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The entire house has now been modernized, though I kept most of the original style. The sconces, checkered floors, black stone fireplace, and black cabinets, just to name a few. Most importantly, I kept Gigi’s red velvet rocking chair.
I'm living in a Victorian gothic dreamhouse.
"We're going to make you look hot and find you a delicious man to take home tonight. And if the stalker comes around, he can kill him, too."
I roll my eyes. "Daya, it's hard to find a man these days that can even fuck right. You think I'm going to find a man that will kill in my honor, too? That's cute."
"You never know, baby girl. Crazier things have happened."
The bass pumping through the speakers vibrates throughout my body. My black, ripped skinny jeans cling to my curves, and the plunging low cut red tank shows off my ample cleavage along with the small glistening beads of sweat between my breasts.
It’s fucking hotter than Hades’s ballsack, and the alcohol pumping through my veins doesn’t help matters.
For a solid hour, Daya and I stick close to each other and dance. We both briefly separate to dance with a few men, but I tend to tire of the groping hands quickly and always find my way back to my best friend.
Suddenly, a heavy presence crowds into my back, his hands sliding around my waist and pressing in close. A whiff of spearmint and whiskey invades my senses right before I feel his breath on my ear.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his spearmint gum stinging my nose now that he’s closer. I wrinkle my nose and turn my head to see a tall, attractive man leaning over me.
He has strawberry blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, and a killer smile.
Just my type.
I grin. “Why, thank you,” I respond sweetly. Social situations nearly send me into hibernation, but I’ve always been skilled at flirting. Too bad most times, I can’t stand to do it.
Men have a unique way of killing my mood every time I come within ten feet of them.
“Come upstairs with me,” he yells over the music. His voice isn’t aggressive by any means, but it’s not a question either. It’s a demand that leaves little room for argument.
I like that.
I cock a brow. “And if I don’t?” I ask.
His smile widens. “You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
The other brow joins its twin, hiking halfway up my forehead.
“Really,” I say demurely. “What kind of plans do you have for me that I’d regret missing out on for the rest of my life?”
“The kind that leaves you naked and sated in my bed.”
“Bitch, let’s go already,” Daya cuts in. My head turns to her, but I feel the man’s eyes linger on my face, caressing my cheek like a feather tracing across skin.
Daya is standing in front of us, impatiently waving her hand towards the stairs that lead to the second floor. She must've been eavesdropping, and she doesn't look the least bit ashamed.
When we both just stare at her, she huffs and rolls her eyes.
“We get it, you’re hot for each other. And she doesn’t go anywhere without me. So, let’s go already.” She waves her hands at us more urgently, shooing us towards the stairs.
The man laughs and seizes the opportunity provided by my dear best friend. Grabbing my hand, he leads me towards the black metal stairs at the back of the club.
But not before I shoot Daya a narrow-eyed look. One which she dutifully cackles at.
Upstairs is for VIP members only. The stairs lead up to a balcony that overlooks the entirety of the club. It’s where the rich, important people drink, staring out at us like a bunch of bugs trapped in a science experiment.
The atmosphere up here is darker, denser, and has a vibe that has my instincts flaring red. Walking up here feels like sticking my head into a hornet’s nest. And the bastards won’t stop stinging until they tire of you, or you’re dead.
Four men are draped across a black leather booth formed in a half-moon. In the center is a black marble table occupied by several glasses of amber liquid, along with a few crystal ashtrays. There’s barely a hint of color in here, the décor reminding me of Parsons Manor.
