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1
ISABELLA
Graffiti spells out CUNT in colorful and bold lettering, with the T embellished with a cursive curly cue. An array of spray-painted watercolors accompanies the curse, along with several others telling me exactly what to do with myself and approximately three different phone numbers. All of them promise a good time.
God bless unisex bathrooms.
The club is pure trash with a throbbing bass, and god knows what kind of juices splattered on the floor. Not one owned by either family. Which makes it absolutely perfect for what I want to accomplish tonight. There are no ties back to anyone, no one to look at my face and make a phone call to Daddy to let him know I’ve stepped out where I don’t belong.
Tonight, I can be anyone. I can go anywhere.
I chose to go to the Inked Den, a sleazy little hole in the wall far from the gilded walls that have kept me safe all my life.
Sweat slicks the black dress to my skin, and I’m already overheated. The temperature has been turned up, designed to get people to shed more than their inhibitions. Lots of assets are on display, my own tits are practically bouncing to be free, and the stretchy material hugs the curve of my ass.
Standing just inside the bathroom door, I shake my hair out of its confines and blow out a breath. Avoid looking at myself in the hazy, cracked mirror.
I don’t need to fuck Ricardo.
It’s the last thing I need to do for my mental health and peace of mind.
This place is disgusting in all the right ways and the perfect escape from posh reality, so it should do the trick tonight. The dance floor was a different story, though, a miasma of thrusting bodies, drugs, and liquor. Cheap or expensive, it doesn’t matter as long as hands go in the right places and one of them went right down to the crack of my ass.
The bathroom is an escape from my escape and much needed to avoid the immediate overwhelm I experienced walking through the door.
I made the right decision coming here, I remind myself on repeat.
Two stalls are pressed in the corner of the room with a trough filled with ice and a urinal cake in urine.
I head for the stall against the wall and close the door; the latch sticks until I knock it with my shoulder and force it to catch. It’s a risk dropping down on the toilet, but I take it, knees clacking, the rest of me dropping down hard.
My stomach flips sickeningly, and I slap the back of my hand against my forehead. Sweaty, yes, but my skin is chilled down to the bone.
The club is supposed to help with all…that.
It’s supposed to help get me out of my head and wondering what the hell is stuck to my shoe rather than thinking about him. Except he’s always on my mind no matter where I go. He plagues me like a poltergeist, and now he’s—ugh!
A portion of the partition between the stalls has been carved out in a circular shape, painted on this side to look like an open mouth. It’s a fucking glory hole. And dripping down the edges, whether painted or reality, are cum stains and dried saliva. My stomach takes a deep dive down to my shoes.
I should have gone somewhere else. Somewhere a little safer. I don’t even have a gun on me. Not like I know how to use it or anything. Every time I’ve tried to get my dad or sister to show me how, they blow me off and tell me to go back to being oblivious.
Well, not in those words.
The door to the bathroom bangs open a second later, and heavy footsteps trail all the way to the stall to my left. I hold my breath as the man—it’s got to be a man—slams the stall door shut the same way I had.
“Motherfucker.” His grunted phrase is deep and gravelly in the best kind of way.
My shiver increases. Definitely a man.
With a damn sexy voice for all the growling and sailor-style, under-the-breath cursing. “Goddamn motherfucking woman.”
I start at the bite in his voice and nibble on my lower lip, debating the intelligence of responding. Except despite my better judgment, I find myself asking, “Rough night?”
Shit, I shouldn’t say anything. People come to the bathroom in places like this to do their business and get the hell out. Or to be alone. Since it seems neither one of us is actually doing our business, then it’s the second option.
“Rougher than some and better than most.” His answer comes quickly.
“I can relate.” I shuffle to spread my legs wider on the toilet, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin balanced on the back of my hand.
