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“Be specific,” he orders.
“I wanted to drink and dance,” I admit through gritted teeth, feeling myself blushing again and hating myself for it. “And Jersey is small and I didn’t want to bump into my usual high school crowd. All the seniors are going to stupid house parties, which I don’t like. I knew I could probably sneak into this place because it’s so…”
Full of underage bimbos, I’m tempted to add, but I don’t.
“It’s New York.” I heave a sigh, shrugging with one shoulder. “I knew we’d eventually get in somewhere.”
“Drink and dance?” he repeats coldly. I doubt Graham has ever danced. I know he drinks but he seems to be too icy and calculated to do something as fun as dancing. I offer a little nod, feeling a tad less scared but a lot more intrigued. He turns to the wall behind his desk There are long shelves full of expensive liquor behind his desk. They cover up the whole goddamn wall, to be exact. With his hands knotted behind his back, he examines the liquor like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world before plucking one full bottle of scotch. He takes out four shot glasses from the drawer in his desk and places them in a straight line. After which he unscrews the cap and pours the alcohol into all of them with the skill of a bartender. I flinch. Is he going to get drunk in front of me just to show me that he can and I can’t? What a douche.
A hot douche, my brain corrects, quite unnecessarily. He is my step-dad. I shouldn’t even think about it.
“What song did you say was playing? The one I should have my DJ fired for?”
Oh, shit. He is definitely smirking. And hot damn, he has a dimple. Just the one, on his left cheek. He is so perfectly imperfect. This is not looking good for me. I’ve lived with this man for three years and I’ve only just noticed that he has one dimple. I love dimples, goddammit.
“My Boo by Ghost Town.” I swallow. I actually really like that song, but it’s so nineties. Graham plops down on his executive chair and rolls himself toward the giant Apple screen. He taps his keyboard a few times before the familiar song starts blasting through his speakers.
Then, he leans back on his chair and stares at me closely.
“What?” I ask, knowing that my eyes are wide and that I look, in all probability, like a deer caught in headlights.
“Dance. Drink.” He moves one of the full shot glasses across the desk and in my direction, some of the liquid spilling over the expensive oak. “That’s what you’re here for, no?”
“You’re going to let me drink? I’m not even eighteen.” I know in Europe they start drinking at eighteen, but…this is America. Surely he will not risk his ass and…oh, right, I forgot who I was talking with.
“My old man let me have my first drink when I was thirteen,” he informs me, looking relaxed and bored with the conversation. I lick my lips and glance at his every time I think I can get away with it.
“Yeah, but that’s in Ireland. You guys are serious about getting drunk.”
There it is again that almost smile. God, he is hot. In a dark, brooding, don’t-fuck-with-me way. No wonder my mom tried to get in his pants after they got married.
Dahl! Shut up. Stop thinking about your step-dad that way.
Though he and I both know that he is way too young to play daddy to me.
“It’s not fun without having other people around.” I shift in my chair uncomfortably.
“Oh?” He cocks up one eyebrow, playing innocent but looking like the very thing I’d like to corrupt me.
“I’m around. That should be enough. Drink.” He motions with his head to the shot.
I hesitate for just a moment before downing the whole thing and smacking the shot glass on the table. Fuck it. I need a drink to loosen up. My step-dad is playing mind games with me and I have no idea where it’s going. I don’t even have time to get over the sharp sting in my throat before he pushes the second shot in my direction.
“More.”
I down the second drink, swallowing the burn in my throat.
“Third time’s a charm,” he says the second my empty shot glass hits his desk. Even though his voice is low and the loud music in the background is screaming at me to have fun with my boo, I can still hear him clearly. I drink once again, and feel the familiar, comfortable buzz alcohol gives you.
I smile. “Give me the fourth one.” I reach for it. His warm, rough hand touches mine and stops me, and our eyes meet. The electricity between us makes me clutch my thighs together and I’m startled because what the fuck? This is not supposed to be this way. But my nipples tend to disagree and they’re pointing right at him. The worst part is that I know that he can probably see it since the dress is so tight and I didn’t want to wear a bra. Thankfully, his eyes remain on mine. I say I’m grateful, but actually, he might as well examine my vagina with a magnifying glass because he can undress a woman with his eyes like nobody’s business.
“That’s for me, sweetheart. Now start dancing.”
“Here? Alone?” I blink.
“Again.” He looks into his full shot thoughtfully, and hot-damn, his cheekbone situation is intense. He could be a movie
star were it not for a semi-vicious scar adorning the left side of his face. Although even that’s kind of hot because I bet there’s a good story behind it.
