Per Mysandre’s email, she hired extra servers tonight. They’re dressed in bright red shirts, and several deftly maneuver through the crowd to deliver drinks.
Tonight, for all intents and purposes, is a success. The crowd is here, only without the bullshit, but it’s unsettling. I’ve never had a drama-free evening in the two years I’ve been running this club and attending ladies’ night. I’m just not that lucky. Never have been. Never will be.
I scan the place for the umpteenth time. It’s contained chaos, so I shrug and decide to go against my nature and be cautiously optimistic.
My eyes catch a patch of hot pink. There’s nothing unique about the color or the outfit. She’s wearing a crown on her head and a sash across her plain, tight black dress. It’s a nice body, but I don’t dwell on that. Relationships in my line of work are a no for me. From my experience, the sash either says "birthday girl," "birthday queen," "bride," "bride-to-be," or "future Mrs. Who The Fuck Ever."
Her outfit is so basic that it’s not worthy of a second glance, but my eyes betray me, and I look again. There are three of them, all dressed the same. That’s different. There’s usually only one queen bee and her ladies-in-waiting, but not this bunch. They seem to be equal.
I track them as they push their way to the bar. Moments later, they’re served the cocktail of the night. It’s an obnoxious blue drink with a long, swirly straw. The three clink their glasses, and even from here, I can tell they’re giggling as they sip.
I go to one of my monitors and enlarge it. They’re heavily made up, and I didn’t notice it before, but all three wear a white mesh top over their dresses with a pink sash. I zoom in, and the sash reads ‘bride-to-be.’ Now, that is worthy of an eye roll. It’s a lie. The real brides-to-be have different energy. They all want to be the center of attention, but this trio isn’t about that. I snort and look away, but something draws me to her, and I hate myself for glancing back.
They barely appear old enough to be out of high school. I doubt they’re old enough to be here, let alone get married. The prettiest one of them points to the seating area. They hold hands and run across the room, bumping into a group of guys, who check out their asses.
Fucking perverts. Unlike these girls, these dudes are old enough to be here. Their receding hairlines give them away. You’d think they would have grown out of clubbing, but most men are immature idiots.
The three ladies find an empty booth and slide in. The pretty one is of average height. I enlarge the frame and look at her face. She’s beyond pretty with big eyes and brown skin, but it’s her lips that give me pause. They’re full, and despite the garish pink lipstick, I can’t look away from them. Her tongue darts out, and she licks her bottom lip.
Her dark hair is a cascade of loose curls, and her face is round, almost giving her an angelic glow.
She yells something over the loud music. The other girls laugh, and the pretty one gives them the middle finger.
She points animatedly at her friends. They pick up their glasses, throw their heads back, and down their drinks without taking a breath.
I sigh at their childish behavior. They are definitely underage. They might be eighteen, but I doubt they’re old enough to drink. Too bad they’re too naïve to know that the bartender waters down the cocktails. The pretty one takes her phone and scans the QR code.
When she gets up, I get a clear view of her body. She has nice legs and hips. Her ass is a perfect peach, and her neck is graceful. I don’t see any tattoos or markings on her exposed skin.
I shake my head. Not my type. She’s too young. Too immature. Besides, the only woman I’m attracted to is the type who will open her legs to me for a few hours or a night and leave. Young girls like her are clingy.
Glaring at another monitor, I ignore the trio of fake soon-to-be brides, but I return to them moments later.
They’re no longer at the booth, but I find them soon enough. They’re in the middle of the dance floor and holding shotglasses. They clink, throw their heads back, and down the clear liquid.
Well, goddamn. The one with the graceful neck of a gazelle didn’t even flinch, while the other two made faces of disgust. Gazelle is either a wild one or pretending to be. Either way, she’s going to pay for that in the morning when she wakes up with a pounding headache.
They start to dance. The music is fast, and they gyrate their hips in an exaggerated fashion. Neither one of them can dance well, but they don’t seem to give a shit. The shortest one gets in the middle, puts her hands on her knees, and twerks. She doesn’t have much of an ass, so nothing moves.
Gazelle copies her rhythmless friend, and the nice curve of her ass calls to me. I know large hands like mine can cover a cheek.
Fucking pervert.
I shake my head. I’m not into young girls. I like them older. Preferably, just getting out of a bad relationship or divorce. That’s when they’re not looking for anything beyond a hookup or a one-night stand, which is all I will ever offer a woman.
The other girl slaps Gazelle on her ass. That makes her lose her balance, and she bumps into some idiot on the dance floor. He sees her and smiles that predatory smile I’ve become familiar with. He says something close to her ear, and they dance together.
Her girls stay nearby, but another group of idiots joins them. Gazelle is head and shoulders above the clown she’s with in the dancing department.
Why do you care?
I don’t, and I look away, but not for long. My brain won’t cooperate, so I give in and watch. I’m not one to gawk at attractive women, but she is a vision in that tight, black dress and killer curves. I see why that idiot she’s dancing with is drawn to her. He has her pressed to his body, the lucky fuck.
I expand the screen. He has his hand on her ass while they grind. Rolling my eyes, I ask myself why I care. Fucking pervert. This man is probably closer to forty than he is twenty-one, and he has this young girl pressed against him. I bet half my bank account he’s married or lives with someone.
She and her friends aren’t the first underage ones to sneak in here; for the most part, I let them be. Who the fuck am I to police these kids when I was doing worse things than sneaking into a club at that age?
By the time I was eighteen and had grown out of the foster care system, I was an angry and violent menace. Besides, it’s not the underage ones that cause trouble. It’s men like this guy I need to watch out for—older men who prey on the younger and immature.
