VIP section.
The bottle lands on the table with a solid thunk. Glasses follow. Ice. No ceremony.
Alex raises his glass. “To poor decisions made responsibly.”
“You don’t know what that means,” I say.
He grins. “That’s what makes it fun.”
People drift in fast. No hovering. No hesitation. A woman in black slides into the empty space beside Alex like it’s always been hers. Another leans against the table near Mark, close enough to be deliberate.
Mark says very little. Watches. Listens. His attention is steady, almost polite.
Alex, on the other hand, is already holding court.
“You ever notice,” he says to no one in particular, “that Sunday nights make everyone honest?”
The woman beside him laughs. “You’re assuming people aren't honest any other night.”
“Fair,” he says. “But tonight they don’t even pretend.”
I take a drink. Then another.
Someone brushes my arm. Lingers. Her perfume is expensive and sweet, the kind meant to be remembered.
“You look serious,” she says.
“I usually am.”
She smiles like that’s a challenge.
Alex leans back in his chair. “Don’t encourage him. He thinks brooding counts as a personality.”
“It does,” I say. “In certain circles.”
She laughs and stays close.
The music shifts. Someone bumps into the table, cringes when he sees who's sitting there.
"Pierce, man! Sorry." He doesn't wait for forgiveness.
The woman slides in next to me now. "Pierce. Derek Pierce?" she asks, her voice silky.
"The one and only."
"I've heard about you," she says, then leans in and whispers, "and I'd like a taste."
I don't respond.
I know I taste good.
She, however, is all over me now. Her hand sliding up my thigh, over my chest, across my back.
My body's interested.
Another round appears without asking.
My gaze drifts—to the bar, the edge of the floor, the spot near the corner where someone stumbled hard enough to catch attention.
