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Danika rolls her eyes and turns onto her back, adjusting herself in the sun. Any other girl would be pissed. Accuse me of flirting—which I kind of am— and probably throw a fit. Not my girl. She knows I’m one-hundred percent hers and there’s nothing to worry about.
Mariella bats her thick lashes, which are probably fake. Her red lips lift at the corners as she gives me a once over. Here, in a town where no one but Danika knows me, I don’t bother wearing my undershirt at the pool. Danika has already seen my scars, both real and emotional. She’s not ashamed of them, I shouldn’t be either.
Mariella takes Danika’s empty glass and my bottle. I follow her as she walks back towards the poolside bar. “Hey,” I say, quickening my pace to be beside her. “I have a question.”
“No,” she replies, her lips lifting at the corners. “You can’t have my number.”
This just got awkward. I rub the back of my neck and smirk. “Not what I was looking for.”
Mariella blushes and looks down at her hands. “Oh, sorry.” She clears her throat and meets my gaze again. “It’s my first day here. A lot of people have asked me for it. What’s up?”
“You look to be about our age, I want to take my girl out tonight. Any suggestions?”
Mariella arches a brown and gives me a once over, really studying my features this time. “How old are you? Really?”
“Twenty-one,” I say, flashing her my signature crooked grin.
“Alright,” Mariella says on an exhale. She grabs a bar square and scribbles an address onto it. “Here. Tell them Ria sent you and you’ll have no problems getting in. If you do, hand the bouncer the napkin.”
“Thanks.” I turn back to the pool when she whistles, grabbing my attention.
“Don’t you want your drinks?”
47
Danika
The driver stops in front of a dimly lit building on a dark street. Aside from a big man guarding a door, there’s no one outside. No signs of life. This street—Wicker Street—looks like the kind of place where people get stabbed and left to die. The tiny hairs on my body bristle. I don’t like it here.
“Are you sure this is right?” I ask the driver, a middle aged Hispanic woman.
“Si. Yes. 1800 Wicker street,” she says.
Logan takes my hand and brings the palm to his lips, wrapping a thin blanket of comfort around me. “Relax, baby. Tonight is supposed to be fun.”
Logan gets out of the car first and holds the door. I huddle close to his body. He’s got all of the money and our IDs. Someone can’t sneak up and snatch my purse—because I don’t have one—but that doesn’t make me feel any safer.
The bouncer at the door looks down his nose at us. He’s huge. I’m not just talking large, even if his arms are the size of my head, but tall. The man fills the whole doorway and then some. He grunts and shakes his head. “I don’t think so, kid.”
“Ria sent us,” Logan says with a confidence I can only dream of having in a place like this.
Apparently, Ria was our poolside waitress, who’s shift conveniently ended right after her chat with Logan. Not gonna lie, I was grateful. I know Logan isn’t a cheater. He had plenty of opportunities to stray or break up with me in the six weeks we were kind of dating, but he stayed faithful. Even without the title of a boyfriend, he showed me that I’m the only one he wants. Unfortunately, knowing this doesn’t stop me from feeling jealous when pretty girls hit on him.
“Nice try,” the bouncer chuckles. “Go around front and wait in line like everyone else.”
This is a back entrance? I look around again at the unmarked doors and dumpsters. Makes a little more sense now. Except, why are we not at the front?
Logan fishes in his pocket for the napkin Ria gave him. He holds it out for the bouncer, who takes and inspects it. “You’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch. You know that?”
“Does this mean we’re allowed in?” I ask.
The dude chuckles, shaking his large belly and steps to the side. “Yes, ma’am it does.”
When I think of a night club, I think of what you see in movies or TV shows. Flashing lights. Loud music. And lots of people. After walking through a dark hallway, that leads to a second story V.I.P. suite, this one is no different only everything isn’t so loud in the room we’re in.
A woman, wearing nothing but feathers and a bikini, brings a bottle of champagne to our table. She pops the cork as Logan says, “We didn’t order this.”
The woman ignores Logan, filling two skinny flutes with the bubbly liquid. “Compliments of the club.” She sets the remainder of the bottle in a bucket of ice then disappears.
