“Upstairs at Envy, she should be the only one up there. Blonde, tan, incredible ass, perfect tits, she’s got a little stetson tattooed on her hip thatreallyjust…”
“Jesus, Davis, stop turning yourself on and give me a name.”
“Shit,” I laugh, “sorry. Name’s Sophia. Tell her Eric sent you.”
“Eric? She’s not—”
“Yup.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” he tells me. “I’ll text you when I have her.”
Hanging up the phone, I scroll through my contacts until I land on the listing for a buddy of mine down at the police department. Alright, buddy might be a little loose; I pay him and a couple of his brothers in blue once a year to keep me out of their books for anything serious, and they’re more than happy to help in exchange for the payday.
Me:I just realized I missed your birthday, man. Come meet me and I can give you your gift. Sorry about that.
Now I just gotta find some fucking bleach and get the asshole into my truck.
TWENTY-TWO
Sophia
I’ve been sitting on this couch for so long that my ass has gone numb. I’ve been too afraid to move a single muscle in my body. I’m not sure if Eric’s fucking with me or if he got into an accident, or...literally any other option that could be a possibility, which is probably about five million different things.
I pour myself a glass of room temperature champagne and take a sip of it, finally letting myself lean back against the couch for the first time since Eric left, and I can feel pins and needles in my ass that tell me all I had to do was shift a little and I could have avoided this whole tingly nightmare.
When I reach the halfway point on my glass of champagne, I notice some guy walking up to the VIP section who definitely is not supposed to be here. Eric bought out all of the tables for god knows how long, and this guy is not only not Eric, he’s not even dressed the right way to be up here.
The guy is wearing a relaxed cotton long sleeved shirt and a pair of light wash jeans, and his hair is mussed. So I’m probably dealing with some kind of drunk creep who got past security. Great.
“Sophia?” The guy asks as he gets closer, and I don’t answer. “Dav— Eric asked me to come and get you. He got a little held up with something.” He takes a few steps closer tome, extending his hand. “My name is Colt. I’m a friend of his.”
I recognize the name from the weeks I’ve spent talking to Eric about his life and his friends; but anyone could find out who runs in his circles, so I’m not taking his word at face value. I tentatively take the guy’s hand, giving it a shake. “If you actually know Eric, does he have any tattoos?”
“One,” he tells me, patting the space over his left pec. “A set of lips. I’m assuming yours,Noelle.”
I bite back the smile that fights to creep across my face, but I can’t do anything to stop the flaming crimson that spreads over my cheeks in a blush. He told his friends about me when he came home. He wasn’t lying when he said he thought about me.
I toss back the rest of my champagne and reach under the couch for my little leather bag, plucking the bottle of perfume from the table and stuffing it into the open compartment before slinging the purse over my shoulder.
“Alright,” I nod, “let’s go.”
•
Eric’s apartment is huge and...almost completely empty. There’s a small, undecorated sideboard at the entrance of the penthouse that his friend dropped his keys onto when we walked in, and I followed with my bag, realizing after the fact that I probably should have kept it with me.
There’s a large couch at the center of what looks to be the living room, seated in front of a massive TV which is mounted to the wall, and behind the couch sits a foosball table that looks like it was probably a custom job; because of course it was.
His kitchen leaves just as much to be desired as far as that cozy, homey feeling goes. A large island makes up the only sitting space, white marble inlaid with dark wood cabinets and silver hardware which match the rest of thekitchen surfaces and the steel appliances. A few leather-topped stools line the outer side of the island.
There’s not so much as a bowl of fruit on the counters to signify that someone actually lives here; so either he’s away a lot, he has people cleaning his house all of the time for him, or he never actually moved into this place. He kept his hotel room an absolute mess, and I would expect to see that reflected in his home.
I follow Eric’s friend into his bedroom, which is – you guessed it – all but bare. A massive, tall bed sits at the center of the far wall, draped in probably thirteen pillows and a fluffy black duvet, the mattress itself resting on a contemporary dark wood frame sandwiched on either side by a pair of glossy black nightstands. A matching dresser rests at the opposite end of the room, the only sign of life in this whole place being the clothes haphazardly thrown on top of it, some hanging off of the corner. A single armchair, upholstered in black leather, sits in the corner of the room.
“He’s not much of a decorator, is he?” I ask the guy – Colt, as I pull open one of his nightstand drawers.
It’s veryEricin this drawer; a few loose pills of varying shape and color, a couple of baggies of off-white powder, and a box of condoms sit housed with several miniature bottles of alcohol and a travel sized bottle of mouthwash.
“He’s never here,” he tells me. “This is just where he showers and sleeps sometimes.”
