Fearless

by Logan Fox

  Reluctantly, I emerge from my trance to quench my thirst.

  Bright purple lights stream into my eyes as I take in my surroundings with a quick squint. Club Asylum is absolutely gorgeous. Violet lighting beautifully accents the sleek furnishings which, since they’re made mostly from glass and chrome, are only visible by the light they reflect.

  The group of boys who’d been circling me earlier like a pack of hyenas is still there, and as soon as I make eye contact with one of them, he grins at me. I’m pretty sure everyone in this place is on something. If I wasn’t so shit scared about being here by myself, I might also have swallowed something small, round, and white and let it take me far away.

  Ha! Mother would kill me.

  I smile, accidentally aiming my grin at the guy watching me. He surges forward and slides an arm around my waist before I have a chance to avoid him.

  Shaking my head, I shove him away. But he comes right the fuck back.

  I know drugs make you dumb and persistent, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to cut him any slack.

  “I’m getting a drink,” I yell, hoping he’ll get the message to leave me the fuck alone.

  “Aye, let’s get a drink,” he says in a thick Scottish accent.

  Fuck. It’s easy enough to pretend I’m just like everyone else until someone opens their mouth.

  I shake my head again. “Alone!”

  His grin practically splits his face in two. Goddamnit. He grabs my arm and starts drawing me through the crowd.

  I dig in my heels—ballerina pumps because I haven’t mastered the art of dancing in stilettos without seriously injuring myself—but I might as well be reigning in a wild horse.

  “Listen, guy, I just want a drink!”

  My captor doesn’t respond. I glance around, hoping to find a sympathetic face in the crowd, but everyone’s either fucked out of their tree or pretending not to see me being dragged to a hidey-hole by this Neanderthal.

  All except one person.

  A shiver courses through me when I lock eyes with the tallest man in the room. He’s standing near the entrance to one of the many private upstairs areas littering the club, scanning the crowd as if he’s searching for someone.

  It’s ridiculous, but for some reason when his eyes land on me, I get a feeling he’s found who he was looking for.

  Grinning Druggie gets sidetracked by a friend. The guy makes some suggestive comment about the fact I’m being led in the opposite direction to the bathrooms, which would be the perfect place to fuck me.

  I try to tear my wrist free, but Grinning Druggie is holding on so tight I’m losing feeling in my fingers. I guess he doesn’t want to release his would-be conquest just yet.

  True enough, he turns us around. Quite possibly toward the bathrooms.

  Fuck this.

  When he pauses to let two giggling girls pass us, I drive my elbow into his kidney.

  He yells out in surprise, his body contorting as he collapses in on the pain.

  I glare at him as I yank my wrist free, and fight the urge to knee him in the groin for good measure. But he’s in enough pain already, so I turn and head away as fast as my slippered feet can take me.

  It pisses me off though. I’m used to having to go around in groups for safety—that’s what I had to do every time I snuck out of the house and went clubbing in South Africa. There, if you don’t have a posse, you’re bound to end up roofied and date raped…and that’s if you’re lucky. More often than not, you’d wake up to discover you’d been sold to the highest bidder via some sex trafficking ring in Nigeria.

  Ah, the good old days.

  I thought it would be different in Edinburgh. I mean, the place is full of tourists and the police know it—they’re everywhere. Guess there’s no place left in the world where a girl can go out and dance by herself anymore.

  You had your fun, Meisie, but you knew this plan of yours was doomed to fail. Time to leave.

  I glance behind me to make sure Horny Druggie hasn’t decided to go a second round.

  And walk into a wall.

  I would have fallen flat on my ass if a pair of strong hands hadn’t grabbed me by the waist and hauled me back up again.

  My eyes fix on a pair of delicious pecs skimmed by an expensive-looking dress shirt. My gaze travels up, scanning a V of darkly-tanned skin, a strong, angular jaw dusted with dark stubble, past a mouth curved into a rueful smile, to—finally—a pair of dark green eyes pinning me where I stand.

  “That arsewipe giving you trouble?” the man asks in a rumble of a voice.

  “Who, him?” I stab a thumb over my shoulder in the possible direction of Horny Druggie without taking my eyes off the imposing mountain of a man I’m standing in front of. “Nah.”

  He cocks his head at me, and I hastily drop my gaze. Stupid accent. He probably thinks I sound like a chump.

  Strong fingers grasp my chin, levering my head up, forcing me to look at him again. “Where you from?” comes the inevitable question.

  “Joburg,” I say through a sigh. “South Africa?”

  “Aye, I’ve been there,” he says, his eyes narrowing a little. “Far from home, little girl.”

  Little…? I scowl up at him as I tug my chin out of his grip.

  Ugh. Just because I wasn’t born a giant like everyone else in this godforsaken place, doesn’t mean everyone can go around being all condescending and shit.

  I whip my ponytail over my shoulder, crossing my arms over my chest and sticking up my nose at him. “I was born here, doos. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re in my way.”

  He quirks a dark eyebrow. But as if my rudeness turned some kind of a switch, he glances away a second before he steps aside to let me pass. I watch him leave and then frown as he moves through the crowd.

  They part for him like a school of sardines letting a shark through.

  Guess I should go see where the hell my actual date has gone to. I thought he wouldn’t cut it, but after meeting Mr. Tall, Dark, and Arrogant, my Justin’s starting to look like a real catch.

  I met him on Bumble a few weeks back after I decided to take Trish’s advice and get over my PTSD the good ole’ new age way. I had no idea I’d actually meet someone who sounded like he had half a brain in his head and wasn’t solely interested in sticking it in me.

  Justin works at the bar here Fridays and Saturdays, and he’s been asking me for weeks to drop in for a drink on the house. I had no intention of following through until Mom announced she had an important conference call tonight and canceled our dinner plans.

  Since I’m all dressed up and with literally nowhere to go, I might as well see if this Justin guy is as charming in real life as he is on his profile, and even get over my shit.

  I don’t hold out much hope. I’ve learned the hard way that guys are as two-faced as a bag of moldy coins.

  Making my way to the bar, I bob my head in time with the pounding music.

  I get about three yards from the bar before someone grabs my bare arm and digs cat-like nails into my flesh.

  “Hey!” I yelp, spinning to face the girl standing behind me.

  Big eyes, dark how her pupils crowd out her irises, blink languidly at me. “Don’t cut, bitch.”

  I glance around. It takes me a second to realize that the mass of bodies pressing against the bar is an actual queue and not just a bunch of people to whom the idea of personal space is something they’re yet to grasp.

  “Sorry, man,” I say. “I didn’t see the queue.”

  A perfectly plucked eyebrow pops up as she studies me. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “What’s your deal?” I wave a hand at the mass of people. “I said I didn’t see the fucking line.”

  And then she shoves me.

  Hard.

  My back slams into the guy behind me, and I fumble at him as I try to get my feet under me again.

  “Get your hands off my boyfriend!” another girl yells before yanking at my hair.

  What the
actual fuck? I fend off the jealous bitch’s unprovoked attack with a swipe of my arm, wheeling back to get out of her way.

  Forgetting about Little Miss Kitty behind me. “Cow!”

  Man, I just can’t catch a break, can I?

  I dart to the side, barely escaping her claws, and bump into someone else.

  This place is a damn fire hazard with all these chumps in here. I spin around, already apologizing so I don’t get shivved with a stiletto, and find myself staring up at the same dark eyes as before.

  “She’s with me,” the man says in a deliciously deep growl of a voice.

  And just like that, Miss Kitty and the jealous cow whose boyfriend won’t stop ogling my ass transform into star-struck morons.

  “Hi Cillian!” croons Miss Kitty. “Did you get my DM on Insta?” She pops a piece of gum and bats her eyelashes at him.

  Instead of replying, he grabs the back of my neck and starts steering me through the crowd. I should have elbowed him in the kidney like I did Horny Druggie, but…

  But I don’t want to.

  It makes no fucking sense, but for some reason I’m dying to know where he’s taking me.

  Maybe it’s the way he moves around like he owns the place. Maybe it’s because I could have been seriously injured in that catfight if he hadn’t rescued me. Or maybe it’s because no matter how ridiculous it seems, there’s something exhilarating about his touch.

  Also, it’s been a while since anyone touched me. So there’s that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CILLIAN

  I could have played up the Sir Galahad act twenty minutes ago, but this is far more amusing.

  If the club were a pre-school, Meisie would be the new girl who hadn’t yet learned the way of the world.

  Who to avoid.

  Who to make friends with.

  When to walk away, and when to get the fuck out, pronto.

  Yes, she managed to get the better of the first guy, but I think a wet cigarette could have also got the better of him. Basically, she’s innocent as hell and completely out of her depth. So about as far from my usual type as the north pole from the south.

  But I do like her accent. All posh and classy and delicate. Feminine.

  And I like her freckles.

  The fact she hasn’t smeared them with an inch-thick layer of makeup tells me this was either a last-minute decision to come out, or she just doesn’t care.

  I’m leaning on the doesn’t give a shit side because her hair has been thrown up in a messy ponytail, and she’s not even bothered with high heels. But then again, it’s a nice dress she’s got on, so the last-minute decision also stands.

  She’s a puzzle.

  I guide her to one of the cordoned-off VIP areas and gesture for her to sit down on the black velvet couch.

  The second I’ve done it I kick myself. The tables are bolted to the floor so they can’t be used as weapons, and since I can’t get my knees under the table, I can’t sit beside her.

  Rookie mistake. And a prime example of why Cole should be doing this, not me. Getting inside a girl’s knickers is as second nature to him as snorting lines.

  I take the seat opposite her and lean my elbows on my knees, sitting forward so we can talk over the loud racket. She leans in too, but only slightly.

  She’s still in her shell.

  We’ll soon fix that.

  “What’s your poison?”

  A smile plays on her lips while her fingers fiddle with her purse. “Guys usually start with what’s your name?”

  That gets a laugh from me. She has no idea I already know her name, her fucking star sign, and what she had for dinner yesterday. Justin likes to know what she’s wearing, thinking, and eating. Never know when shit like that can come in handy.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Meisie,” she replies.

  Aye, aye. Meisie.

  I already know you say it like Macy, because Justin already asked her this. “Like Macy?”

  She nods her head. “It’s South African.”

  I know.

  Jesus. I’m going to have to go back to the start and play the good guy all over again.

  I can’t do it.

  Patience has never been my virtue and the clock is ticking.

  “Meisie, I’m Cillian, spelled with a C and said with a K, but you can call me whatever the fuck pleases you. Now, what do you want to drink?”

  She looks momentarily startled at me cutting the bullshit, but then she flips her ponytail over her shoulder, eyelashes instantly fluttering. “Vodka?”

  There she is.

  Her internet dating history might suggest she likes the pretty-boy Justins of this world, but put her in her room with a man who dominates the situation and she’s no different from the rest of them.

  Good fucking girl.

  I gesture to one of the servers standing in the corner and tell him to bring us a bottle of Ciroc and a jug of mixer. That stuff goes down easier than water, which suits my purposes nicely.

  “Where are your friends?”

  She glances down at the table, and if it wasn’t for the dim violet light I swear I’d see her blushing. “Yeah...uh...I came alone,” she admits reluctantly.

  I try to fight my snort.

  Is she actually for real?

  It’s like she’s gone out of her way to make this as easy as possible for me.

  “Did you just get off the boat or something?”

  She laughs. “I’ve been here a couple of months. I just don’t go out much.”

  I tilt my head, and she copies me. It’s quite adorable, but is she doing it on purpose or is she just a natural submissive?

  “What brings you out tonight then?”

  The server comes back with the ice bucket and some glasses before she can answer. I pour her a double shot without asking. She takes a sip, quickly followed by a few bigger mouthfuls. That’s going to hurt in the morning.

  “I was supposed to meet someone. Said he works at the bar, but I couldn’t find him,” she says, shrugging her shoulders while she takes another sip. “His loss.”

  Not really. One fake man’s loss is another real man’s gain.

  “I know everyone who works here. What’s his name?”

  “Justin?”

  I let out a chuckle and shake my head. “No one who works here goes by the name of Justin, princess. Looks like you’re going home alone tonight.”

  I lean back in my chair and rest my chin in my hand while I wait to see if she catches on to the meaning behind my statement.

  Looks like she’s going home alone tonight, but she doesn’t have to.

  We both stare at each other for a long minute, and I take the opportunity to study her. It’s a face I’ll be seeing a lot of, so I might as well get to know it.

  I can’t decide if she’s ridiculously stunning or… not.

  She looks like a model, but not the absurdly symmetrical Victoria Secret kind. She’s too unique for that. No, the real models. Those ones you see in magazines who are so damn beautiful they almost look like ugly aliens. That makes no sense, but neither does half the shit that runs through my head on a daily basis.

  Her eyebrows are thick and heavy, and maybe that’s deliberate or she’s too lazy to pluck them. Who knows, but they suit her heart-shaped face and her big pouty lips.

  She’s arching one of them up at me right now.

  I burst out laughing. “Too soon?”

  She smirks and shrugs her shoulders. “Ask me again in an hour.”

  I shake my head, and her silver eyes practically sparkle. “Why drag out the inevitable? We both know how this ends.”

  Putting her drink down on the table, she crosses her legs. Her tight sequined skirt rides high up her thigh, baring even more of her smooth, strong leg. “Yeah? And how’s that?”

  “Come here and I’ll whisper it in your ear.” I nod my head down toward my spread legs, and she lets out a huff of a laugh, as if she can’t believe she’s entertaining the
notion.

  But after a beat, she does it anyway, crossing the space between us like a reluctant little pixie.

  She perches her small frame on my knee and I feel a bit like Father Christmas, except instead of bringing presents I’m about to steal them.

  A big ol’ Grinch bastard.

  I curve my hand around her tiny waist and pull her in closer to me. She shivers as my breath hits her exposed neck, and lets out the smallest of sighs.

  I don’t actually hate this.

  If she wasn’t who she was, I’d never have approached her. I wouldn’t be sitting here right now with her on my lap, barely keeping a hard-on under control like I’m one of the pretty-boy-posse.

  And yet here we are.

  My hand slides around her neck for the second—third?—time tonight and I feel her pulse under my fingers. I hold her there for a minute, not hard enough to hurt her, but firm enough to show her that I could if I wanted to. “Have you ever been with a man before?”

  “Hell, you don’t waste any time, do you?” she says. She shifts as if she wants to get up, but I tighten my grip to keep her seated.

  Her eyes widen, but she still doesn’t look me in the eyes.

  “I asked you a question.”

  I give her enough slack to shake or nod her head, and she nods it.

  Interesting.

  “Good,” I tell her. “I don’t have the patience for virgins.”

  I feel her fingers grip onto my thigh. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That one’s better shown than explained.”

  She opens her mouth, perhaps to protest, but closes it again when I dig my fingers into her slim neck.

  “I’m going to break you apart, again and again. And then I’m going to try to fit the pieces of you back together exactly as I want them.”

  This time, I give her enough slack to turn her head. She does.

  She looks right into my eyes, and even I stop breathing for a second.

  None of what I said was a lie, but she probably just thinks it was some peculiar brand of dirty talk. No doubt new and exciting for her.

  If only she knew the truth.

  The muscles in her throat contract as she swallows, and her tongue peeks out between her lips.