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“Kitten…” he whispers.
“I have to go. I’m sorry. I just think…I’m under a lot of stress. I need to think.”
“Please, don’t—” he says, but I click the red End Call button before he can beg me to stay or feed me lies. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
I need to get out of here or do something because the more I sit here and think about how sad I am to possibly lose Drake or Garrett, the more I know I’ll cry, and I’m not going to do that. I’m not shedding tears for men that don’t shed tears for me.
Glancing down at the clock, I see it’s almost nine. I feel like a bomb about to explode, and I need to vent out these frustrations. There’s only one person I can think of at the moment who I want to see, and I may not know where to find him, but I know I can figure it out.
RULE #20: IF YOU GO SNOOPING AROUND SEX CLUBS, CHANCES ARE YOU’LL WALK IN ON AN ORGY.
Mia
This is crazy. I’m standing outside a nightclub in downtown Briar Point, in a dress literally made for a stripper, ready to face my emotionally-hindered, ignorant, dumb-ass stepbrother, basically to beg him for sex. Why? I have no idea. Mostly because I feel like a ticking time bomb, and I’m tired of waiting and playing by his rules and putting my own wants and desires behind his.
It’s time to put these men to the test, and Garrett is up first.
I’m ready to give him an ultimatum. Sex or nothing at all.
No. A relationshipwithsex or nothing at all.
Oh God. He’s going to say nothing at all. Of course, he is. He’s already made it clear that he’s not interested in baggage in the form of a girlfriend, especially an annoying, younger stepsister.
Fuck it. Worth a shot, anyway. If I finally take this leap with Garrett, then maybe I can finally leave Drake behind.
When the driver dropped me off at the door of the club, I didn’t quite expect this. It’s so quiet. I thought there would be bass thumping through the walls and drunk girls stumbling out the door with Axe body-sprayed men.
Instead, it’s a discreet black door on an old brick building with the black metal logo hanging above the door:SPC
The ominous nightclub only goes by initials online when I did a quick search of the phone number Laura gave me—which she said he reluctantly gave her after she hounded him for it in case of an emergency. It’s making me wonder what kind of club Garrett really owns. Is it a strip club and he didn’t tell me? I mean…it would sort of make sense. He’s been so aloof about the details, but I guess I assumed all this time that it was just another dance club.
Oh well. I can walk into a strip club (looking like a stripper). Smart, Mia.
There’s a bouncer at the door, but he’s not the beefy, tatted kind you usually see at clubs. He’s in a black suit, looking a little too fancy to be a bouncer. Still, he opens the door for me, and I take a heavy breath before walking inside.
Here goes nothing.
After stepping through the door, I’m in a dimly lit lobby. Everything in here is black. Black curtains, black carpet, black counter behind which stands a woman in a sleek, black pantsuit.
“Hi. Welcome to Salacious. Are you a member?” she says, greeting me. I catch the way her eyes skate over my body, probably judging me by my call-girl getup. I can already tell that this establishment is way too nice for a dress like this; it’s made for strip clubs they put up by airports, not members-only clubs like this. I came to the right place, right?
“Um…actually, I know one of the owners,” I stammer, sounding ridiculous.
She nods with her lips pressed together. I’m no dummy. The look on her face screamssure, you do.
Too bad for her, I’m not some doe-eyed virgin, too scared to walk into a strip club or battle some hostess drunk on her own power. I straighten my shoulders, clear my throat, and look her square in the eye.
“Garrett Porter is my brother, and I’d like to see him. Right. Now.”
Her eyes widen as she stares back at me. Then her bottom lip falls, as if she’s about to argue, when someone appears through a dark curtain I didn’t even realize was a doorway.
I’ve only met Hunter a couple of times. Garrett brought him and his then-girlfriend-now-wife, Isabel, over for Thanksgiving once when they had just moved into their new house and didn’t have a table to even eat at. The other times were mostly short moments, and I know Thanksgiving, in particular, was at least four years ago, so I was only nineteen.
I don’t expect him to recognize me at all, but when he glances up from the tablet in his hands, in mid-sentence with the girl behind the counter, I watch his eyes nearly pop out of his head.
“Mia?” he gasps.
“Hi, Hunter,” I reply with a smile. Hunter is so good-looking in a rugged, manly sort of way. He has a head full of curly black hair that he keeps trimmed short and buzzed on the sides, letting a few stray curls fall over his tan forehead. He has dark eyes and full lips, making him a walking wet dream. Isabel is a very lucky woman.
