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The beat pounds through the walls of the club like a second heartbeat, the bass syncing with my own pulse as I push through the throng of bodies. It's a living, breathing organism this place—sweat-slicked skin and spilled cocktails anointing the dance floor. I'm a shark among the colorful fish, unnoticed yet entirely in control.
Abby's not hard to find. She's the sun in a solar system of ogling planets. The pink streak in her hair is a beacon, a defiant flare against the conformity. She moves with purpose behind the bar, oblivious to the way she captivates, the way the light plays off her curves and creates shadows I want to explore.
"Hey, handsome, lost in the crowd?" a voice purrs next to me.
"Something like that," I reply, eyes never leaving Abby. The woman laughs, a sound that wants to be seductive but comes off as trying too hard.
"Can I buy you a drink?" she tries again, leaning in, her perfume invading my space.
"No thanks," I dismiss, sharper than intended. I'm not here for small talk or flirtations that lead nowhere. I'm here for Abby, and Abby alone.
"Suit yourself," she huffs, finally taking the hint and slinking back into the mass of gyrating bodies.
I watch, entranced, as Abby deals with drunken requests and fending off hands that linger too long. There's a steel in her spine, a fire that tells me she's no damsel, but every knight has his quest, right?
And she's mine. My very own grail.
Time to get closer. I abandon my post at the bar and weave through the crowd, each step deliberate, calculated. There's a hunger in my veins, a craving only she can satisfy, and it's driving every action now.
"Another round of shots!" someone bellows as I pass, the cheer echoed by a group of partygoers who don't seem to care about tomorrow's hangover.
"Sorry, excuse me," I say absently as I bump shoulders with a couple locked in their own private world, their mouths fused together in sloppy desperation.
And then, there she is, close enough for me to smell her—a mix of sweet sweat and something floral that wraps around my senses and tugs at something primal within.
"Here's your change," Abby says to a customer, her voice a melody above the chaos, unaware of the storm she's brewing inside me. Her eyes haven't met mine yet, but when they do, I'll be ready to drown in whatever depths they hold.
"Got room for one more order?" I ask, my voice low, almost a growl, as I take the vacated spot at the bar.
She turns, and oh, those eyes. They're oceans, and I'm about to dive in headfirst.
CHAPTER THREE
Abby
I look up and see the guy from the other night, tall and confident, with a stride that owns the room even before his foot lands on the polished floor. There's a buzz in the air, the kind that tells you someone important just stepped in. I remember him, how could I not? But this time, it's different—no other man to share his thunder, just him, alone, radiating that silent power.
"Evening," I greet, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear as he settles into one of my section's booths. "What can I get you?"
"Hey." His voice is deep, smooth like aged whiskey—warm enough to send a shiver down anyone's spine. I catch myself staring a little too long. He holds my gaze, unwavering, and there's something about the intensity in those eyes that feels like a challenge. It's as if he’s not just looking at me. He's seeing right through the façade of the perky waitress.
And that unsettles the hell out of me.
"Start with a scotch, neat," he says, handing back the menu without so much as a glance at it. His attention doesn't stray, thumb brushing against the edge of the table, fingers drumming a silent rhythm. "And keep them coming."
"Sure thing," I reply, scribbling down the order even thought it’s easy enough to remember. It's hard to ignore the heat that crawls up my neck under his steady gaze. Most guys come in here throwing glances like darts, hoping one will stick. But not this guy. He looks at me like he's already hit the bullseye and the game's just begun.
"Anything to eat, or are you sticking with liquid dinner?" I quip, aiming for nonchalant but feeling anything but.
"Let's see how the first course goes," he counters, a corner of his mouth inching upward in a half-smile that suggests he's not talking about the food.
"Right," I say, biting down on my lip to hide the smile threatening to break through my professional facade. "I'll be right back with your drink."
He nods, and only then does he release me from the weight of his gaze, allowing me to pivot and head for the bar. But even as I walk away, I can sense his eyes trailing after me, a silent tether pulling taut with every step.
I weave through the sea of gyrating bodies, tray balanced on my hand like a seasoned acrobat. The club's pulse pounds in my ears, a rhythm I'm all too familiar with. But it's not the bass that has my heart thumping—it's the sight of him, the man who seems to have an orbit of his own amidst the chaos. As I approach him, a flicker of disquiet stirs within me.
