Where the hell is he?
Goddammit.
The one guy in this place who might be worth my time, and he fucking disappears.
Around me, sweaty bodies grind against each other, hands groping, and mouths locked in sloppy kisses. In the corner, two chicks are going to town on some dude’s tiny dick, taking turns sucking him off like he’s the second coming of Christ.
Must be some rich prick throwing around Daddy’s money for a little ego boost. Not that I’m judging.
I’m here for a good time, not a therapy session.
I elbow my way to the bar, the burn of frustration rising in my throat. This is what I get for being picky. Should’ve just grabbed the first halfway decent guy I saw and been done with it.
“A bottle of the Perrier-Jouët Belle Epoque,” I demand, slapping a black card on the counter. “And make sure it’s the ‘02. I’m not in the mood for anything less than perfection tonight.”
The bartender raises an eyebrow but nods, reaching under the counter to pull out a sleek black bottle with a silver label. Stretching up for a champagne flute, the idiot manages to drop it, shattering crystal as it lands behind the bar.
Goddamn fool!
Just another fuck-up in a day that’s been nothing but a clusterfuck. Everything’s been a mess, and now, this simple drink order is turning into a circus.
The bartender, with shaky hands, finally manages to yank the cork out. I’m ready to drown my frustrations when I feel a presence at my elbow.
“Well now, what’s a pretty little thing like you doing all alone?”
I turn to see a grown-ass man in an Elvis costume leering at me, his rhinestone-studded hips cocked in what I’m sure he thinks is a seductive pose.
“I’m not alone,” I say flatly. “I’m with my best friend, Monsieur Perrier-Jouët. And trust me, he’s more than enough company.”
Elvis clutches at his chest in mock hurt. “Aw, don’t be like that, darlin’. The King just wants to show you a good time.”
“Sorry, I’m not into necrophilia.” I take a sip of the Perrier-Jouët, savoring the way the rich, complex flavors dance on my tongue. “So why don’t you go find yourself a nice gold lamé groupie and leave me the fuck alone?”
His eyes narrow, the playful facade slipping. “Listen here, you little—”
But I’m already moving, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back until he yelps in pain.
“No, you listen, you cheap Vegas lounge act,” I hiss in his ear. “I’m not interested. So take a fucking hint and walk away before I break something a lot more valuable than your wrist.”
I shove him away, taking grim satisfaction in the way he stumbles and nearly face-plants on the sticky floor. He scrambles upright, his cheeks flushed with anger and humiliation.
“Crazy bitch!” he spits, but he’s already backing away, hands raised in surrender. “Forget it. You’re not worth the trouble.”
I watch him go, a smirk playing on my lips. Damn straight, I’m not.
But my victory is short-lived. No sooner has Elvis left the building than another contender slides into his place, all slick charm and megawatt smile.
“Quite the show you put on there,” he says, his voice smooth as the champagne I’m drinking. “I’m impressed.”
I give him a flat look. “And I should care about impressing you why, exactly?”
He laughs, seemingly unfazed by my hostility. “Fair point. Let me rephrase.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Vincent. And from theway you just handled that loser, I’m guessing you’re not the kind of woman who appreciates bullshit or empty flattery.”
I eye his hand warily for a moment before taking it in a firm grip. “Clara. And you’re right. I don’t.”
“Good.” His smile sharpens into something a little more real, a little more dangerous. “Because I’ve never been one for bullshit either. I prefer… honesty.”
There’s weight to that last word, a dark promise that sends a shiver over my skin. This Vincent is more than just another pretty face. He’s got an edge to him, a sharpness I recognize all too well.
