Acid hits the back of my throat, and my gag reflex kicks in. I cover my mouth and slam a hand against the elevator call button in Trace’s penthouse. He didn’t follow me out of the bedroom, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.
Please, open. Please, open.
I made it this far without surrendering to the impending meltdown. I just need to get through the casino, outside, and into a taxi cab. Then I can cry.
Voices drift from the hall, and my shoulders climb around my ears.
Her hair spread over the couch. His hips pressed against her ass.
I don’t want an apology or an excuse or worse…the sight of his ironclad indifference. I just need to get the fuck out of here.
The elevator opens, and I scramble in, punching the ground floor and holding my breath as it closes.
Her skirt around her waist. His hands—those masculine fingers I so desperately wanted on my body—gripping her hips.
I don’t release my breath on the ride down. If I do, the tears will come. They’re already trembling behind my eyes, simmering, burning, threatening to explode.
The elevator opens on the lobby level, and I forge into the crowded gaming area. Hunched over, shoulders curled forward, I feel like I’m holding in all the parts that hurt. Protecting them. As much as I want to stand straight, I can’t unlock my posture, can’t seem to draw enough air.
When I step outside, my phone buzzes in the wristlet hanging from my arm. I peek at the screen, see an incoming call from Trace, and power it off.
“Do you need a cab, ma’am?” The hotel’s bellhop tips his head toward me.
“Yes. Thank you.” I clutch my throat, hating the creak in my voice.
He leads me to the curb where a taxi waits, and I’m grateful for the cloak of warm night air. Tears are already streaming down my cheeks, and my entire body shivers persistently, uncontrollably.
On the ride home, I wrap my arms around myself and rest my forehead against the window, lost in my miserable thoughts. After everything Trace said at my house, why would he stick his dick in another woman? Was he so absorbed in her he didn’t know I entered his penthouse? He didn’t look surprised, guilty, or pissed. His face was utterly blank. It’s as if he knew I was coming and wanted me to find him with her.
Why? If he cared about me, why would he so viciously hurt me?
I wipe at the river of moisture on my cheeks and try to calm my sniveling. God, I’ve made a mess of my life. How did I go from loving one man to loving another? I didn’t even date in between them, didn’t shop around and weigh my options. I just…
Fell madly, sickeningly, desperately in love.
Again.
I love two men, and I lost them both.
A sob rips free, abrading my throat and vibrating my bones. It’s an angry, gutted sound that echoes through the cab. The driver’s probably staring at me, but I don’t care, because goddammit, this fucking hurts. I swore Trace couldn’t hurt me, that I couldn’t be devastated like this again. How could he do this?
I give myself five more minutes of wheezing, shoulder-shaking tears. Then I bottle that shit up and stuff it way down deep. I prefer to let the darkness devour me when no one’s watching, when I’m alone and armed with liquor.
The cab starts and stops with the heavy downtown traffic. Up ahead, the brightly lit bars on Washington Avenue illuminate the street for several blocks. It’s a scene I used to thrive in before Cole—the clubs, the dancing, the men. Maybe I should go back to that. Find myself again.
The thought of dancing and flirting makes my stomach cramp. I just want to go home and drown in a bottle of grain alcohol.
Don’t do it, Danni. You’ve come so far.
Before my brain catches up, I lean forward and find the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I changed my mind. Drop me off up there at 14th and Washington.”
While Trace is spending the night with another woman, he has the satisfaction of knowing I’m not with someone else. Well, fuck that, and fuck being alone. I’m angry enough, fucking revengeful enough to finally put an end to three years of celibacy.
Using the selfie camera on my phone as a mirror, I wipe away the runny smudges of makeup and smear on lip gloss. Then I pay the driver and step out onto the sidewalk crammed with barhoppers.
Everything inside me feels cold and hollow. I’m not in the right mindset for this. I don’t want to be anywhere near here. But the image of Trace and Marlo together collapses my chest and moves my feet toward the entrance of the closest bar.
Adjusting my strapless dress, I curve my mouth into a casual smile. As I enter the bar—one of many I used to frequent—the boom of deep bass rattles my chest. Huddles of men and women turn their eyes in my direction, grinning and staring and making my skin itch with discomfort.
There are four types of men who peruse the club scene for sex. The wingman—the married guy looking to hook up his shy single buddy. The wolf packs—the group of rowdy boys who gain confidence in numbers. The slurring drunk—the guy who imbibed enough liquor before he arrived to numb his sorrows and build his courage. The lone cowboy—the one who comes alone and doesn’t drink because he knows he won’t be leaving alone.
It’s the latter that I seek out as I scan the crowd of singles, club dancers, and trendy loft-apartment dwellers. I’m not halfway around the circular bar before I find him.
Perched on the far side of the bar, a man with short dark hair and a collared shirt follows me with his gaze. A glass of water sits in front of him, a hand resting beside it, his other loosely curled beneath his chin. He’s attractive in a wonderfully average way. There’s no stuffy suit, no visible tattoos or black leather. He’s casual, relaxed, and looks nothing like the two men who broke my heart.
I squeeze through the shoulder-to-shoulder bodies and steal an empty seat at the bar, directly across from him. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, his mouth crooking up at the corner. He’s cuter than I first thought, with a youthful face and bright eyes. I’d put him in his late thirties. Old enough to know what he’s doing.
I order a water and tip the bartender. Then I watch the man who watches me, all the while giving myself a pep talk. When he comes over here—and he will—I need to go through with this. Rip off the chastity belt. Break the dry spell. Move on with my life.
As he finishes his water and stands, I get a glimpse of narrow hips in relaxed denim. Without looking away, he prowls around the bar, sidestepping flocks of laughing people and heading straight for me.
My smile hangs on by a thread as I turn my neck, holding his gaze. He’s not intimidating enough. Not tall enough. Not sexy, cocky, or scowly enough.
He’s not Trace.
My jaw flexes. Trace is with Marlo, touching her, pleasuring her, and giving her a cock I’ve never even seen. I hope it was worth it, because tomorrow, he’ll be looking for another foolish girl to dance on his stage.
The man with the dark hair and firm eye contact slides in beside me. He doesn’t speak, but his smile is warm, welcoming. Definitely interested.
I stretch my spine to lean toward his face, speaking over the music. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Paul Rudd?”
“Yeah.” He huffs. “All the time.”
“Does that annoy you?”
“Depends.” He bends closer, his chest brushing my shoulder and his mouth at my ear. “Do you think Paul Rudd is attractive?”
“Yes.”
“Then it doesn’t annoy me.”
My energy for this is nonexistent. I’m not in the mood to talk or flirt or connect on any level but one. There’s a game that’s supposed to be played here, but if I’m reading him right, he won’t be offended if I forgo a few steps.
“Do you want to take me home?” I ask.
“Yes.” His throat bobs.
“I don’t want an overnight or a call in the morning. I had a really bad day, and I’m just want to forget about it for a couple of hours. Can you handle that?”
“Absolutely.”
“I live about ten minutes away. Can we skip the build-up and—”
“Let’s get out of here.” He grabs my hand, helps me off the stool, and leads me out of the bar.
On the way to his car, we exchange names—his is Jason—talk about the humid weather, and keep it light and impersonal. He owns a Honda Civic fastback, and he drives it fast, his hands relaxed on the wheel and his foot never leaving the gas.
The heated looks he casts in my direction tell me he’s ready to fuck. The hard bulge in his jeans confirms it.
My body’s not warmed up, not even close, and I need it to be. If he fucks as fast as he drives, he’ll be in and out before I orgasm. I experienced too many of those in my club scene days.
With my address programmed into the navigation system, the screen shows nine minutes until we arrive. Nine minutes to make him come. If I can take his edge off, maybe he’ll take his time with me when we get to my house.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I touch him with my hands and lips, stroking him everywhere, quickening his breaths and making him moan. Then I release his erection from his jeans and wrap my lips around him.
He jerks and grunts and tastes like fabric softener. It’s just a blow job, like any other one-night-stand. A job for me and a blow for him, which he does within sixty seconds, shooting his load down my throat.
I straighten in the seat and wipe my mouth, tensing against a sudden wave of nausea. I didn’t expect be aroused by that, but the twisting, coiling sensation in my stomach shouldn’t be there. I need to do this. I need to have sex. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them back, forcing all thoughts of Trace out of my mind.
“Why did you do that?” Jason asks through heavy breaths.
“I’m hoping you’ll return the favor.” My voice is even, despite the bile crawling up my chest.
“I will.” He grips my bare thigh, his fingers slinking beneath the hem of my dress. “Jesus, I came so hard I’m still shaking. That was the best head I’ve ever had.”
“The sex will be even better.” I hope, for my sake.
He pulls into my driveway and twists in the seat, looking out the back window. “A car just parked on your curb. I think it’s a…Maserati?”