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Elsa
"Did you know the enemies-to-lovers trope is superior to the rivals-to-lovers trope?" The woman in front of me turns to her friend.
"It is?" The friend leans forward.
"In enemies-to-lovers, two people on opposite sides of a feud fall in love and work together to put an end to the conflict, while in rivals-to-lovers, there's no battle or feud. And even if there is, they're on the same side; they just hate each other. Know what I mean?" The first girl angles her body so their shoulders touch.
"Nope, but thank you for the information I can do without." Her friend scrunches up her face.
The door of the nightclub opens and the music pours over us, drowning out the rest of their conversation.
When was the last time I went to a nightclub? I stopped going out at night in order to avoid temptation. But when my best friend Theresa called me up and asked me to accompany her, I couldn’t refuse.
When I lived in London, I supported myself by working in a supermarket while I studied to become a pianist; I had been so hopeful for the future. And then, everything changed. I only have myself to blame. The pressure builds behind my eyes.Do not cry. Do. Not. Cry. How many tears are you going to shed about the past, eh?
You can’t alter what happened. All you can do is stay in the moment. Stay in control.You can do this.You can get through the evening without giving in to the need which wants to split you in half and rip its way out.
A black Maserati with tinted windows rolls up. The door on the driver’s side opens and a man steps out. Polished black shoes, black pants which encompass powerful thighs, and a black jacket which is tailor-made and clings to his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a tie in—you guessed it—black, against a black shirt. He tugs on his cuffs, and glances up and down the street. Tattoos peek out from under his collar, a vibrant splash of color against his skin. In contrast to the perfection of his suit, his hair is unruly. A thick curl flops onto his forehead and he pushes it away. Alertness clings to every muscle in his body, and he has that whole 'don't mess with me vibe' going for him. Either he’s a cop or—nah—can’t be. No cop would be dressed in such an impeccable fashion. In fact, he wouldn’t seem out of place in a boardroom. Except, this man does not work in an office. Confidence oozes from his pores. The light from the overhead street lamp highlights his body, but casts his face in shadow. I crane my neck to see his features, but he turns and walks around to the passenger door. He pulls it open and a girl steps out. Dark hair, slim figure, about the same height as me. I know her.What’s he doing with her?
"Theresa." I walk toward her, only to come to a stop when the black-jacket guy from earlier plants himself in front of me.
I tilt my head back, and further back, to meet his gaze—golden-brown eyes, flares of fire, the sunlight shining straight at me. I blink, and when I open my eyes again, I find him staring down that patrician nose at me. I catalog his features—full lower lip, thin upper lip, thick eyelashes, and a scar that runs up from the edge of his eyebrow in an inverted comma toward his temple. Aren’t scars supposed to be a badge of honor in some cultures? And don’t they indicate high levels of testosterone and good genetic qualities that can be passed onto offspring or something? Hold on, why am I thinking along these lines?
The behemoth crosses his arms across that massive chest, and his biceps stretch the sleeves. His gaze narrows, and he glares down at me like I am a piece of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of his over-priced, black leather shoe. Jeez, what climbed up his butt?
Except for the fact he resembles Keanu Reeves—a much more muscular and angrier Keanu, with eyes the color of sunlight—I wouldn’t have given him a second look. Ha, who am I kidding? The man has the kind of presence which absorbs all of the oxygen in his vicinity, leaving us mere mortals gasping for air.
The muscles of his shoulders bunch, stretching the suit jacket he wears. He must work out every day. Either that, or he has the kind of job that demands he is at peak fitness. Come to think of it, if Keanu Reeves and Henry Cavill had a lovechild, he would look like this guy. Only, while I love their intensity and smoldering good looks, not to mention the don’t-give-a-damn attitude of the characters they portray, I prefer my alphaholes on screen or between the pages of a book. This man, though, has all of the tell-tale makings of one in real life. Which means I need to give him a wide berth. Besides, he’s too good-looking. Too mouthwateringly gorgeous. Definitely not a guy to be trusted.
"Who're you?" I scowl up at Mr. Grumpy Grumphole.
"This is my uh, my bodyguard for the evening," Theresa explains as she draws abreast with him.
"Bodyguard?" I shoot her a sideways glance. "You have abodyguard?"
"Yeah, um..." She moves closer to me and lowers her voice, "The Sovranos insisted I get ferried about for my own safety." She’s referring to the family at the head of theCosa Nostra,the clan which rule this part of the country. The clan she's marrying into in less than a week.
"Hmm..." I look Mr. Bodyguard up and down. "We don’t need you this evening." I wave my hand in the air, dismissing him. "Why don't you go off and do whatever it is bodyguards do on their time off?"
Seb glares back. Next to me, Theresa chokes.
"Jeez, you are crotchety, aren't you?" I flutter my eyelashes. "Maybe you should come along with us and have a few drinks to loosen up?"
Mr. Bodyguard’s features harden. He turns to Theresa. "I assume you know her?"
"Oh, yeah. Sorry. I forgot to introduce her. Seb, meet my friend Elsa." Theresa glances between us. “Elsa, this is Seb.”
"Pleased to meet you." I hold out my hand.
He ignores it, then spins around and prowls toward the entrance of the nightclub. The crowd parts in front of him and we follow in his wake.
"He's rude." I glower at his broad back.
"He's a Sovrano." She shrugs.
"There seem to be more of them than the Baldwins," I grouse.
