Chapter 17
Damon
My eyes find her right after I step through the door, and there's one detail that catches my attention in an instant.
Black. She's wearing black tonight.
She's sitting at the bar, just like last time. But this time, she's not alone. A man roughly thirty years her senior is sitting across from her, painfully close, while his hand rests on her thigh. If his touch is bothering her, she's very good at hiding it, but she's not encouraging it, either. While he leans forward, trying to get as close to her as possible, she's trying her best to avoid him as much as she can. It’s obvious to me that she’s forcing a smile while listening to him talk, and moving out of his proximity every time he leans in closer.
He seems oblivious to her repulsion and acts as if he owns her, as if she's into him as much as he's into her.
Or maybe I'm the one misinterpreting things. Maybe I want to believe that she is trying to reject the guy who's touching her because I want her all to myself. Can you really own a girl who's working as a black devil at this club? A girl who openly reveals herself as available to anyone who wants her? A girl who is paid to entertain men like him? Men like me.
I've been watching her since I arrived. I was on my way to the bar to get myself a drink before I started wandering the room, but froze mid-motion when I spotted her in her black lingerie set. The dark harness detailing around her waist emphasizes her curves. It’s topped by a matching bra with sheer cups, and even from about twenty feet away, I can see her nipples through the fabric, teasing me and asking to be touched. She has a simple, black-banded choker with a small D-ring at the front around her neck, and her platinum-blonde hair is styled in an up-do tonight, only a few curly strands here and there framing her flawless face. The dark red lipstick she’s wearing stands out against her porcelain skin. My eyes wander to her black heels, which are even higher than the ones she wore the other night. A tall girl in heels—you don't often see that. I like rare sights. Her unique look is irresistible to me.
But there's one thing that I don't like about her tonight.
She’s wearing black.
Why the hell is she wearing black? Why is she making this so easy for me? I hate easy. I'm so fucking tired of easy.
A nasty jolt of jealousy travels through my insides when I see the man's hand moving along the pale flesh of her thigh. It sickens me to see him plucking the lace of her black thong, causing her to flinch, and I bet there's a gasp escaping her pretty red lips when she opens her mouth ever so slightly.
Mine.
That's my gasp, a reaction that belongs to me.
I can't help but growl with a possessive and furious hunger.
She's visibly trembling as she’s talking to him. My eyes follow the movement of his hand as it travels further, touching a body that I claimed before him, his fingers stroking skin that I wasn't allowed to touch.
I thought there was nothing I could do about this, but when she averts her eyes from him and turns to me instead, I realize that I'm wrong.
The expression on her face changes. Her eyes widen, her lips part, and for a moment, she doesn't even seem to notice the lusting hand cupping her breast through the sheer fabric.
Her lips are moving, but she's not talking to him.
She's talking to me.
She's calling for me.
Normally, I wouldn't let anyone boss me around like this, but this is different.
She's mine, and she's signaling for me to claim her.
My feet start moving toward her before I can even coherently make the decision. Her gaze shies away from me as soon as she sees that I'm coming for her. Her body language screams tension, but the guy is oblivious and continues fondling her breast.
He has been sitting with his back to me, so all I could see was the gray, balding back of his head, but when I come even to them and he turns his face to me, I realize he’s not a stranger. He's an acquaintance of my father, or a "business partner" as he used to say, but it's unlikely they ever once conducted business in the true sense of the word. The only business these two would have ever conducted was handled in the shadows, outside the reach of binding law.
I doubt he remembers me, because it has been years since we’ve seen one another, and we never exchanged more than pleasantries. But I know something about him that will give me an advantage over him.
It's perfect.
Both he and Elene are staring up at me now. He looks irritated, while she looks anxious and apprehensive.
"Good evening," I say, standing so close to her that our legs are touching. She's not shying away in the slightest.
"Evening," he growls back, obviously unhappy about my sudden appearance.
"Hi," she greets, a relieved smile flitting across her face. As soon as it appears, it’s gone, as if she is afraid to get caught looking too happy.
"I'm sorry that I'm late," I say, reciprocating her smile.
She looks confused for a moment, and then the meaning of my words dawns on her and she decides to play along. "Oh, it's fine. I’m just glad that you were able to make it."
Her voice is thin and shaky, hinting at the lie she's trying to hide.
The man is agitatedly shifting in his chair, and I can feel his eyes on me, burning with irritation.
"Excus—"
"The lady has been waiting for me," I interrupt him before he has a chance to even finish his first word, and slowly turn to catch his furious gaze. "I'm sorry, but I will have to steal her from you."
He snorts. "Young boy, I don't think that's how it works in here."
"Yes, Mr. Bartlet, that is how it works for us," I strike back. "Besides, I doubt you want anyone to find out how much you like to play in the snow, would you?"
His eyes flicker with rage, burning through me like hot daggers as he processes my words. I recognize it the moment confusion is replaced by understanding.
"You..." he stutters. "You are Alvin's boy."
The smile that tucks at the corners of my mouth is equal parts polite and condescending. I raise an eyebrow at him, giving one last hint that I want him to leave.
And this time he does. Elene can't hide her surprise when he gets up from his seat, excuses himself, and then hurries away with his whiskey in hand.
She glances at me, her pretty face full of questions.
I ignore it for now and signal for the bartender.
"Yamazaki single malt," I order, casting her a quick look. "Do you want another one?"
She shakes her head, the wonderfully confused expression still on her face.
The bartender nods and turns around to pour my drink. I don't speak to the girl until the scotch is placed on the counter, next to her drink. No more interruptions, not tonight.
"What was that all about?" she asks, as we raise our glasses for a toast. "Did you know that guy?"
"I think there are more important questions to tackle right now," I counter.
She lets out a breath. "Like what?"
"The first question that comes to mind is why are you wearing black tonight?" I ask, adding a reflective pause and leaning closer to her. "Was I right? Have you been waiting for me?"