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“When?”
“What?”
“How?”
“Brad, I?—”
“Who took you?” He gets closer and closer, close enough to smell the lies. “Come on, Pearl.” Nose to nose. “Talk.”
I look into his eyes, frozen. He blinks slowly. Looks at my lips. Scowls mildly. “Brad,” I whisper, starting to shake with the effort to remain standing.
“Pearl,” he breathes. “Talk to me.”
I don’t want to talk. Right now, I want to kiss him.
Oh my God.
No.
I raise my hands, ready to shove him away, but the door swinging open distracts me, and Brad flies around. Nolan stands on the threshold, looking between us. “Everything all right?”
I don’t answer, and I don’t give Brad a chance to either. I collect my glass and towel and rush out, feeling the pressure easing from my shoulders as I hurry to the restrooms. As soon as I’m alone, I fight to catch my breath. “Shit,” I whisper, falling against the wall and sliding down to my arse. What the hell was that?
4
BRAD
* * *
Nolan watches her dash off before slowly turning a questioning stare my way. Can’t say I like it, and I truly hope my deadly glare warns him not to say a fucking word. Don’t you fucking dare. I already know this is fucked up. I don’t need him, or anyone, telling me how fucked up. James was wary. Danny too. I soon put that to bed. I know the others have wondered. So, yeah, I need to stay away from Pearl and ensure any suspicions remain squashed. “I’ll be out in a minute,” I say, and he nods, backing out and closing the door quietly.
The moment he’s gone, I bury my fist in a wall and fire a few fucks. I’d fire a gun if I had one within reach.
Right in my temple.
I shake my fist and drop into the chair, raking my good hand through my hair before slamming my head back. “Fucked up, Brad. Really fucking fucked up.” I pull the drawer open, grab the Marlboros, and light up, exhaling loudly. A few deep breaths. Closing my eyes for a few minutes. Just . . . breathing. Smoking.
Doesn’t work.
I’m so fucking exhausted, lacking the energy I really need right now.
To ignore her.
To resist her.
I stub out my smoke and dip into my inside pocket, pulling out my savior, racking up a line on the desk, before rolling a note and snorting it. I drop back in my chair, the hit instant. Yes. I feel every muscle unravel, my mind clearing.
That. Will. Do.
I push myself up, swipe off the remnants of white stuff from the desk and head out, significantly calmer than five minutes ago. More in control. By the time I make it onto the club floor, the first of three girls interviewing is on the stage, the pole in her hand. I keep my eyes away from the bar and lower to a chair. “Get on with it,” I say to Nolan.
He quickly goes to the foot of the stage, and the girl, an attractive blonde, crouches in her killer platforms, her generous chest more or less pressed into Nolan’s face. It’s a tactic I’m familiar with. It never works. Has with Nolan, though. Once. He won’t be snared by that net again.
I’m a Slave 4 U by Britney Spears kicks in—fuck my life—Nolan returns to the table, and the girl starts to dance. She’s good. Got all the moves, the expressions, the sultry, magnetic appeal most men like. But I can’t appreciate any of it, my shoulders constantly rolling, uncomfortable.
My mind focuses elsewhere.
On her.
