I lean in for a closer look.
She lowers her voice slightly. "You might've heard of theAsk for AngelaorAngel Shotsinitiative. It's a low-key way to let us know you need help."
"How does it work?" I ask.
She gestures toward the glasses. "If you order an angel shot straight, we'll walk you to your car. On the rocks lets us know to call you a ride. If you ask for it with a twist or lime, that tells us you need help right away."
She then nods toward the restrooms, "It's posted in the ladies' room, too, along with hotline numbers and resources for anyone dealing with abuse or domestic violence."
"That’s amazing," I say. "I haven't been out in years without… well, it's good to know there's someone else looking out for me."
She smiles and taps the table lightly, "That's the idea. Just let me know if you need anything else."
I take a sip of my drink. My usual go-to is something fruity, and this Virgin Fizzy Navel hits the spot. It's like its boozy cousin, the classic Fuzzy Navel, but the added punch of club soda tickles my tongue, making it light, bubbly, and refreshing.
Behind me are the VIP suites, secluded rooms separated from the rest of the lounge for added privacy. From the sounds within, there's some serious letting loose happening.
A door opens, and the most unbelievably gorgeous man backs out. He's about Jaxson's height,maybe six-four or six-five, with icy blond hair that brushes his shoulders. His build is lean and muscular, not bulky, all long lines and carved definition. The fitted button-up he's wearing is open at the neck and clings to him as if it were a second skin. Ink curls up his forearms, wrapping around his biceps before slipping under his sleeves, then teasing back into view at the “V” of his shirt.
It's mesmerizing how effortlessly attractive he is, like a work of art. I can't stop staring.
Mmmmm, arm porn.
The urge to trace the prominent veins on his forearms with my tongue makes my mouth dry.
Holy crap—where did that come from?
Jaxson’s neglect has chipped away at me, piece by piece, taking my confidence and my self-esteem. How can I possibly ignore the instant attraction that hits the moment Mr. Arm Porn steps out of that room? If Jaxson wanted me to notice other men, he succeeded.
Wiping actual drool from my mouth, I grab my drink and sniff it.
What's wrong with me? Is there alcohol in this?
Glancing at him again, I notice two girls clinging to him, their arms looping around his broad shoulders and waist. They laugh and fawn over him, clearlyintoxicated, while he looks completely overwhelmed and frustrated, caught between them.
They hang on his shoulders, tugging at his shirt and kissing him. “Ladies, ladies,” he says gently, trying to extricate himself. “No, no, thank you.”
As soon as he removes one, the other latches on. His face and neck are smeared with lipstick, and his shirt is halfway off. A couple of guys, just as good-looking as he is, peel the protesting girls off him.
When he finally manages to close the door, he turns around, leans against the wall, and bends over to catch his breath. He stands there, adjusting his shirt, and then catches me ogling him. His eyes are just as icy as his hair, with a crystal blue hue I've never seen. I'm transfixed.
He straightens and saunters over to me, smirking. When he reaches the table, I can still see how devastatingly beautiful he is, but the smudged lipstick on his face and shirt, combined with that cocky smile, is hilarious. I bite my lip, and he pauses.
“Hi,” he says, hesitating as he takes in my expression.
“Hi,” I reply, mischief teasing my lips.
“Uh, what's so funny?”
‘You got a little…” I point at his face, struggling not to laugh. “…lipstick.” Then I lose it. Laughter bursts out of me, and I bend over, clutching my stomach, trying to catch my breath.
He snatches a cocktail napkin and wipes his face. Pulling it back, he scowls at the bright red stains. Looking down, he huffs. “They've ruined my shirt! This is all over me.”
I'm laughing so hard that tears spring to my eyes. I grab a cocktail napkin too and try to do a little damage control before my mascara smears.
“Well, if you weren't such a stud, Pretty Boy, and didn't entertain two women at once, it might be less messy,” I burst out.
He stops wiping his face and pouts at me. “I hadn't been in that room fifteen minutes when they jumped me!” He throws his hands up. “It wasn't my fault.”
