Exactly. I’m all sensitive. Every nerve is live.
I bet if you touched me right now I’d explode.
Meet me in the bathroom?
Ten minutes?
I want to taste you before we have to go pretend for the cameras…I need it, Baby.
My thumb hovered over the screen. The heat in my stomach was undeniable, warring with the anxiety of being caught.
We have to go to the club. Higher ups are watching. Behave.
Fine. But you owe me. I’m gonna be thinking about your hands all night.
The VIP section was a fishbowl.
It was raised above the main dance floor, separated by a velvet rope and two massive security guards, but that didn’t stop the eyes. Everyone was watching.
The music was a physical force. The iconic, hypnotic synth intro of “Black Beatles” dropped, and the entire club exploded. The beat was infectious, manic, a relentless driving rhythm that made it impossible to stand still.
I sat in the corner of the plush leather booth, nursing a water. I was wearing a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, playing the role of the “Professional.”
Cal was playing “Deadlock.”
And he was playing it too well.
He was standing near the railing, illuminated by the strobes. He had a drink in one hand, a soda with lime that looked like a vodka tonic and a woman under the other arm.
She was stunning. Dark curls, a red dress that barely existed. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting flat on his chest, right over his heart, fingers tracing the edge of his unbuttoned shirt.
Calleaned down, whispering in her ear. He flashed that dangerous, crooked smile. He ran his hand down her back, resting it on her hip, pulling her slightly closer.
It was perfect marketing. It was exactly what I had told him to do.Sell the image, Cal. Be the rockstar.
It made me want to rip the booth apart with my bare hands.
“He’s good at it,” Evan said.
I jumped slightly. Evan had slid into the booth next to me. He wasn’t looking at Cal. He was looking at me.
“Good at what?” I asked, my voice tight.
“The Game,” Evan said quietly. “The Schmoozing. The ‘Ladies Man’ thing.”
Evan took a sip of his beer. He watched the woman run her fingers through Cal’s hair. He watched my jaw clench until my teeth hurt.
“You okay, Si?” Evan asked.
It wasn’t a casual question. There was a weight to it. A sympathy I hadn’t asked for. Evan was playing the dumb jock, but he saw things. He saw the way I looked at Cal.
“I’m fine,” I lied, staring at the table. “Just a headache. The lights.”
“Yeah,” Evan murmured. “The lights are bright.”
He didn’t ask why I looked like I was in physical pain watching my best friend flirt with a model. He just bumped his knee against mine in solidarity and turned back to the crowd.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
