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“Vodka martini. Make it a double, please.” I try to sound flirty, but I have no clue if it works. I really suck at this.
But it’s not like I’ve had plenty of opportunities before. This is my first time in a bar. In fact, it’s the first time I’ve been outside of the house alone.
This night is a first for everything.
“Right away.” He gets busy and speaks to me over his shoulder, “You like your vodka, I assume?”
“A little.”
Okay, that was a white lie. I never thought I would fit the stereotype of how every Russian loves vodka, but when we celebrated my eighteenth birthday two years ago, I was told I needed to drink it and ever since then, I refuse to consume any other type of alcohol.
A smirk lifts Simon’s lips as if he’s amused by how much I like vodka. “Are you new around here?”
Shit. Shit.He figured me out, didn’t he? Everyone does. It doesn’t matter if I chose a place out of state or that I faked a driver’s license and my age.
One look at me and people know who I am and where I came from. No amount of makeup and red dresses will change what I am.
WhoI am.
Maybe I should abort this before it gets too complicated. Maybe I can drive back earlier than planned, and—
I shake my head internally. I worked so hard for this freedom. I’m not going to give it all up now.
So I wear the best smile I can offer as I stare at the bartender for a brief second before I cut off eye contact. “Why are you asking?”
“I just haven’t seen you around, is all.”
My muscles relax when a shaky breath whooshes out of me.
See? It’s nothing. I’m safe here. I made sure no one from my circle comes to this place, after all.
He places the martini in front of me. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thanks, Simon.”
He grins and I know he’s about to strike up a conversation. I can see it in the ease in his eyes and the way his body is leaning toward me.
Learning body language is a given in the world that I’ve lived in all my life. I might be insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but I recognize these things.
Simon opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted when an intruder slides onto the stool right beside me, even though the rest of the chairs are empty.
Oh, please.
It took me a lot of planning to get to a stage where my brain is willing to take things to the next level. I don’t do well with people around.
They have eyes. And most of them are judgy and critical and are always out to get me.
Okay, maybe they aren’t, but I can’t really rationalize that. Because I feel their eyes again. A pair or maybe two.
And they’re watching me. Closely. Intently. As if they can rip open my façade and peek inside the shell I’ve surrounded myself with.
“Macallan, neat.”
My fingers tighten around the martini, then I empty half of it in one go. That deep, low voice with the calm undertone is the reason I feel the watchful eyes. I can sense it deep in my heart that’s never steered me wrong.
Is it one of the bodyguards I overlooked in my plan? No, that’s not possible. They think I’m sick and sleeping in my room so no one will disturb me until the morning.
Using my hair as a curtain, I tilt my head to the side to get a better look. I try not to be obvious about it, try to pretend my legs aren’t shaking and my flight mode isn’t kicking me to move my butt and bolt out of here.
