ELISE

Maybe I want him. Maybe I don't.

No, fuck it. I want him.

But I’m not going to tell him that.

Instead, I’ll flirt my ass off, swinging my dark hair dramatically as I bat my made-up eyelashes, and allow him to buy me a drink. Just one, though. I’m not going to be one of those women that blames alcohol for their poor choices and misdemeanors.

If I’m going home with this guy—and I’m telling myself I am--then I’m doing it fully aware of my indiscretions and completely of my own accord.

And purely because I want to screw his brains out.

So, let him be tonight’s poor choice. He’ll be just another one in a long line of them lately.

Cam. That’s his name. At least, he says it is. It did occur to me that maybe he lied about it because it’s cooler than his real name. But, then again, Cam—probably short for Cameron—really isn’t that cool, so why lie if he’s not going to use a name that's undeniably great?

“My name’s Elise,” I answer in response to his question, which A) is honestly my real name, and B) is really funny because it took him over forty-five minutes of fuck-me eyes and grinding on the dance floor before he even got around to asking.

“Pretty name for a pretty lady.”

It’s everything I can do to keep from rolling my eyes, but I manage to smile sweetly and pretend to be flattered by the compliment.

Let’s be honest, he doesn’t give a fuck what my name is. As long as I can moan against his ear at the appropriate times and get this skin-tight tube skirt shimmied above my hips, I’m exactly the type of woman he’s looking for. My name, occupation, and the price of fucking tea in China has nothing to do with it.

I nod toward the gin and tonic in his hand. “I wouldn’t mind one of those.” I lean forward as I speak, not only because the music is mind-numbingly loud, but because it gives him an eyeful of the cleavage my ridiculously low-cut V-neck top is accentuating. Breasts aren’t only a woman’s favorite fashion accessory, they’re also a sure-fire way to get exactly what she wants from a man.

And that’s precisely what I plan to do. Only, in my case, I want him to offer me one night’s worth of escape, of meaningless distraction, so that I can find a few hours’ reprieve.

From my life.

From what it’s become.

Cam isn’t the first man to be used as a momentary diversion from the emptiness I’ve succumbed to, and he won’t be the last. That is, if I can even go through with it.

Sometimes, I just can’t.

He, however, might be the first one I feel a hint of guilt at for the stunt I’m about to pull on him.

If he’s telling me the truth, then he’s here at Magenta for the first time ever. Seeing as I tend to come to this club quite frequently, I’m leaning toward the fact that he might be being honest about that one, because I’ve never seen him here before. And I think I’d remember him, seeing as he’s absolutely gorgeous and not at all like the hundreds of inebriated Neanderthals just looking to score.

I’m not judging anyone’s motives, especially since I’m contemplating pulling the sexual equivalent of a dine-and-dash, but my stance remains the same: Cam isn’t like the other drunken men in this club.

He says he’s here with a couple friends to drown his sorrows. “You know, the typical man-loves-woman, woman-finds-someone-else bullshit.” He’d laughed when he’d said it, waving a hand dismissively as he explained, but there was something in his tone that showed a crack in the foundation of jokes and faux smiles he built his facade on.

“It’s her loss,” I’d offered, reaching out to pat the hand that held his drink in place. I said it because it was the right thing to say, the appropriate thing to say, and also because, if some woman had cheated on him, it was her loss.

I don’t condone cheaters. I might find my entertainment underneath men that I see once and never again, but if I have even the slightest inclination that the man is a lying bastard with a girlfriend or a wife at home, I’m out of there before he even knows what the fuck is happening. Well, that’s a lie. On the few occasions I have come across assholes on the warpath toward infidelity, they end up wearing the drinks they bought me, so I guess they technically do know what happened, but I waste no time letting them know my feelings regarding their unfaithfulness to whomever might be waiting at home for them.

Now though, I get no sense that Cam is cheating, and I tend to believe the shielded sadness in those blue eyes of his.

He’s on the rebound.

Maybe he needs this just as much as I do.

At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself to make myself feel better.

A glass of gin and tonic is slid toward me across the bar, and I give the bartender only a partial glance. He’s seen me here before, and he’s undoubtedly figured out my game. Which means he knows Cam’s fate, and knows that I won't be around here in a few hours to see the shame and self-disgust on the poor man’s face.

I’ll be too busy dealing with my own.