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I nod again, then turn back around. Does everyone know something I don’t? Or is it just genuine concern? Because hearing “be careful” multiple times in one day is making me feel some sort of way. When I enter my room, I snag a cute little cocktail dress from my closet, then go into the bathroom.
I undress before stepping into the shower. I scrub, exfoliate, and wash every inch of my body, then slip the dress on. I run my fingers through my dark hair, opting to let it air dry. When I look at myself in the mirror, I feel I look pretty good, but the handprint on my throat throws it all off. It isn’t terrible, but it’s noticeable.
I grab the concealer from the drawer under the sink and dab it all over the slightly red and purple hues. I tap it in with my fingers and hope like hell it will stay in place. With my everyday clothes, a T-shirt collar covers most of it, and my hair can cover the rest, but in this dress, with such a low dip in the front, there is nothing to conceal it other than my hair.
I shake my hair, letting it fall to the front of my shoulders. Since it’s so dark, the marks almost look like a shadow or wayward hairs, which is better than the truth. Satisfied with my throat, I swipe on some lipstick and mascara, then leave the bathroom.
I grab a small clutch and stuff my phone inside before pushing my feet into my favorite Valentino heels. I walk to my door and crack it open, making sure I can’t hear William moving downstairs before I walk out.
I make sure every step I take is slow and quiet. I don’t want my heels slapping against the floor to give me away. William trusts me, so I knew he wouldn’t question me staying with Lydia, but if he saw me dressed up, he would definitely know something is up. When I make it to the safety of outside, I let out a deep breath and sprint—as fast as I can in my heels anyway—to my car. I push the start button, throw it in drive, and haul ass away from my house.
My mind wanders aimlessly as my body moves on autopilot. Left turn, right turn, another right, stop sign. I try not to focus on what I’m doing because I know no one would approve. Hell, I’m not even sure I approve of my actions, but here I am, driving to the fucking Annalee to meet yet another stranger. At least this time I’ll know my surroundings.
When the bright lights from the building come into view, reality sinks in. With Stallion, I was angry. Angry with my dad, angry about holding a secret that isn’t mine, angry that Bradley left me, but this time… I have no excuse, but nothing in me tells me to turn around or stop, so I continue.
It’s almost as if my morals packed up and left along with common sense.
I pull into the parking lot, making sure my Bentley is all the way in the back, hidden behind other luxury cars and SUVs. I stuff my keys inside my clutch, then check my phone. Another message from RetributionRebel, but nothing from Stallion. My heart sinks the slightest bit as I click the message.
RetributionRebel – Meet me at the bar.
Fuck. I never told him my age. I can’t drink, not legally anyway, but luckily, the Annalee isn’t the best about checking IDs. They want all their guests to enjoy their time here free of complications, and as long as Rebel looks old enough, they won’t question shit.
My shoes glide over the concrete, letting small claps sound out with every step I take when I exit my car and head for the door. I turn away from the valet boy as I walk inside, then keep my head low.
Gold flecks run through the manmade cracks of the marble floors, a crystal chandelier shimmers above, and sleek, white couches are scattered across the lobby. I pass by it all until I hit the burgundy carpet that separates the bar from the lobby.
The bottom of my shoes sinks into the carpet, giving the impression I’m walking on clouds and taking some of the strain off my ankles. Even though I love my Valentinos, I’d be lying if I said they aren’t hell to walk in. I continue forward until I find an empty table.
The top is round and almost even with my chest. They’re almost classic bar tables, but my dad being who he is, made sure to add a wealthy touch to them. The same white marble with gold cracks from the lobby floor covers the top, and the tall chairs have cushioned backs with small jewels in each tuft of fabric.
I slide into the chair. Within seconds, a waiter comes over and places a small, black napkin in front of me. “Can I get you a drink, ma’am?”
I open my clutch and pull my phone out so I have a reason to keep my eyes pointed down. “Just a glass of Prosecco, please.” I say it with more confidence than I actually have so he doesn’t ask questions, and it works. He nods and leaves my table.
As I scroll through my phone while I wait, I click the message icon and go to the message I sent Stallion. Still no reply. I want to be angry, but I can’t, can I? It’s not like he confessed his love for me or told me I was his. No. He didn’t say much, actually.
Crazy to think days ago I couldn’t give a fuck less about a man, and now here I am, pining over one when I don’t even know his name. Pining may be the wrong word because I don’t love him. I just lust for him. I need the chase. I need the adrenaline from being choked. I want everything he can give to make me forget about life.
A soft hand touches my exposed back, and I jump. Turning around, I see a man who has got to be in his late forties. He has salt-and-pepper hair, bushy brows, and is dressed in a crisp tux. “Spitfire?”
For a moment, I thought he was someone who worked here and he somehow recognized me because of who my dad is. I figured he was going to make me leave the bar and tell my dad, but when I hear the name slip from his lips, all my nerves relax a little.
“RetributionRebel?” I answer.
A smile pulls the corners of his lips as he bows slightly and grabs my hand. “I assumed it was you because someone as pretty as you would only be sitting alone in a bar for one reason: waiting on someone.” He kisses the top of my hand gently before setting it down and moving to the other side of the table.
“Ah, coming in hot with the flattery, are we?” I reply, batting my eyelashes.
He shrugs as he gestures a waiter over. “Just the truth.”
My cheeks heat because I don’t know the last time someone called me pretty without adding something in about my tits or how good they think I could fuck. But then it slams into me. Stallion did. But right now, this isn’t about him. He didn’t even reply to my message.
I swallow the thoughts. I’ve been with him once—once—and now I’m already comparing him to other men? Pathetic.
I focus my attention back to the man in front of me and erase all thoughts of Stallion. Mister Rebel isn’t too bad to look at either. His age is evident by the lines around his eyes and the weathering in his hands, but all in all, he’s quite handsome. And the tux he’s wearing along with the Rolex on his wrist tells me he has money.
“So,” I start as the waiter walks away with his drink order. “Do you have a name, or would you just prefer Rebel?”
