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I watch as Bordeaux, Declan, Miller, and Flynn gather in a circle, talking to a stunning blonde. She stands next to Declan, towering over her in her high heels. She’s wearing a red dress that matches the bottom of her heels, and a confident grin is plastered to her face. She looks like a Barbie doll with stick straight blonde hair and perfectly placed coral blush.
Declan looks over across the room to Lucas, who has his own drink now, too. He winks at her, and she gives him a half-smile before turning back to the blonde. Lucas is definitely attractive. I feel like I’m a fly on the wall, standing back and observing everything but not really being part of anything. My eyes find a group of women who are standing next to one of the bars, staring directly at Lucas, whispering to each other with huge goofy smiles on their faces. Lucas runs his fingers through his black hair and takes a swig of his drink. There’s something more to the story here—between Declan and Lucas—I can feel it. I just don’t know what.
Declan is gorgeous. She’s got her black hair cut into a cute bob and tattoos run up and down both of her arms, beautiful ink—a lot of it is done in more of a traditional tattoo style. She’s wearing a short black leather skirt and black tights paired with chunky black heels and a hot pink crop top. The way she only half-heartedly smiled at Lucas, though—it makes me wonder what’s going on there.
Miller catches my attention, standing next to Bordeaux and clapping his hand around his shoulder, smiling from him to the blonde and saying something. Miller has the kind of hair most women wish they had. It’s the most beautiful shade of brown with hints of auburn. He wears it longer on top but doesn’t style his back like Bordeaux’s; his hangs down in perfect place off to the side and away from his face. His blue eyes against his tanned skin stand out, although his eyes are nothing in comparison to Bordeaux’s.
My eyes trail to Flynn, who seems to not mind fading into the background a bit, stepping just outside the circle and tipping his head back, finishing off whatever was in his clear glass. He looks around the party, running a hand through his dark hair. He seems bored, like he would rather be anywhere but here. He glances in my direction, and I quickly look away, not wanting to seem like I’m gawking at them.
I walk over to the edge of the rooftop before turning around, leaning against the bricks and scanning the deck again. This bar is fancier than any I’ve ever been to. It’s not that I come from nothing, but this is a whole lot of something. The brick of the building is home to cascading violet flowers that look incredibly expensive to maintain. Dozens of string fairy lights illuminate up the entire space, carefully placed like a damn art form straight out of Architectural Digest Magazine.
I turn away, peering out over the busy street below. The city breeze blows through my hair, and I close my eyes for a second, almost feeling like this moment is nothing more than a dream.
A hand on my shoulder quickly pulls me away from my fleeting thought, and I turn, startled, as some man who appears to be straight out of a 50s movie pulls his hand away.
He’s good-looking, but not as handsome as Bordeaux, with a leather jacket and a deep dark stare. He cocks a brow, a smile spreading across his face as our eyes meet.
“I haven’t seen you at one of Carleeta’s parties before,” he says, reaching out his hand. “I’m Jax Demond.”
I extend my hand toward his. “I’m Isla. And that’s probably because I’ve never been to one of her parties.”
His cheeks grow warm as he shrugs, running his fingers through his dark hair. “Well, that explains it, then. What do you do, Isla?”
“Oh, no.” I shake my head, letting out a nervous laugh. “I’m here with Bordeaux.”
As soon as his name spills from my lips, I instantly regret it. It’s as if I’m name-dropping, and it gives me a pit deep in my stomach. I watch as Jax nods, and I see a flash of something in his eyes but I can’t quite place it.
“I’m in school, studying music management,” I say, trying to fill the awkwardness. “What do you do?” I take another long sip of my drink, nerves swarming around in my stomach.
Jax rocks back on his heels and sets his drink—a dark-colored liquid—down onto a table next to us. “I’m a producer. I actually worked with Reckless Desires on their first album,” he says, leaning against the table. There’s a loud thud as someone slams into a table across the rooftop, knocking it over. My attention is quickly stolen as I see a man flip the table upright. When I focus back on Jax, I notice his eyes on my chest. When he realizes I’m looking at him, he quickly snaps his eyes back up to mine.
I can’t exactly fault a man for staring at me in this dress since it is rather revealing, but I wanted to look sexy for myself. And dressing sexy for Bordeaux may have also crossed my mind. The dress suctions tight to my body, pushing my boobs up sky-high. I feel confident in it, and by the way Bordeaux couldn’t keep his hands off me on the way here, he agrees.
Just as I’m about to tell Jax that his profession sounds pretty amazing, Bordeaux comes up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist as he kisses my neck.
“Jax,” Bordeaux says when he straightens.
There’s something different in the air between the two of them, something that neither of them are saying but that weighs heavily between the three of us. I love the feeling of Bordeaux’s arms around me, and I can’t help but think this is his way of showing dominance, letting Jax know that I’m his. A rush of warmth pools low in my stomach at the thought of Bordeaux being just a little possessive over me.
Jax nods at Bordeaux, who is still positioned behind me with his hands on me, but doesn’t look away from me. “Here’s my card. Let me know if you ever want to see the studio,” he says, and with that, he walks away.
Bordeaux grunts and steps around to face me. “I bet he uses that line with all the women he wants to fuck.” He looks from me to where Jax slinks up to the woman who pulled the band away from me. “Did he bother you?”
I smile, wrapping my arms around his neck and looking up into his blue eyes. “Not at all, we barely spoke. What’s the deal between you two?” I ask, knowing there is definitely some history there.
He shakes his head, telling me he isn’t worth our time. “He’s just a slimy shit, that’s all. I know his type and he isn’t as great as he thinks he is.”
“Well, in that case,” I say, holding up his card, “do you see a trash can anywhere?”
* * *
Two hours and too many drinks later, we’re in the back of Bordeaux’s security car, his hands are in my hair and I’m straddling his lap.
“Should we be doing this in front of them?” I ask breathlessly, only pulling my lips inches from his, needing to feel his mouth on mine. I dive back in, not giving him time to answer as he grips my ass with both hands, letting out a deep moan.
“They aren’t paying attention to us,” Bordeaux says, breaking our kiss to glance at the two men in the front of the Escalade we’re riding in. We’re in the third row, far enough away for them to not hear our whispers, but a little too close for this level of PDA. Bordeaux smirks and trails kisses down my neck. He stops just above my collarbone and bites my skin. “I can’t get enough of you, sugar.”
I can’t get enough of him. I want him in every single sense of the word, especially when he says things like that and looks at me with those ravenous ocean tide eyes.
