Текст книги "After Tonight "
Автор книги: Annie Kelly
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After Tonight
Annie Kelly
InterMix Books, New York
AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE LLC
375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014
AFTER TONIGHT
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Annie Kelly.
Excerpt from Until Tomorrow copyright © by Annie Kelly.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-41224-8
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / November 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Until Tomorrow
About the Author
For Josh
There I was, ’way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.
—Mark Twain
Chapter One
The Girls’ Night Out
“You wrote me a to-do list? For the bar?”
“I wrote you a to-do list for the bar,” Carson confirms, flashing me a smile.
When she grins like that, the combination of short dark hair and delicate features makes my former college roommate look less like a human and more like a fairy. Or a demon disguised as a fairy, but intent on getting me to break all of my carefully constructed rules.
“Number one,” Rainey, our other perpetual partner in crime, reads from over my shoulder. “Drink an entire Long Island Iced Tea. Yes, the whole thing.”
She snorts a laugh. “Hyacinth never drinks anymore. She didn’t even drink a whole glass of champagne on New Year’s.”
Carson shrugs. “It’s always good practice to start pushing your boundaries.”
“Or demolishing them,” I grumble. “Are you serious about number two? Get out on the dance floor and shake that ‘thang’?”
“Of course! You’re a good dancer—you just need to loosen up and let yourself relax.”
“Um, I don’t have a thang to shake.”
“Dude. You have thangs to shake,” Rainey says, staring pointedly at my cleavage. “Two of them, in fact.”
“Look who’s talking,” I snort.
Of the three of us, Rainey is definitely the one who gets the most attention when we go out. She’s a bombshell in every sense of the word—blond hair, huge boobs, legs for days, all of that. Pretty much every man I’ve ever met loses his train of thought if she happens to stroll by in a skirt or gym shorts.
I fall back against the passenger’s seat of Carson’s Jeep and cross my arms. It’s not like I’ve never sown my wild oats. I’ve done my fair share of drunk karaoke, table dances, and walks of shame. And, yes, I’ve only been in one really serious relationship (and, yes, he took off for med school with my favorite fleece blanket and my Ravens mug), but that’s over now. I’ve finally reconciled the fact that Brent thinks his future and mine don’t mix. Reconciled, but not exactly forgotten. Even the memories still sting.
“My personal favorite is number three,” Carson says from the driver’s seat, glancing away from the road and over at me. “Find the hottest man in the room and take him home.”
Rainey loops her arms around my shoulders from the backseat and gives them a squeeze. “Liquor, booty-shaking, and man candy. There’s no better way to kick off the weekend than that, right, Cyn?”
I scowl a little. “You do realize that I am a teacher of America’s youth, where I need to be a role model? Someone for them to look up to?”
“You’re a student teacher,” Carson says, giving me a pointed look. “You won’t technically be a teacher until you’ve finished student teaching. That’s the way it works, dude.”
“Exactly,” Rainey says, settling back in her seat. “Besides, we’re all in the same boat here, right? Yeah, we aren’t all teaching, but I’m running the Y’s afterschool program now, and Carson’s tutoring three days a week. We all have to be role models during our work time. But during our playtime, all bets are off.”
“Oh,” I scoff, “then obviously I should just go out and Miley it up. Maybe someone will film me twerking and put it on YouTube. That’s one way to get the kids to respect me.”
Rainey shrugs. “I just want you to have fun. You’re always so serious and you work so hard. You deserve a break.”
I can’t help but smile. That’s a trademark Rainey move, the way she frets over the people she loves. At the end of the day, she really just wants to take care of others. When I first met her as an undergrad, she wanted to be a clinical psychiatrist. Then a child psychologist. Now that she’s finishing her master’s in social work, she swears she’s found her niche. Still, I’m pretty sure that, under the right circumstances, she’d give it all up and join the Peace Corps.
Carson, on the other hand, was born to be a teacher, and I’m still struggling to understand why she didn’t apply to student teach when I did. Whenever I’ve asked, she just shrugs and says something about her “working better one-on-one.” She’s a great tutor and everything, so it’s not like she’s wrong. I’ve just learned not to broach the subject with her anymore.
“So, where are we going, anyway?” I ask, trying to sound a little less pissy. These are my best friends, and I know I wouldn’t be able to deal with half the shit life has thrown at me—my dad’s poor health, my stress-filled studies, and my completely out-of-left-field breakup—had they not been by my side.
“To a new club,” Carson says offhandedly. She glances up into the rearview mirror before flicking on her blinker. “I think it’s called Cave.”
“Cave?” I frown. “I’ve never heard of it. Is it on the waterfront?”
Rainey giggles. I narrow my eyes at her.
“What?” She shakes her head. “Nothing—I’m sorry. I love you to pieces, Cyn, but sometimes you are just too clueless. It’s kind of adorable.”
“Wow. What an incredibly backhanded compliment. Thanks a lot.”
She frowns. “I didn’t mean for it to—”
“What Rainey is trying to say,” Carson interrupts, “is that Cave is not on the waterfront. It’s downtown. Way downtown. And it’s sort of a secret.”
I lift a brow at her.
“We’re going to a secret club?”
“Yep.”
“And it’s downtown? Oh, excuse me, I mean way downtown? As in no harbor, no well-lit areas, no perfectly safe bars and clubs that all the tourists hit?”
“Yep.”
“So, basically, the kind of place people ordinarily avoid going?”
“Yep.”
“Fantastic.” I start digging through my purse for my pepper spray, which, of course, is conveniently at home in my nightstand. “I wish you’d tell me shit like this before we actually do it.”
“Please,” Carson scoffs, “if I’d told you where we were going tonight, you would have Googled it. Then you would have freaked out and bailed. I know you.”
“Maybe that’s true,” I admit. “But I always Google the places we go—like that café in Little Italy. Had I not searched it first, you know we never would have heard about the health code violations.”
“And we probably would have eaten there anyway and been absolutely fine.”
I shrug. “Whatever. Wait—why would I have Googled it and bailed?”
Rainey leans forward again and pats my arm.
“We’re just thinking a little outside of the box tonight. This place we’re going is, like, ultra-exclusive. Only certain people get to go in, and we scored the invite.”
Carson winks at me. “It’s a little different than our usual Power Plant Live! experience. No ‘I-just-turned-twenty-one’ twits trying to mount the security guys, no tiki-bar bullshit. This place is a little . . . darker.”
I chew my lip. “Darker how?”
Carson turns the car onto Lombard Street. She doesn’t look at me this time when she speaks.
“Darker in the sense that there will be a different clientele than you’re used to.”
I throw up my hands.
“The two of you are the furthest thing from vague on a normal day, so what’s up with the wordplay? Just spit it out. Are we going to some illegal poker ring or something? Oh—wait, God, are you taking me to a strip club again?”
They both have a good laugh at that one.
“Just trust us, okay?” Rainey says. “I know it’s hard but, believe me, you’re going to have an amazing night tonight. Just try to loosen up and relax, for once.”
“Right.”
I can’t relax on my best day, so I highly doubt I’ll manage to do it now. What with my dissertation due date looming and my job at the Franklin School, my plate is beyond full. Last night at dinner, Dad asked me if I was the one who needed assisted living instead of him.
“I hear Rocky’s roommate just busted outta here, princess. I’ll bet I can get you in for cheap!”
I know he was kidding, especially considering the fact that I didn’t want him stuck in assisted living in the first place.
Carson swings the car into a parking space at the end of a dark alley and, peering out the side window, I swallow hard. I’m used to well-lit garages at the harbor or taking taxis to Federal Hill. My comfort zone is screaming for me to stay in the car, buckle up, and hold tightly to the “oh shit” handle on the ceiling above the passenger door.
“We’re here,” she says brightly, as though we’ve just arrived at the park for a picnic. “Everyone got their phones?”
“Yup.” Rainey sounds equally as happy and starts bouncing a little bit in her seat.
“Okay—if we get separated or we need to bail, we have to text and respond. Got it?”
I stare at Carson. “Why would we get separated?”
She shrugs.
“It’s a big place. You never know.”
I glance doubtfully out the window at the backs of the row houses that line the street. I don’t know how in the world a club large enough to lose yourself in could be hiding in one of these narrow buildings.
“Alright, let’s go already!” Rainey says, tumbling from the backseat and out into the night. I take one last deep breath of safe, Jeep-bound, not-inside-a-strange-club-yet air, then open my door and climb out.
“You know,” Carson says to me, clicking the lock button on her key fob, then checking the door handle for good measure, “I’m really glad you decided to rock the boots tonight. You look killer.”
I glance down past my deep green V-neck sweater and skinny jeans to the almost-knee-high boots Rainey had lent me. I agreed to wear them only after she convinced me that I didn’t look like a prostitute because “prostitutes don’t wear sweaters from Ann Taylor.”
“Yeah, you look great. People won’t even recognize you,” Rainey says, nodding enthusiastically.
I run a hand over my hair, which is now beginning to recurl due to my shoddy flat ironing, and glare at them both. With a grumble, I start stomping toward the sidewalk.
“Uh, you’re going the wrong way.” I turn to see Carson’s arms crossed over her chest and a smirk on her face. Rainey’s already skipping along the brick pathway between two buildings, dodging trash bags and recycle bins. Sighing, I pivot on one heel and walk back. When I reach her side, Carson pats my back.
“We’re just trying to build you up, you know? You should feel good about yourself. You just don’t seem to do all that great a job of making yourself feel that way on your own.”
I bite my lip, then lean my shoulder against hers.
“I know. Thank you. I really will try to just let go and have a good time tonight.”
“That’s my girl!” She grabs my hand and squeezes it hard before half dragging me after Rainey. This time, I’m smiling in anticipation. I may not know what I’m in for, but, for once, I’m actually excited about the unknown.
Chapter Two
Great Expectations
That feeling lasts for all of three minutes.
“Are you serious?” I hiss in Carson’s ear.
We’re standing in line in a dark corridor, which had originated at the entrance of a fairly innocuous-looking row house. As we descended, though, this tunnel-like hallway has become about as terrifying as anywhere I’ve ever been. The walls around us don’t even look like walls—they’re rocky and almost shiny in their dampness. The floor is dirt and there are lamps hanging from above us that are made of animal skulls. At least, I’m assuming they’re animal skulls because they don’t look human, which is about the only consolation I can find as I glance around. The air is thick and humid, but chilly, like we’re stuck in a cave. Because we are, I suppose.
I never thought I was claustrophobic, but this place feels like a cold, wet grave, and I’m willing to claw my way back out if I have to.
“I know it looks sketchy, but just trust me—once we’re inside, you’ll be much happier. I promise.” Carson’s face is solemn and I roll my eyes.
“You said you’ve never been here.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then how can you promise me anything?”
She shrugs. “I dunno. I thought it would make you feel better.”
As the line moves forward, I realize people are disappearing behind a thick black curtain. When we get to the front, I try to peer through a crack in the fabric, but it’s completely dark on the other side, too.
“Names?”
A man with thick, glittery eye makeup and a black derby hat stares at me expectantly.
I blink at him. “Um—Hyacinth?”
Carson pushes past me.
“Hi,” she says, giving the doorman her most winning smile. “Carson Tucker. Party of three. And our password is ‘leather.’”
Password?
I turn to ask her about it, but she’s still grinning at our sparkly host. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Carson’s preferences always trend a little more artsy than mine. That, and she’s a sucker for Twilight’s twinkly vampires.
The doorman scans the screen of a tablet, then looks up. “IDs, please.”
Each of us flashes our license and Sparkle Guy presses a rubber stamp against the backs of our hands. Once we’ve been vetted and stamped, he gestures to the black curtain and gives us a polite little bow.
“Right this way, ladies. Enjoy yourselves.”
Carson gives him a lingering look, but Rainey shoves her forward through the curtain. As I follow behind them, I realize why I wasn’t able to see through to the other side—there are actually more curtains, all thick black velvet with a silver thread running through the fabric. We get to the fourth or fifth one and, this time, the curtain moves for us, pulled up and back by some kind of mechanical arm.
“Good evening. Welcome to Cave.” A woman is standing in front of us, wearing the same glittery makeup and hat as the doorman. The only difference is that she’s naked—like naked-naked—save a metallic green body-painted bikini.
Rainey gives her a slow, wide-eyed once-over. “You look awesome. Where can I get that done?”
“Vestibule number four is the body-painting station,” the woman says pleasantly. She gestures to the space behind her before launching into a clearly practiced spiel. “As you explore, please remember to be mindful of the people around you. Everyone’s privacy is imperative. Per the club regulations, you should not give anyone your real name, but an alias you can identify yourself with. For example, my alias is Ivy.”
Of course it is.
I guess Carson senses my discomfort, because she grabs my arm and pulls me over to the side as another group enters in behind us.
“Listen,” she says, gripping my shoulder, “this place is a fantasy club. It specializes in getting people to lose their inhibitions in a safe, anonymous way.”
“A what club?”
“A fantasy club,” she repeats, gesturing to the room around us.
Now that my eyes are adjusting to the dim light, I can see that the space is massive. Down a handful of steps, there’s a faint blue glow coming from the base of what looks to be a wide, circular bar. At the surrounding tables, I can just begin to make out the outlines of faces and bodies; it’s as though they’re manifesting from some kind of alcohol-induced mist. There’s a girl wearing tight leather pants that are laced up the sides like a corset. A handful of men in suits sit at a high-hat table, while two men wearing denim and rocking Mohawks are walking back past the bar and through a dim entryway. Which is when I notice the hallways.
There are eight of them, all dark and all narrow, jutting out and away from the main area like the legs of a spider. Above each entrance is a sign. When I squint, I can make out a few of them.
Bondage.
Body Art.
Power Exchange.
And the somewhat less terrifying Dance Floor.
Rainey points at the closest sign—Power Exchange—saying, “People come here to explore their interests.”
“Interests?”
I’m not trying to sound like a moron. I think I just need to have it spelled out for me. I’ve got a healthy imagination, but never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought I’d end up being in a place like this.
“Sexual interests. Fetishes,” Rainey supplies helpfully. I stare at her, then at Carson, who shrugs.
“There are different areas of the club where you can try different things—you can get your body painted, like our friend back there, or try wearing a blindfold. If you’re feeling a little more daring, I’ve heard the handcuffs and restraints are a pretty popular station, too.”
I’ve never actually felt my heart stop before, considering I’m alive and all, but I’m pretty sure it just did.
“You brought me to a sex club?” I sort of squeak. “Are you insane?”
Carson holds up both hands.
“It’s not a sex club—I swear. It’s just a place for people to try something new and have a drink or two while doing it. Look around—most people aren’t wearing costumes or getting tugged around on leashes or anything. Part of the fun is just being here. It’s like Halloween in Fell’s Point or Mardi Gras in New Orleans. It’s an experience.” I bite down hard on my lip and look around again. As more and more people filter in through the curtain behind us, I can’t help but admit that they do look a lot more like me than they do like Poison Ivy or Sparkle Boy. There are plenty of jeans and skirts and collared shirts.
Of course, there are also a few women sporting the same kind of sexy boots Rainey convinced me to wear tonight. Unlike me, however, most of those women are clad in patent leather from head to toe. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry—before, I was worried about looking like a prostitute. Now all I can think is how I must look like a dominatrix.
“I swear to you,” Carson says now, holding a hand over her heart, “we’re just here to look around. You only get in with an invite, and my brother’s friend Micah is one of the bartenders. He’s the one who got us on the list.”
“Come on, Cyn.”
Rainey is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. It has the unintended consequence of making her blond hair bounce on her shoulders—and her boobs bob up and down within the confines of her tight black top.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” she insists.
“Uh, except my to-do list.”
“Well, yeah,” she grins. “Except for that.” I examine my fingernails; my French manicure is glowing in the black-lit area around us.
“So, what you’re telling me,” I say slowly, “is that we are at this freaky club and I’m supposed to find a hot guy to bring home? What if I end up with a toe fetishist or someone who wants to tie me up?”
“You won’t.” Carson sounds confident. “You read people better than anyone I know. You’ll be able to see through all the bluster and bullshit covering up some kind of weirdo and his penchant for vinyl boots and riding crops.”
I snort, then shake my head.
“Fine. Let’s just get a drink before I lose my nerve and bolt out of here.”
Rainey lets out a whoop and throws her arms around me. “We are going to have so much fun!”
I hug her back weakly, then watch two men in dog collars walk past us.
What in the hell have I gotten myself into?
We step down into the sunken bar area, and I try to slow my breathing. Even the act of getting a drink in this place has the adverse effect of making me feel like I’m stepping in front of a firing squad.
“Three Long Island Iced Teas,” Rainey tells a female bartender, who is clad in some sort of blue rubber suit that leaves nothing to the imagination. She cocks a well-sculpted brow at the three of us.
“We don’t do Long Islands. All our drinks are house specialties.”
“Fine. Three of the strongest drinks you make.”
Rainey tosses down her credit card. The bartender snatches up the Visa and plunks down three cardboard coasters. Carson’s already perched on a barstool like she belongs here—and she sort of does, I suppose. She’s far more adventurous than I’ve ever been, and her rocker-chick vibe does her favors in this sort of environment. Tonight, she decided on a short denim skirt with fishnets and a Def Leppard T-shirt. When she leans in closer to the black lights, her dark hair looks almost blue.
I don’t see the drinks arrive, but when I look back at the bar, there are three tall glasses sitting in a row like good little soldiers. Well, if soldiers were fluorescent green and topped with a wedge of pineapple. And a miniature plastic skull.
“A toast,” Carson says, handing out the drinks. “To the women I love the most and the sisters I never had. May we always be happy, healthy, and kicking ass.”
“Amen!” I smile as our glasses clink and we all take a sip.
“Fuck me!” Rainey gasps, coughing a little. “That is strong!”
Even Carson, who can drink most people under the table, has a pinched look on her face as though she’s tasted something sour.
I, on the other hand, actually kind of like the taste. I mean, yeah, it’s strong—but it’s also fruity. And tart. Like a Jolly Rancher mixed with a Sour Patch Kid. I take another long sip.
“I think it’s good,” I say when I’ve swallowed.
The girls stare at me for a second, then Carson shakes her head with a grin.
“I should’ve known—one taste of the hard stuff and we’d lose this girl forever. Come on, let’s get out there and dance.”
“Ooh, yes, let’s!” Rainey says, hopping up from her stool. She points to the Dance Floor sign. “Time to make good on number two on the list, Cyn.”
I swallow more of my drink.
“No, you guys go—I want to get a little more liquid courage before I head out there.”
Carson cocks her head.
“Are you chickening out?”
“No—I swear, I will dance tonight. I just want to get a little more . . . acclimated to our surroundings.”
She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head.
“We’re not leaving you at the bar by yourself, Hyacinth.”
I give her a half shrug.
“I’m a big girl, Cars. Besides, I’m not by myself—I’m here with Mystique.” I grin, gesturing to our blue-covered bartender. “And isn’t the idea for me to meet a man? I can’t actually do that with you guys babysitting me then, can I?”
“Yeah, Cars. Don’t be such a cock block,” Rainey chimes in.
Carson rolls her eyes, but she’s already sliding off her stool.
“Okay, if you’re sure . . .”
“I’ll be fine.” I wave a hand. “Go. Dance. Come back in ten minutes when you think my drink will be done.”
Rainey chuckles. “At this rate, you’ll only need five.”
I shrug, then take another sip. “Well, then, when you come back, maybe I’ll have finished yours, too.”
She links an arm with Carson. “That would blow my mind—I say do it.”
I watch my two best friends march off in the direction of the dance floor. Once they’ve disappeared through the doorway, I dig my phone out of my purse and peer at the screen.
No missed calls from Holly Fields.
Is that bad? Why hasn’t Dad called? He said he’d call before he went to bed.
I don’t bother leaving the bar for privacy; I just push 1 on my speed dial and cover my free ear with one hand.
“Holly Fields Assisted Living.”
“Hey, Bridget, it’s Hyacinth.”
“Hey, Cyn!” I can practically hear her toothy grin through the phone. “How are you, honey? I never see you anymore.”
The music from the dance floor begins to pound with an even louder, faster beat, and I clamp my palm down tighter against my ear.
“Yeah—I know. It’s been crazy lately. Listen, my dad never called me to check in tonight. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yeah, honey. You know those ridiculous men—up playing poker or watching some MVA fight.”
“MMA?” I ask, smiling. She sort of huffs, an exasperated little sigh.
“It’s all the same to me—plumb ridiculous, I tell you what.”
I shake my head, grinning. “Look, if you see him, can you just tell him I’m out with friends and I’ll call him in the morning?”
“Sure thing. And good for you, honey. You should go kick up your heels once in a while.”
“Thanks, Bridget. I’ll see you Thursday.”
I hang up, then rub my now-pinched earlobe. I know Dad wants me to have a life of my own, but I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of my responsibilities when it comes to caring for him. I look up at the ceiling and take another long sip of my drink. It was one of the reasons Brett broke it off with me in the end, I think. He hated the idea of being saddled with a girlfriend whose father might actually need more of her, as time went on, not less. He wanted to be able to travel and stay out late and be spontaneous. I was sort of the antithesis to that dream.
The sad truth is that most women my age are home right now with their boyfriends or fiancés or husbands.
But me?
No, not me. I just called to check in with my father from the bar on a Saturday night, when I should be finding someone willing to be a part of Carson’s to-do list.
“Let me guess—your husband?”
The husky voice makes me look up immediately, but it takes me a good ten seconds to process the words. For the first nine, I’m too busy staring into a pair of deep, denim blue eyes.
I’ve seen good-looking men before, of course. But this good-looking? Only Hollywood spawns men this hot. He’s got one of those faces that you’d call pretty if the edges weren’t so angular. His closely cropped hair and square jaw give him the look of someone you wouldn’t want to mess with, but the warmth and humor in his gaze makes me think he’s about to laugh at something.
Wait.
Is he about to laugh at me?
“What?” I ask him, finally managing to form words around my tongue.
“Your husband.” He gestures to the phone still in my hand. “Were you trying to explain to him where you were without saying ‘I’m at a sex club that promotes bondage and nudity’?”
“Oh.” I glance down at my phone, which I’m currently clutching as though it’s a lifeline. “Um, no. That was not my husband.”
“Boyfriend?”
I shake my head.
“Hmm.” His eyes sort of narrow. “Calling a cab, then? Trying to get rescued from the dog collars and glitter?”
I smile at that. “No—it’s not that scary here. It just takes a little . . . adjusting.”
“You’ve never been here before?”
I shake my head. “First time. I came with some friends.”
Blue Eyes nods, his gaze flickering up at the Dance Floor sign.
“Yeah, I know. I saw them.” His mouth kicks up on one side. “I saw you first, though.”
“Oh,” I say again, feeling my face warm. I try to busy myself by stowing away my phone in my purse and grabbing my neon-colored cocktail. I don’t even remember the protocol for when a man is talking to me. I was with Brent for way too freaking long.
“So . . . uh . . .” I look back up at Blue Eyes and clear my throat. “Um . . . do you want a drink?”
This time, his eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles. “Aren’t I supposed to ask you that?”
He is, isn’t he? Oh, God, I am the worst at this!
“Well, I actually have a drink,” I say, gesturing to my glass.
“Hmm.” He crosses his arms—tan and muscular—over his chest—also tan and muscular, or so it would seem from the V of skin peeking out from his shirt collar. “Seems like it’s getting close to empty, though.”
I rattle the ice cubes at the bottom and give him a little smile. “Hmm. Seems like you’re right.”
See, I can do this.
I can flirt.
Awkward Hyacinth: 0.
Sexy, Confident Hyacinth: 1.
“So, then it seems like I should get you another,” Blue Eyes suggests.
I gaze at him through my lashes, and my mouth suddenly feels very dry. Men this hot usually take one look at Rainey and never see past her. After another few seconds of staring like an idiot, I sort of shrug, then smile shyly.
“If you want to.”
“Oh, I want to.” He winks, then pushes himself up to standing. “Don’t go anywhere, beautiful.”
He saunters down to the other end of the bar and, out of the corner of my eye, I watch him chat with the bartender. Her body language is anything but subtle; she’s practically shoving her rubber-clad cleavage in his face. And, yet, his piercing blue gaze returns to me, and I see that smile again. He’s got those mouth parentheses I love—you know, the indents that are like their own kind of smirk on either side of his lips? I’ve always liked them far better than mere dimples.
I’m starting to feel flushed and a little dizzy. Tomorrow, I’ll recognize this sensation as “tipsy” but, right now, I’m going to call it “confidence.” Because the hottest man I’ve ever seen is carrying a drink toward me, wearing my favorite kind of smile, and the music blasting from the dance floor has a throbbing, insistent beat that is repeating a mantra in my mind—Number Three, Number Three, Number Three.
Find the hottest man in the room and take him home.
I lick my bottom lip and smile.
I think he’ll do.
“So,” he says as he approaches, setting the drink down in front of me, “what do you do? When you’re not exploring your fetishes, of course.” I smile, then swallow a sip of my new drink, which seems even more potent than the last. “I’m finishing up my last semester of grad school, actually.”
His brows raise. “Wow. You don’t look old enough to have a master’s degree.”
