Zoey
Although I’ve swallowed my pride and forced myself to move past my mortification of being busted for gawking and called out on it, the past two weeks have still been excruciating. It’s hard to look a man dead in the eyes who caught you daydreaming about him without wanting to squirm under your skin.
Thankfully, he’s been gone more than present. I’ve used the time alone to nail down a lot of his routine and jump head first into the tasks I know he needs. Like he said, if I want to be indispensable, I need to be effective. It’s my goal. I didn’t work my ass off to get here and screw up. Hot boss or not, I’m going to be vital.
I’ve paid attention to everything. He comes in exactly at eight and not a minute late. He leaves for lunch at twelve and comes back promptly at one-thirty. He keeps his door shut ninety percent of the time and if given the right phone call, I can hear either his excitement or vexation through the wall. Other times, it’s quiet.
There’s a knock on my apartment door and immediately following is Britney.
“Let’s get this party started.” She throws her arms over her head and shakes them. “I’m so ready to drink and dance.”
That’s the great thing about living across the hall from your best friend—she knows when you need a break. Britney must’ve homed in her telepathic abilities because when I got home this afternoon, she bombarded me at the door with a roaring idea to go clubbing tonight.
There’s no better destresser than drinks and dancing.
“Me too. It’s been weeks of stress and I need to get rid of it before I pop,” I whine. “I can’t even think straight anymore.”
She wraps her arms around my neck and hugs me. “It’s the weekend and tonight we’re going to dance our asses off, leaving all our worries like a big pile of shit in the middle of the dance floor.”
Britney has always stood out. Her personality enters the room before the rest of her—bubbly and loud. Following suit is her fiery red hair she dyes because her natural and beautiful brown hair is “boring.” She has these dark commanding eyes with perfectly manicured eyebrows. Her lips are full, or as she says “the perfect dick sucking lips.” She takes measures to look flawless and she’ll openly admit it. And no matter her style or look for the night, she always has the perfect outfit.
Her gaze travels to my legs and she bounces a finger. “Your legs look fabulous in those shorts.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “You’re so easily sidetracked.”
She beams proudly. “Yep. Let’s go do this!” she hollers and raises the roof like we’re back in the nineties.
Club Orchid—the hottest club in Denver. Standing outside its brick walls, you feel the building pulsing, the sound of music reaching out and wrapping your body in its fingers, forcing you to dance while you wait. Once we step inside, we’re instantly battered with neon green strobes, heavy vibrations of the bass throbbing against our skin, and people moving and dancing around.
Britney grasps my hand and makes a beeline to the bar where she orders two blue kamikaze shots.
Yep. We’re definitely going to let loose tonight.
One right after the other, we slam them back. The keen burn blazes my tongue and down my throat—a scorch I’ve needed desperately these past weeks. I might love to dance, but I’ve always needed an elixir for the courage to shake my ass in the middle of a large crowd.
“You good?” she asks.
I nod and she grabs my hand again, leading the way. It’s packed full. There isn’t any room for more, yet when we step onto the dance floor, the space miraculously appears. She spins toward me and we move, swaying and bouncing to the rhythm of the song. My head swings from side to side, my arms roaming my body as the music speaks to me. I’m lost in the beat, weeks of stress and tension dissolving into the air and floating away on the sound waves.
We laugh, pretending to be the sexiest women alive—stripper material—and we don’t give a damn how ridiculous we may look. This is our moment and we’re living it. I run my hands down my ribcage and whip my head, flipping my hair and shaking my ass. Britney does her own thing, but together, we own our space.
After two songs, we head back to the bar to catch our breaths and grab another round of shots.
As the bartender sets the glasses on the bar, a tall man sidles up beside Britney and grins widely. “I’ll get that.”
Her giggle is breathy as she says something for only him to hear. His brown eyes flare with anticipation and he nods.
Did I ever mention Britney has whore tendencies? Her words, not mine. I don’t judge, only worry at times, which can be frustrating. I’ve seen enough shows where the women end up missing, or worse—dead, when they were only meeting up with someone. Good things can go bad in an instant.
She waggles her brows and tips her head—a telltale sign for me to follow her and the lucky man. Even with Britney’s hand in his, he checks over his shoulder regularly as he leads the way, keeping us just on the edge of the room and away from the majority of the crowd. We pass by the VIP section to the left of the stairs and then head up.
The area has glass walls overlooking the main floor, muting part of the music, but you can feel the bass under your feet. Up here, you can see the club is huge and jam-packed with people dancing or socializing.
The guy slides into the booth first and Britney joins in right beside him. “I’m Britney,” she chirps and then winks. “This is Zoey.” She points.
I give a small wave.
He’s all smiles. “I’m Ken.”
“You’re the best-looking man here, Ken,” she throws out her regular line I’m all too familiar with.
“You probably say that to all the men,” he says.
If he only knew.
She twirls her flaming red hair between her fingers. “I do, but this time I mean it.”
You guessed it. It’s her go-to line. Every. Time. Recited to perfection.
“I need to go to the bathroom. Need to come?” I ask, knowing the answer already. It’s our routine—I disappear just long enough for her to get a feel for the guy. If it’s good, when I return to the table I get a wink. If it’s a no-go, I’ll get a hair flip, which is my cue to concoct a plan to steal her back.
It’s an ingenious plan. For years it’s worked perfectly.
She shakes her head and I leave, making my way back down the stairs and into the bathroom, which surprisingly doesn’t have a line.
The reason why there isn’t a line—every damn woman here is crammed into this little tight space. And from the looks of it, I’m well over-dressed. I’m surrounded by miniskirts barely covering up the goodies, shirts showing off side-boob, and well, boob, and makeup heavy enough to cover a clown’s pay for a week.
I’ve never really understood the fake facade. Why not come comfortably? More like yourself? Think about it… If you’re dressed like a slut, you’ll be treated as one. Unless that’s your thing. If that’s the case, so be it. It’s your dignity…or lack thereof.
I finish and cram myself at the only available sink, between two women talking about how one of them should “give the guy a good BJ to help him out of his bad mood.”
The blonde to my left pipes up. “Or better yet, let’s take him back to my place and both of us suck his dick. No way he’ll stay pissy with that, besides, then we’ll all have some fun.”
I slink away, feeling dirtier than I did before the soap and water cleaned away the germs, and head back to Britney to find out the deciding factor.
Just as I take the first step, a hand reaches out and grabs my elbow, stopping me dead in my tracks and startling the hell out of me.
“Timid and shy at a club?” His voice causes my skin to explode with goosebumps.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath before turning and facing him. Easton Langley, out of his suit and into a polo shirt and jeans, looking mouth-freaking-watering.
“Hey…Mr. Langley,” I stumble out an octave too high.
“I didn’t peg you to be a clubber.”
Nervously, I laugh. “I do get out occasionally.”
A tall woman steps up beside him and wraps her arm around his waist…claiming her territory that’s not in jeopardy. Her long brown hair is tousled, the skin around her lips pink, probably from making out and a failed attempt of cleaning up the mess of the lipstick. She’s very pretty, wearing a tight black long-sleeved crop top with a brown skin-tight skirt and strings lacing up each thigh.
I glance back to Easton, hoping the pang of jealousy that just slapped me across the face isn’t visible to him. “Have a good night. I’ll see you Monday,” I say and quickly turn without giving him a chance to respond.
Trekking up the stairs two at a time, I silently cuss karma. Go figure I run smack dab into the very man I’m trying to escape, and of course, he’s with someone who looks like she should be on the cover of a magazine.
The moment I top the last step, I pause and then groan to the ceiling. Britney’s on Ken’s lap in a full-on make-out session. Her hands run through his hair, and his hands roam over her back and up her neck.
That took no time. They’re going to have a great time tonight.
I bounce back in my seat and slap the table. “Soooo…” I laugh.
Britney’s breathless when she comes up for air and isn’t abashed for staying on his lap. She winks and then winks again, I guess to ensure it’s a “go” because her sucking his face wasn’t clear enough.
They’re definitely going to have a good time tonight.
“Ken was telling me about his brother, Jack. He’s here somewhere. He texted him. He should be here any minute,” Britney says.
And as if on cue, a large body slides in beside me and drapes his arm around my shoulder. His dark brown eyes match his brother’s, but that’s the extent of the matching qualities. Jack’s hair is longer, shaggy looking, his lips are thinner and his frame is smaller.
“When he said you were banging, he wasn’t telling the whole truth. You’re gorgeous,” he says, whipping out a charming smile.
I force myself not to roll my eyes. I hate weak, overplayed pickup lines. “Thanks.”
He tucks his finger under my chin and pulls my face to his. “Seriously. You’re really pretty.”
I cringe. Intimate touching when there’s no intimacy, especially when you’ve just introduced yourself, is not charming. In fact, it’s creepy.
I pull back and meet his overly adoring eyes with a challenge. “Your line closely resembles the one she used on your brother. Next time, tell me my thumb is pretty.”
He laughs and then lounges back into the booth. “So, we going to grab something to eat or what?”
“Yep!” Britney pipes up, boring me with a “we are going” stare.
Without a second to protest, Jack grasps my hand and pulls me out of the booth. He leads the way down the stairs, and as we get to the bottom, the urge to sneak a peek of Easton pulls my gaze. My heart skips a beat as our eyes meet briefly before he glances to my hand in Jack’s. His smile slinks away, forming a straight line…like he’s angry I’m leaving with Jack.
Quickly, I blink away, almost laughing at myself for the ridiculous thought. Apparently the shots have gone straight to my brain, scattering my ability to think without dreaming.
The guys settled on a pizza place two blocks away, only because it’s the only place open this time of night. Britney and Ken have hit it off, chatting and getting to know each other through their tongues. But Jack and me…not so much. There isn’t a spark. No attraction. He’s far from interesting and making every second beside him awkward. I’m finding it difficult to think of anything to talk about, making our conversation pretty nonexistent.
Unlike Britney, I’m not the one-night stand type of girl, which is what Jack is clearly hoping for. It’s not that I won’t. There just needs to be some sort of spark—a reason to want to sleep with him other than just the thought.
He’s tried kissing me several times, but each time, I conveniently grab things from my purse. My ChapStick has seen more action tonight than it has the six months I’ve owned it.
I sigh, over the tortuous awkward. “I’m going home,” I say.
Jack’s expression brightens. “I’ll take you home,” he says eagerly.
I may be timid around certain people, but not around guys who think getting into my panties is just a nice gesture like a ride home. “No. Thank you. I’m going home alone.”
Disappointment and anger settles on his face, but he scribbles his number on a piece of napkin anyway. This is code for “I hope you lose it, but I’m going to be nice anyway.”
He hands it to me. “Give me a call sometime. Maybe we can get to know each other better.”
Yeah…no.
We part ways, Jack taking a different taxi than us. I’m starting to regret riding together because Britney and Ken have pawed each other in the backseat, unable to rip their mouths apart the whole ride home…and during the elevator ride…and down the hall.
“Good night,” I say, just in time to catch a glimpse of her wrapping her leg around his waist and him pulling them into the apartment.
Whatever floats her boat. I’m just glad we have a hallway separating us. I’d hate my life if I had to share a wall with her…