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I gulp, stop a passing waiter and take one ice-cold flute from his tray. The champagne fizzles on my tongue and freezes my throat as I stare at him, something brewing inside me. Irritation and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.
No matter how many people are around, he still commands the place and the attention of everybody in it with his imposing stance and broad shoulders. Not that I'm surprised. He is easily at least a foot taller than most around him.
It cannot be legal to look that handsome in a tux. His perfectly trimmed dark beard gives him an edge I can't precisely define. His eyes glint in the darkness of the night like pools of sea. The kind of sea that's not quite a light blue and not quite emerald green either that can be seen in fancy holiday ads encouraging you to dip your toes in the perfectly crystal clear marvelousness of the Maldivian waters.
As usual, there’s a slutty strumpet hanging from his arm. Her mini-dress is so short her underwear could be easily seen if she had bothered with any. I bet that tiny scrap of red fabric costs more than six months of my salary.
She looks like she destroyed a bullet-proof security glass from a display at Tiffany and then rolled in its contents. She isthatmuch encrusted in diamonds and rubies.
Her eyes are fixed on his jaw, her red-painted lips puckered in a pout, her long, ruby fake nails clawing at his muscular forearm like the talons of a glittering harpy.
Devon is looking beyond her, standing rigidly to his full height, an expression of sullen annoyance on his face.
Then he sees me, and as always, he tries to laser through me with his gaze, probably looking down his nose at my simple dress. He stares at me until I have to look away.
The usual sense of disquiet and unease that always grips me when we are in the same place lets me know that tonight isn’t going to be any different, and I feel an inexplicable hollowness burning in my chest.
Ugh! I can’t stand him!
I know I shouldn’t, but I look in his direction again.
I am such a masochist sometimes!
He is trying to shrug off his gaudy companion like she is some sort of bug that landed on him.
I know she is probably heavy and clingy like the long string of women I’ve seen on his arm before, but why does he have to be so callous?
So dismissive of her?
I shake my head. I guess she is good enough to warm his bed but not so great to keep him company when clothes are involved.
I feel a pulse of arousal between my legs that I can't explain. Then a flash of him, naked and tangled up in priceless silky sheets with some plastic bimbo, prickles my mind's eye, and I blink it away, strangely unsettled and disturbed by what my imagination conjured.
What the hell?
Is he walking toward me?
Why?
Does he mean to greet me?
I know he is the host and all, but can't he stop being so freaking politically correct for a minute?
Why put us both through the unpleasantness of it?
I sigh, all kinds of confused and fucked-up, my friends’ innuendoes coming back to me.
What were they implying?
I shoot that thought down and start to turn and walk away.
“Lynn,” his deep baritone reaches me from behind. He is standing too close for my peace of mind. His manly cologne fills my lungs.
Ugh! How I hate it. Why does he have to douse himself in it?
I turn around to glare at him. I don’t even know why.
He smirks –the asshole. "We were ready to send a search party. Sookie and Jane were looking all over for you."
