I don’t need to know if I’m right.
I just need to know I’m still sane.
So, I put an address into my phone and throw my car into drive, knowing that if I don’t do this, I’ll lose my ability to control myself.
I don’t need to know if I’m right about what Caleb was hiding under that pillow.
I already know.
I fucking know. But I can’t have it.
I can’t have him.
And having to spend the entire weekend with him and his family…
Fuck. I glance at the directions as I head to my destination. Yes, this is for the best.
I need to take the edge off.
I speed down the freeway, hopping on the toll lanes as I head into the city. And when I maneuver my car up a long incline and into a dimly lit parking lot, I let out an exhale.
I’m far enough away now that I won’t be able to turn around and head home.
I can’t go back there.
I step out of the car and head toward the smoky glass doors, two security guards tracking my every move. One holds out a card reader as I approach. I tap my phone against it, the familiar chime cutting through the music coming from inside. Not a small fee, but one I’ve paid before.
Luckily, this establishment is discreet, and what shows up on the bill doesn’t reveal to anyone what I’m spending my money on. My dad doesn’t need to know this part of me.
He already hates it.
I let my gaze slide toward the view, seeing the city lights twinkling in the distance below before moving inside. Everything here is sapphire blueand soft rose, with mirrored walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. From here, you can see the Pacific shimmering in the distance, and as I move my feet across the marbled floors, I hear the bass rumble through me.
I’m here to find someone to take my mind off my roommate. Someone more my type, someone to satiate the building need inside of me.
I could have called Magnus to ask for a favor, but that doesn’t feel right anymore. I need it to be anonymous. I need it to be someone I don’t know, someone I won’t remember. Someone who won’t consume my every waking moment.
As I move toward the bar top, I see men in linen blazers and tailored shirts mingling, champagne and other colorful drinks in their hands. Rich, sophisticated.
So unlike him.
So very different.
Eyes swivel toward me, and I feel my skin prickling.
And not in a good way.
It’s just nerves, I tell myself. Nothing more.
I sidle up to the glowing onyx bar top and lean forward. A bartender with a name tag that readsVelvetnods at me.
“What can I get you?” he asks, his voice smooth and low.
I know I’m young, probably one of the younger ones here, but I’m no stranger when it comes to alcohol.
Nothing like Caleb, though. I didn’t start drinking when I was thirteen. But I snuck a few bottles of my parents’ wine when I was younger.
“Champagne is fine.”
