All of me.
Just a sharp line of black eyeliner.
Mascara to define each lash.
And a deep berry stain on my lips that feels like war paint.
Each stroke of the brush, each careful application…
A ritual.
A steeling of nerves.
I slide my feet into my black stilettos.The sudden height altered my posture, forcing me to stand taller.More empowered.The click of them on the office floor is a decisive sound.
I grab my clutch, phone, and keys.
One last, deep breath.
It’s time.
FORTY THREE
YOU DON’T TRADE your soul for this place, Ames.
Helen’s not wrong.But I also refuse to let James take the café from me without a proper fight.
I slide out of the cab.The cool night air instantly draping around my bare shoulders, the vibrating energy of the club reaching for me.Ahead, the familiar velvet rope guards the entrance, manned by the same broad-shouldered bouncer from that other night.The night my world imploded.When I showed up here in a desperate haze, wearing my green sweater dress and beige ankle boots, searching for oblivion.I still remember his scrutinizing gaze, the hesitation before he waved me through with a dismissive shrug.
Tonight, I don’t just walk… I advance.
The click of my stilettos on the pavement is sharp.It turns his shaved head long before I reach the rope.His eyes, practiced and professional, sweep over me, from the halter neck of the dress down to my heels.
This time, there is no hesitation.Just a brief, assessing glance that meets my own, a curt nod of approval, and the immediate unlocking of the velvet rope.
Stepping through the door is like plugging into a live wire.A raw current zaps through me, a churning mix of heat, spilled alcohol, and a dozen competing perfumes.The bass sinks into my bones, vibrating so deep in my chest it forces my racing pulse into its rhythm.Strobe lights flash, bleaching the color from the crush of bodies on the dance floor before plunging them back into a pulsing, artificial twilight.
I shove my way through the throng, my focus a pinpoint.I weave past laughing groups and couples plastered against each other until, at last, I reach the long, gleaming bar.My gaze sweeps the room, bypassing the dancers to scan the periphery.My target isn’t in the anonymous chaos out here.He’s in the elevated VIP section, holding court in one of the private booths.
But first, fortification.
I flag down a bartender, my voice pitched loud to cut through the din.“Vodka.Neat.”No hesitation.No ice.
Only pure liquid courage.Or numbness.Whichever comes first.
While the bartender turns to grab a bottle, my eyes are drawn inexorably to the VIP section.I scan the indistinct shapes in the low light; the silhouettes leaning close in conversation within the booths lining the back wall.
And then my eyes lock onto it.
His booth.
Tucked in the corner.Slightly larger than the others.A prime spot for observing, and for being observed.It’s the same booth.The exact spot where my carefully constructed world shattered.The memory isn’t a flashback; it’s a phantom scene playing out right in front of me:
James lounging, possessive, a laughing redhead tucked under his arm.
Dragging her away, plastering her against the wall.
Kissing her neck.
