Page 8 of Last Resort

“Kind of a waste using them on me, don’t you think?”

“Then come with us and it won’t be a waste,” she says as she grabs both of my arms and squeezes. “I know you don’t feel your best right now, but maybe some girlfriend time and cocktail therapy will help cheer you up.”

“I don’t know,” I murmur. “Will it . . .”

“Will it what? Look bad to go out and let loose after being held back for so long?” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Of course, it won’t. People do it all the time. C’mon. Get dressed up and come with me. I have a dress that’s perfect for you. And if you want to leave at any time, we can.” She pulls me in for a quick hug with her one lash on and one lash off. “It’s okay to want to feel alive, Sutton.”

CHAPTER THREE

Sutton

Twelve Hours Ago

Club Coquette is everything it advertises. Swanky. High-end. Overwhelming. Ridiculously pretty people flit about from table to table in the VIP lounge area where Lizzy has set up court. Music plays, its bass thumping a dull throb but not overwhelming, as the dance floor is in a separate area on the other side of the bar.

The lights are dim and the conversation a low hum as people flirt, mingle, and decompress after a hard day’s work.

And then there’s me. A little tipsy, simply enjoying myself as I stand at the far end of the bar, waiting for the bartender so I can order another drink.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down at it with a resigned sigh. I’m not sure if I want it to be Clint—so I know that at least I’ll be missed—or if I don’t want it to be as a means to prove that I was right; I mean nothing to him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice from my left says.

“You wouldn’t do what?” I reply in reflex without looking, my attention lifting from the text I haven’t read and over to him.

Him, as in the devastatingly handsome—devastating everything—man who is standing a few feet from me. I’m met with a pair of amber-colored eyes that hold amusement as he studies me. He has dark lashes, a strong jaw, and a mouth that I already know was made for sin.

I probably look like an idiot as I stare at him, mouth open and mute, while I take in his dark dress shirt and rolled-up shirtsleeves that showcase sexy forearms and strong hands.

My gaze finds its way back up his chest and broad shoulders, over his lips that break out into a half-cocked grin, to meet his eyes again. He lifts his eyebrows as if to ask me if I like what I see.

“I wouldn’t answer that text,” he finally responds when he knows he has my full attention.

“Why’s that?” I turn to face him and lean my hip against the edge of a barstool. He’s . . . beautiful for lack of a better word. Beautiful, when I’ve never considered a man to be beautiful before in my life.

What in the hell is he doing talking to me?

“Because any man who is texting you instead of being here by your side isn’t worth your time.”

“And let me guess, you are?”

He takes a sip from his drink but keeps those eyes on mine over the rim of his glass. “That remains to be seen now, doesn’t it?”

I snort and give a roll of my eyes. “No offense, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.” I may say the words but hell if I can’t stop staring at the man. I’m not sure if it’s the dim lights of the club or just him in general, but he gives off a vibe that makes me want to step closer and see if it’s real.

“Why’s that?”

“What’ll you have?” the bartender interrupts.

“Tom Collins, please,” I say and slide a ten-dollar bill across the bar top.

“Another Johnnie Walker Blue,” the man beside me says as he holds up his glass.

“Thank you, but I don’t need you to buy my drink.”

“I’m aware you don’t,” he says, pulling my money back and putting it in front of me as he replaces it with a twenty. “But oblige me.”

Oblige him? Like that’s a term you hear someone use every day.