and has made it clear she’s into me, but since Lola started working at Panic, she’s all I see.
“Looks like it’s going to be a busy night,” I say, glancing at the line that’s already forming around the corner.
“Always is,” she says, and winks. “See ya later.”
“Later.”
She turns and walks away and I hurry toward Lola. “Lola. Hey, Lola.” She doesn’t respond. I move quicker and as she opens the door, I hold it over her head, startling her. “Hey.”
She turns and takes off her earbuds and places her palm over her heart. “Hi. You scared me.”
“Sorry. I called you.”
“Oh…uh…guess I didn’t hear you.” She smiles and holds out her earbuds. “Well, I should get to work.”
“You want to grab some coffee after work?” A bunch of us like to head to Damon’s Diner across the street after work, since we’re usually too wired to sleep, but she never joins us. Maybe she doesn’t like big groups. “Just the two of us?”
“After work? I’m off at four a.m.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m off at five, but I can get someone to cover for me.”
“No, I need to go home after work,” she says and turns to the bar. “But thanks for the offer,” she says over her shoulder.
“I’m just going to keep asking!” I holler, but she doesn’t turn around and she doesn’t acknowledge me.
—
Like most Friday nights, Panic is packed. Not only am I responsible for who gets inside of Panic, I’m also in charge of who stays out, and this sometimes is a problem, since drugs and alcohol usually play a part with the people who want to get in. They can be belligerent and hotheaded, but if there’s one rule in Panic, it’s no drugs or people obviously on drugs. So people who are already fucked up can’t get inside. Which means they put up a fight. Sometimes with words. Sometimes with fists. But at six foot five, 250 pounds, the idiots who try to get tough usually end up losing against me.
A few times during the evening I rotate with Toro, the head of security, and go check out the inside of the club while he handles the outside. My eyes always wander to Lola at the bar. She’s so quiet. I’ve never met anyone that quiet and shy before. She keeps her head down and does her job efficiently, and when her shift’s over, she leaves. She doesn’t make waves; she’s like a ghost—in and out—and barely noticeable. But I notice her. In fact, I can’t help but notice her.
Tonight, she looks up as if she senses I’m watching her. The club is dark and smoky and with all the strobe lights, it’s hard to see, but when her gaze finally lands on me, she smiles. And my day is fucking made with just that smile.
Because if there is one thing I know about Lola—and I barely know anything about her—it’s that she doesn’t give out smiles to just anyone.
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Make Me Stay: The Panic Series Page 23
