“We’ve already been through that. I said you look like you could cheerfully scare off Jurassic predators, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, thanks. Should I go and say hi, or should I stay here and see if she comes over?”
Before I can answer, she flounces off and heads towards Jill. I can’t hear their conversation, but I can see Lacey fidgeting with her hair. She only does that in times of severe stress. Jill settles her down with a subtle look. If I wasn’t watching the whole thing with such interest, I’d have missed it. The effect is instantaneous. Lacey relaxes immediately, to the extent her jaw slackens ever so slightly. Jill reaches out and takes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and as she hands it to Lacey, she drags her pinkie finger lightly over Lacey’s forefinger. Lacey freezes for a moment and then throws her head back, laughing uproariously despite the fact Jill hasn’t said a word.
I’m aghast. I’ve never seen Lacey like this. I hate it. Everything is different. Everything. My ice queen of a best friend is nothing more than a puddle on the floor at the hands of a totally forgettable woman. Everything has changed. Everything has been different since the day I met Saint. Lacey’s right, I’m different. I’m standing here at what’s arguably one of the biggest birthday bashes in history and I’m not having fun. The venue looks amazing. The budget has been well and truly blown, and I have to say it was worth it. The food is out of this world. The entertainment rivals the entertainment at last year’s Oscars. Seriously, it will be spoken about in hushed tones for years. Years. Several A-list celebrities have tried to crash the party and have been discretely turned away. Past Me would be living for this. Present Me doesn’t even want to be here.
I look around and scan the area. I sniff the cool night air. No hint of Saint. I know it’s dumb, but I thought he’d turn up tonight. I’ve told myself repeatedly that he wouldn’t. I guess part of me still thought he would. I must have, because the level of disappointment I feel that he hasn’t, is crushing.
Fuck him.
Seriously, fuck him.
I look around again. There’s a hoard of people dancing wildly. It looks like they’re having fun. That’s good, I suppose. I feel exhausted at the thought of dancing, so I look over at one of the bars. This time my gaze lands on Bene Brewer. He’s not a friend exactly, more of a good acquaintance. He’s an influencer currently in high demand on BeckIT. He’s pretentious as hell and he couldn’t possibly love himself more. He has every reason to. He’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He has one of those too-handsome faces. Good bone structure and impossibly white teeth. Not a scar or a hint of a broken nose in sight. I sidle up to him and place my hand on the small of his back. He turns and looks at me, eyes lighting up in delight. He wants me. Always has. The only reason I haven’t fucked him before is because some twisted part of me would truly hate to see this guy looking any more pleased with himself.
We chat for a while. Well,chatis a bit strong. He talks about himself, and I smile and nod and try not to make a mental list of all the ways Saint is more interesting than him. When it becomes clear there’s no way I can fuck with him, courtesy of how limp my dick is around him, I whip my phone out and lean in close.
“Smile,” I say, and he does.
He tilts his face close to mine and sticks his tongue out, curling it towards my mouth in a classic shithead pose. I snap the pic and check it out. It’s perfect. I look half bored, half amused. In other words, I look hot. Bene does, too. One of his hands is wrapped around my throat, and he has a horny glint in his eye. I post the photo on BeckIT, along with the comment, ‘Is this my present?’ Then I disappear into the crowd before Bene can kick up too much of a fuss.
*
I head home a little after one in the morning. I can’t wait for my head to hit the pillow. Being faux friendly for hours has really taken it out of me. I check my phone yet again as my driver indicates to turn into my building. The picture of Bene and me has the likes pouring in. His fans and mine seem to be frothing at the idea of us getting together. I scan the comments. I know it’s ridiculous. I doubt Saint’s even on BeckIT. I doubt it highly. Even if he was, I doubt he’d be dumb enough to leave a comment under a name I’d recognize. Still, my dumb ass searches the list of usernames for anything resemblingSaint,AssholeorWorstKidnapperEver. Unsurprisingly, I come up empty.
I plug my phone in and shred the latest pages from Allan. I walk through my apartment debating internally whether I have enough energy to head back to my phone to send him the usual message. I think not. Not tonight.
The dining table is groaning under the weight of elaborately wrapped boxes. My PA, Alyssa, must have had them delivered for me. Ordinarily, it would thrill me. Ordinarily, I love me a good gift. Tonight, all I can do is wonder where the hell I’m going to store all this new crap.
I flick off the lights as I walk towards my bedroom. The world seems quieter as soon as the space falls into darkness. My room is dimly lit. Bedside tables glow next to my bed and the standing lamp in the corner gives off a soft, sultry light.
The sound of a throat being cleared alerts me to the fact I’m not alone.
I startle, spine freezing and whipping me upright so hard and so fast, my feet leave the ground for a full second. There’s a dark figure sitting in the armchair in the corner of my room.
It’s him.
He’s here.
His face is in the shadows, but his body is lit by the light streaming from the dressing room. I can see the outline of him. It’s clear and unmistakable.
My heart starts beating out of my chest.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. He leans forward. The light hits his face. Jagged lines are highlighted by the dim light. I can tell right away he’s different. Something about him is different. The angle of his shoulders is wrong. Off. He tilts the screen of his phone toward me. I recognize the photo I posted on BeckIT earlier – the one of Bene and me. A quick twist of satisfaction throbs in my chest.
“Does he know you’remine?” His voice is thick and dull.
Has he been drinking?
“Can’t see how he would, given even I’m not aware of that little fact.”
He stands up and saunters over, taking long, threatening strides to fill the space between us. His steps are heavy. Heavier and less coordinated than usual. I start to feel warm and my breath hitches from being so close to him. He leans in, closer still. Close enough to make me start burning. He points a finger a little too near my face.
“Does he know I’ll smash every bone in his face if he touches you?”
I smell tequila as his breath puffs against my cheek and there’s the slightest slur in his speech. There’s no doubt about it. I have a drunk Saint on my hands. I know it’s ill-advised and possibly childish, but I admit it gives me a rush to hear him talking like this. I’m thrilled beyond words I’ve provoked him enough to draw him out, that I’ve made him come to me.
