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“I’ll catch up with you guys in a bit,” she says, smiling and stepping in his direction, hips swaying.
“Guess I’m on my own.”
Good thing I’m used to that.
I decide to check for Jimmy. I should grab another drink too, so I’ll have the nerve to approach him and try to make things right between us. I walk around the outskirts of the dance floor toward the VIP area. After all, he’s celebrating and deserves to sit in the VIP section.
“Hey, beautiful,” a guy says, his finger brushing down my arm. “Want to dance?”
“No.” I continue toward the VIP section, ignoring the unwanted touch.
He back steps, staying in line with me as I walk forward. “You don’t wear an outfit like that unless you want attention.” His eyes focus on my nipples.
“I don’t want attention from you.” I turn on my heel, sliding between a throng of drunk girls rushing to the dance floor.
The creep doesn’t follow.
I lean against a huge white column so Jimmy won’t spot me. I need to figure out what to say to persuade him to forgive me after I viciously compared him to my piece-of-shit dad.
My eyes scan along a white leather couch, landing on Jimmy beside his friend Tripp.Fucking Tripp.That prick hates me and is constantly driving a wedge between Jimmy and me.
The two of them sip their drinks, deep in conversation. Jimmy nods in agreement with whatever Tripp’s saying and shifts his attention to peruse the dance floor. Tripp’s probably telling Jimmy to stay strong and not return my texts. Maybe the guy should look in the mirror once in a while. He’s not so perfect either.
I step to the side to hide behind one of the large columns set in a semi-circle around the outside of the dance floor. After I’ve counted to sixty, I chance another peek at him.
I stumble back and grab the column for support.
Two women are seated on the couch, one beside Tripp and one beside Jimmy. Tripp is stroking the blonde’s thigh while sweet talking her with his usual flirtatious smile. Jimmy laughs at whatever the lame brunette sitting next to him says. Worse, his reaction is genuine. It isn’t James’s laugh; it’s Jimmy’s, where the small wrinkles by his eyes appear. As if that isn’t gut-wrenching enough, she puts her hand on his knee, leaning in closer. I could be standing right in front of him and I don’t think he’d notice me. His attention is solely focused on her.
Rage burns like a hot coal in my stomach. I have no right to feel betrayed, but I do. For weeks I’ve been agonizing over our fight, wishing I hadn’t let my temper get the better of me, but obviously I’m the only one concerned about the state of our friendship.
I turn toward the bar, but alcohol isn’t going to cut it. The crawling sensation under my skin has begun, and there’s only a certain amount of time I can ignore it before I cave.
Removing my attention from Jimmy and the slut beside him, I glance around, looking for someone who has what I need. I don’t spot any of my regular dealers, but I do spot a guy hanging back on the edge of the dance floor, observing the crowd with a small smirk.
After years of this merry-go-round life I live, it’s easy to spot the people who can fix me. Call it user intuition.
Using my long model legs to my advantage, I approach him. His attention lands on me as I was certain it would. He appraises me with a lazy smile. He’s a good-looking guy—taller than me with my stilettos on, dirty-blond hair, and a body that takes a lot of work to maintain. Have I modeled with him before?
I crook my finger at him. He leans in so he can hear me over the electro house beat the DJ’s cranking.
“You want to party?” I ask.
He leans back against the wall again, with a spark in his eyes at the promise of a good time. “What’d you have in mind?”
“Let’s see where the night takes us.” I press into him and run my index finger down his chest, trailing off just before I hit his belt buckle. “What do you have on you?”
His nostrils flare as his eyes soak me up again. Without a word, he leads me toward the restrooms. I follow willingly, excitedly, almost like a six-year-old waiting in line to finally ride her first roller coaster.
Lucky for us, or perhaps by design, each bathroom is its own small powder room, rather than communal women’s and men’s rooms lined with stalls. The club owners in LA aren’t stupid. He picks the farthest vacant restroom and locks us both inside, eyeballing my dress—or lack thereof—before pulling a baggie of cocaine out of his pocket and holding it up between us with a cocky smirk.
“Want some?”
My tongue salivates at the sight of the white powder. I can already feel the bitter taste at the back of my throat. “Absolutely.”
He shakes some of the powder onto the edge of the counter surrounding the sink and uses a credit card to separate it into four lines. By the time he’s finished, I’ve already got a bill rolled up and ready to go. He snorts one line, passes it to me, and I do the same. Wiping under my nose, I stand back up, let my head fall back, and close my eyes as the bitter taste at the back of my throat intensifies and my face tingles. I enjoy the sensation as the drug enters my bloodstream and dissolves all the problems that plague me.
The guy says something. I have no idea what, but I’m sure I heard his voice, so I slowly open my eyes.
