Wren
I’m wiping down the bar for the millionth time tonight, my eyes darting to the clock every few seconds. Fuck, time’s dragging like a three-legged dog.
To be completely blunt, a part of me—a very stupid part—did a backflip when I laid eyes on D earlier.
But I fucking hate it when he always appears to be some knight in shining armor. Still, I can’t help but find his expression cute when I called him my boyfriend. Like a puppy who just got tossed a bone.
Patrick leans in. “So, is Mr. Orlov really your boyfriend?” he asks, his eyes darting around the room to ensure no one else catches wind of this juicy gossip. Satisfied that he’s safe, he sets down a Barracuda’s Bite in front of a leggy blonde, his attention still on me.
I roll my eyes. “Christ, Patrick. You’re worse than my little sister with the gossip.” He’s been bugging me all night, ever since D’s little alpha male display.
He grins, unashamed. “Come on, Wren. Spill. The Russian boss and the new bartender? It’s like a movie!”
“Yeah, a really bad porno,” I mutter, but I can’t help smirking.
We finish closing up, and I check my phone. There’s a message from D:
Suite 3807. If you still want to talk.
I turn to Patrick. “Nah, just a friend,” I say, answering his earlier question.
He gives me an “I don’t believe you” look that makes me want to smack him. “Sure, Wren. Whatever you say.”
We say goodnight, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. And they’re a fucking mess.
I’ve been tired, working non-stop. Worse was fucking John, trying to break into Lenny’s room to steal his laptop. Luckily, he hadn’t succeeded, now that Em’s moved in to share a room with me.
I turn off my phone and check myself in the mirror. I’ve unbuttoned two buttons on my shirt, and I reach for the lipstick, then stop myself.
What the fuck am I doing?
It’s just atalk. A fucking chat. Not a goddamn mating call. And it sure as hell ain’t a chance for him to stick his dick in me again.
I throw the lipstick back in my bag and walk toward the elevator, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. They feel more like angry wasps, to be honest.
The elevator dings, and I step inside, jabbing the button for the 38th floor. The doors grind shut, and the box shudders. My stomach lurches as it drops, plummeting down two floors. My heart slams against my ribs, each thud echoing in my skull.Fuck. Why am I nervous? It’s just D. Just the guy who’s seen me with my ass hanging out, blood crusted on my knuckles and vomit in my hair.
The doors slide open with a hiss. I stomp down the hallway, my boots sinking into the fancy-ass carpet.
3805… 3806… 3807. I freeze, my fist an inch from the door.
What the hell am I doing here? My hand’s clammy, and I scrub it on my skirt.
Christ, Wren. You’ve stared down loaded guns.
This is just a goddamn door.
Just D behind it.
Before I can answer my own question, I rap on the door. Three sharp knocks.
No hesitation, no turning back.
I’m here totalk. Justtalk.
15 minutes, tops.
I can do this.
