“No thanks.” I cut him off with a pleasant smile, taking another sip of my drink.
He shrugs, turning back to Sophia with renewed focus. She shoots me a look that clearly saysDon’t you dare,while my raised eyebrows innocently replyWho, me?
But after five minutes of listening to this walking midlife crisis explain why his Porsche 911 is basically a religious experience, I decide to become exactly the kind of friend Sophia pretends to be embarrassed by. This guy isn’t even rebound-worthy for my stunning friend, and she knows it.
“Enjoy your pest,” I say, sliding off my barstool. “I’m going to run to the restroom.”
The guy’s face twists like he’s trying to solve calculus. “What the fuck did she call me?”
I’m already walking away, Sophia’s diplomatic reassurances fading behind me as I navigate deeper into the crowd, a grin on my face.
Cassandra
“Excuse me,” I mutter, slipping through a group of gathered men to make my way toward the bathroom sign at the end of the dark hallway.
I pass a long series of mahogany doors with shiny gold handles and meticulously detailed engravings before finding the right place. The bathroom is a revelation: clean and elegant, like something from a mansion, complete with tasteful furnishings and a crisp white fainting couch beside the entrance.
My second overwhelmed giggle of the night escapes before I can catch it.
This is a far cry from squatting over nasty toilets in smoky, spray-painted stalls. This place represents a side of New York that people like me were never supposed to see, like tasting expensive, aged wine before you can afford to dislike the eight-dollar bottles from the grocery store’s bottom shelf.
After finishing up, I step back into the hallway. The sudden transition from bright bathroom lights to dim corridor lighting assaults myvision. My eyes squeeze shut as I reach for the wall, but my grip falters and my body sways.
My eyes snap open just as I slam into something solid—wait, not a wall, but a hard body. I reverberate backward, arms splaying out as I brace for impact with the floor.
The collision never comes.
Instead, my fingertips brush a silky material, and a large arm slides behind my waist, catching me. My gaze drags up from the dark fabric to the base of a strong neck, black lines teasing tattoos beneath the fabric.
When I lift my eyes higher, every drop of blood in my veins turns to ice.
Deep blue eyes stare back at me. Familiar. Haunting.
“Little Menace,” he says, voice a low rumble that vibrates through my chest.
I forget how to breathe.
I’m frozen, still as prey in a rifle’s scope, while my brain scrambles to process the impossible. The figure from that nightmarish night months ago stands before me, alive and whole, his shirt clutched in my trembling fingers. That strange endearment falling from his full lips.
“How are you enjoying my club?” The question carries a hint of amusement that shakes me from my stupor.
“This is your club?” I search his face for deception. “As in...it belongs to you?”
Over the months, his features blurred in my memory—lines were less sharp, and his presence was less commanding. He’d become more phantom than man. Seeing him now, inches away, makes it impossible to deny the fascinating blend of strength and beauty carved into his face.
He’d seemed smaller in my memories, too, crumpled and vulnerable on cold asphalt. The man before me is anything but diminished. His massive frame dwarfs mine, looming like a statue carved from shadows.
“One of my clubs,” he replies, that easy smile still playing at his lips. His fingers tense against my back, a reminder that he’s still supporting me.
It’s disorienting seeing him so composed. Clean black suit, well-groomed stubble, everything polar opposite to his condition that night. He breathes deeply, and I realize I’ve never seen him without blood choking his words.
“You are one difficult woman to find.”
He waits, as if expecting some sarcastic response, but I’m drowning in the impossibility of it all. My eyes drift to his chest. To the smooth expanse of fabric covering the spot where I’d watched blood pour from his lungs on that frozen night.
Before I can stop myself, my fingers lift to brush the top button of his shirt.
He shudders.
