by Lee, Nadia
But he smiles anyway. Good customer service matters, especially for VIPs. “Hi, Harcourt.”
“Hey, Zack.” I smile at Nate. “Why don’t you go ahead and grab a booth? I need to talk to this guy for a minute.”
He gives me a “don’t do anything stupid” look, but shrugs and goes inside.
I go to the guardian of the VIP lane, then point at Red… No. That’s not right. Her hair’s brown, and she can always get rid of the dress. Ideally with me. Tonight.
But back to the present—what does she remind me of that’s delicious?
Skittles.
That’s a perfect temporary name for her. “You see that girl over there?” I point her out carefully, since there are a lot of women. He knows my taste, and I don’t want him to get confused and pick a blonde with extra-large melons who’s too above it all to look happy.
“The dancer? In red?” He sounds a little surprised.
“Yeah.” I hand him a few crisp bills. “Let her in.”
“Why don’t you?” He shoots me a sly grin, which makes him look positively sinister. But his voice is as soft as melted candy. “Play the VIP card. Girls dig that shit.”
Clichéd, and definitely not. I pat his fifty-inch chest, the pec muscles oscillating under my hand. “Zack, my man. I don’t want her knowing it’s me. Just tell her it’s her lucky day.”
I want her to like me because she thinks I’m awesome to be around, not because I have pull at a swanky club like Z. Being liked for me matters. That’s one of many reasons I left Tempérane, Louisiana. Everyone there knows my family’s filthy rich…and treats me accordingly.
I go inside. The music pounds, the bass hard and fast—perfect for dancing. The place is already heaving, as the Brits say. A huge number of people around the bars. Z has your usual array of alcohol, but it also has fancy top-shelf liquor for those who can pay. It gets more than its share of celebrities, who like to feel important by drinking stuff so expensive that you could fund a war on their tab.
Should I send her something pricey?
Nah. Dumb move. She might not be into hard liquor. And even if she is, if she doesn’t recognize it, it’s going to look stupid to explain how much it costs, because what the hell kind of douche does that anyway?
I’m not thinking very clearly today.
You care way too much about how she’ll react. Normally you’d just send it and be done.
I flick away the annoying voice in my head. Nate’s in one of the second-level VIP lounges overlooking the dance floor. He waves, and I plop down in the circular leather seat.
“What was that about with the bouncer?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I signal a waitress for a whiskey.
“Uh-huh.”
I like Nate because he’s astute. But right now I wish he were a bit less shrewd. Skittles is more his type than mine. He likes lithe, leggy brunettes. “Just wanted to know if Tony was coming.”
“Why would he be coming? Isn’t tomorrow his anniversary or something?”
“How the hell did you know?” Is Nate tracking my brother’s life? I only know about it because he asked me to drop by and distract Ivy tomorrow morning while he gets the anniversary gift delivered.
“His crazy mansion made the news, and they said it was for his wife, blah blah blah, who he married tomorrow. Well, tomorrow last year.”
Nate gets shunted back in my “normal” column. The mansion Tony commissioned is insane. He only got it because he decided his wife deserves one, plus he figured he could install better security. It basically has everything except a force field.
The waitress brings me my whiskey, and I take a huge swallow before turning to Nate. “I like the mansion, and you know what’s really cool?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“He gave me his penthouse.”
“For real?” Nate downs his whiskey. “Justin didn’t give me shit when he got married.”
That might be true, but Nate doesn’t really care. He has more money than he can spend in a lifetime. And if he ever did somehow need more, his brother would write him a check, no questions asked.
“He needs somebody to keep the white baby grand safe.”
“What white baby grand?”
“His wife’s old practice piano. He’s buying her a concert grand for their first anniversary.”
He snorts in amusement. “So you scored a penthouse in exchange for piano-sitting?”
“Yup.” I search the dance floor below. It’s been long enough that Skittles should be down there by now. But it’s impossible to tell. Too damn many people. “I’m going dancing.”
Nate looks at me like I just told him I want to roll around in a pile of dogshit. “Dancing? Now?” He knows that when I’m in a crappy mood due to my family, I prefer to drink and brood.
“Yup.” I stand and lean over the rail, scanning the crowd for red cheeriness. “I might get lucky and find the love of my life.”
Nate laughs until he nearly chokes.
Chapter Three
Pascal
Man, this line’s sooo long. How much longer are we going to have to wait? Or should I come up with something else to do to celebrate?
Except if I do, Curie’s going to roll her eyes at me…affectionately, of course, but, still, an eye-roll is an eye-roll.
According to her, Z has the best music, the best drinks and, most importantly, the best crowd. Super-famous people come here. I’ve seen pictures of models, actors and everyone in between at this club. Apparently this is the place to be if you want to be cool and have fun. And since my sister is exactly that—cool and fun—she’s been here many times.
I, on the other hand, have never been here before, which is sad considering I’m an L.A. native. But I’ve been a busy girl. Majoring in math sucked up a lot of my free time. And I went to college in Chicago, so technically I haven’t been here the whole time.
And that’s the only reason I haven’t come to this club, not because I’m a geek.
Keep lying to yourself, Pascal. You know what you really are.
Ha, whatever. I’m not going to let the annoying voice in my head ruin my evening. Actually my whole week. It’s been fantastic, and—
“Hey.” A gentle tap on my shoulder.
I blink up at a guy who’s built like the Mountain from Game of Thrones. And he looks just as scary, minus the armor. “Hi…?” I say, unsure what he wants.
“You can come in through the VIP entrance.”
Wait, what? The VIP entrance? It doesn’t compute. “Who are you?”
“The large hired help.” He smiles, which only makes him more terrifying.
Right. Must be a bouncer. But… “Me?” I place a hand over my chest. “VIP?”
“Yup.”
“Oh my God. You know I’m not anybody famous, right?” As soon as I say it, I almost smack my cheeks. Why am I measuring teeth on a gift horse?
His steely gaze sweeps over me. “Yeah, I know.”
Oh. So it’s just my lucky day, then. I shoot him my sweetest smile, hoping I can push for a little bit more. “My sister and her fiancé are with me. Can they come, too?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, why not?”
Yay! “Thank you so much! You’re awesome.”
He gives me a smirk, like he knows some secret of the universe that I’m not privy to. “My pleasure.”
I gesture at Curie and Joe to come quick, before the bouncer changes his mind. They keep lagging because she can’t decide if she wants to have their towels monogrammed and is going over options with him. Apparently, that’s the thing according to some bridal magazines. And Joe is too in love to resist the onslaught.
“Wait, why are we going over there? What did I miss?” she says.
“I got lucky. The VIP entrance, baby!”
“Wow, how did you get that?” Joe asks.
“Dunno. But I’m not complaining. Let’s go.”
Mr. Bear Arms leads us to the front of the line and holds up a
velvet barrier rope with a big smile, which makes him look like a shark before dinnertime. But I’m too excited to care. We’re in!
We walk through the door and touch down on another planet. The music is like a living thing, pulsing in my veins. I immediately feel drunk on the dynamic energy of the crowd. It tugs like a whirlpool of manic electricity, more alluring than a siren’s song. No wonder Curie loves this place.
She steers us toward a bar. “I’m going to start a tab,” she says. “My treat. You deserve this. We are celebrating.”
She gets three shots of tequila, and we all clink glasses and knock them back.
A fireball seems to ignite in my chest as the liquor goes down. It’s been a while since I drank like this. “Hell yeah.” I pump my fist. “I’m totally vindicated. That bastard. Trapping him with a baby, my ass.”
“No kidding. Who does he think he is? Can’t believe he tried that crap with you.”
“Totally. You should’ve seen the deadbeat’s face when I dumped him on the spot.”
Tom’s a freelance journalist with spotty paychecks. I’d never met a guy more eager to move in with me before. Or more shocked when I told him to pack his trash and get the hell out. I’d already told him my period isn’t really regular. He was either going to believe me or not, and I’m not keeping a guy who thinks I’m a liar.
“You know, he never apologized for going through my phone behind my back.” That’s how he discovered my period was late; I have an app that tracks it.
“Next time I see him, I’m running him over with a car,” Curie says.
I frown. “I thought you’re getting a Harley.”
“Cars hurt more. Don’t they? I’m pretty sure that’s science.”
“Yeah, they do.” You don’t need Newton to explain that. I wish I’d thought of running him over, though. It would’ve been soooo satisfying.
“Well, whatever. I’m flattening him.”
I grin. My twin is the best sister ever.
Joe gets a text, and he shows it to Curie. It’s probably about their wedding. They start giggling and talking, their heads pulled close together. They look so cute. They’ve been together since high school—one of those meant-to-be couples. And even though my love life is about as attractive as the bottom of a sewer, I’m thrilled that hers is soaring above the clouds. She deserves it.
So I let them do what engaged couples do when they’re not debating china patterns and monogrammed towels. I go to the dance floor so I can move to the music.
All day long the Hallelujah chorus has been going off in my head. Today’s just that kind of a day. I even danced to that outside the club while I was waiting.
Hallelujah, my life is awesome.
My period just ended. And I’m free!
And by free, I mean single. I would’ve celebrated sooner, but wasn’t in the mood while Aunt Flo was visiting.
It kills me I didn’t see that Tom was a rat earlier. And not just any old rat, but a dirty, mangy wharf rat. Not diseased at the moment, but he will be soon, with a case of incurable hemorrhoids. He’s an asshole, and I believe in karma. It’s insulting that he lost it over a late period, like I’m some kind of breeding goat.
And I’ll be damned if I ever beg a man to keep me, especially someone like Tom. He’s not God’s gift. If he were, he would’ve been hung like a horny elephant, ripped like a fitness model and able to fuck like a lion, which I’ve read can do it up to forty times a day.
Thankfully, Tom and I had only dated for three months before I kicked his ass to the curb, so I wasn’t overly attached to him yet. It’s nice to be over and done without any emotional baggage.
Sweat mists my skin despite the cool air blasting through the vents, but I’m having a fabulous time. There’s nothing like dancing to decompress. A couple of guys start to move in, but I’m not interested tonight. I put out the “men not needed or wanted” vibe. And they slink away, like frat boys realizing there’s no free booze.
Except for this one guy.
He moves toward me as though he’s impervious to my keep-out vibes. No asking for permission verbally or otherwise. He just joins me. Maybe I should tell him no, but I can’t, even while thinking it’s too bad his stay-away radar is broken.
Because—call me shallow—he is hot. Like, “I might need to wipe the drool off my chin” hot.
He’s tall with broad shoulders—my catnip. The planes of his face keep drawing my eye. Everything about him is perfectly proportioned, and the mathematician in me is utterly fascinated and thrilled. It’s like he’s a living embodiment of the Golden Ratio.
The totality of his appearance is like getting punched in the face with a whole new understanding of the wonders of the universe. So screw the no-man rule. I’m going to enjoy him moving with me tonight.
He starts dancing up close. Every time our bodies brush, an electric sizzle prickles over my skin. My heart thumps harder and faster, but it has nothing to do with the exertion of dancing. It’s purely him.
This close, I can smell his subtle scent—some kind of liquor and something piney. It makes my stomach flutter, like it’s full of newly hatched butterflies ready to take their first flight. It has to be the kind of excitement Columbus experienced when he finally saw land after his endless voyage.
The thing is, we aren’t even moving against each other overtly. It’s beautifully subtle, his fingertips stroking my shoulders, the contact feather- soft. Coaxing me to see where it goes.
I didn’t come out tonight to hook up, but now I’m thinking, What the hell. One-night stands were invented for this—a chemical moment you have to seize and enjoy. Otherwise I might never experience it again. And it’s the sort of thing that makes a woman wonder and regret for years to come. All the best discoveries in math and science happen by chance. Who says it can’t happen in someone’s personal life?
After five or six songs—I’m not counting—I realize that I’m thirsty. But I’m reluctant to leave and break the spell.
Leave it to fate. Tell him and see if he comes along with you.
I lean close. “I need something to drink.”
The sizzling look in his eyes makes me shiver deliciously. “Perfect. I’m starting to get thirsty, too.”
He puts his hand on the small of my back. The touch is firm and sure, and I love it. It’s like a brand, the heat radiating and spreading over my body. Even though I’m already warm from dancing, I don’t mind it at all. Actually, I move slightly closer, so my shoulders brush against his chest. Just a little.
We go to the bar. Luckily, I don’t see Curie or Joe. They’re probably dancing or making out in some dark corner. Since I don’t plan to make this more than a one-night deal, I don’t want to bother with introducing this guy. It’s better—easier—to keep things anonymous.
The hottie catches a bartender’s eye quickly. He’s very tall, after all. Probably six four or five. He flexes his hand on my back. “What you want?”
You. “Gin and tonic.” Drizzled all over you so I can lap it up. My cheeks warm at the idea. I bite my lip.
The bartender nods, then turns to my dance partner. “How about you?”
“Whiskey.”
I give the hottie a quick glance, to see if I’m still feeling the same sizzle. Yup. I text Curie.
Found a guy. Might be the one for the night.
She responds. Woohoo. Take a pic.
I hide a smile. And scare him away? Just take my word for it.
Fine, fine. Go for it. Bone voyage!
I shoot her a few laughing emojis. She and I have tracking apps on each other’s phones for safety, and I also know she won’t bother me for the rest of the night. Just in case.
The bartender gives us our drinks. The hottie reaches for his wallet, and I put a hand on his wrist.
“I have a tab,” I say.
I lean in until I’m practically on the other side of the counter and give the bartender my sister’s name, so the hottie can’t quite catch what I’m saying.
> “That’s cool, but I don’t let ladies pay for my drinks.” He hands the money over.
“Fine by me.” To be honest, I prefer that we don’t pay for each other’s anything. That way, there won’t be any weird expectations or disappointments.
I drain half my gin and tonic, much thirstier than I thought.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
Name. I hesitate. Although my body’s going yes-yes-yes, something pulls me back. Probably the same cautious nature that makes me double-check my work, even when it’s something as simple as one plus one.
“How about we don’t exchange names?” I say. “An anonymous fun night.”
“Anonymous?” He arches an eyebrow and lets his gaze skim my forehead, eyes and mouth. “I’ve seen your face, and you’ve seen mine.”
Touché. “That doesn’t mean we need to exchange names, does it? It can still be incognito. More thrilling that way.”
He smiles that easy smile that sends heat shimmering through me. “Okay, but I still need some kind of name. I don’t want to be going ‘hey you’ all night.”
That’s a point. Besides, I want to do a final test to see if he’s worth the bother. “How about a nickname? I’ll let you come up with one for me.”
He considers.
I wait, anticipation building as seconds tick by. Come on, don’t disappoint me. I want to know what he’ll come up with. Is it going to be something silly or something amazing or something surprising? His answer will determine how the rest of the evening’s going to go. No matter how pretty he is, I can’t deal with a guy who’s empty in the head.
“Skittles,” he says.
“Skittles? Like the candy?” I’m not sure exactly how I feel about being named after something chewy and diabetes-inducing. I thought he’d choose something like Gorgeous…or if he’s clever, pick something from literature or pop culture.
“They’re sweet and colorful. And cheery. Just like you.”
Oh wow. Something warm and delicious unfurls. I really like him. It’s not even his face. Or his body. Sometimes the hottest guys can make themselves utterly repulsive by opening their mouths. Like that guy who tried to pick me up a few months ago by comparing me to Marilyn Monroe, as though I would be stupid enough to buy that I look anything like that.
