My heart, my liver, my lungs.

My heart, my liver, my lungs.

Every one of my internal organs seems to pulse in tandem with the beat of the song playing inside Lotus. An instrumental, bass heavy, dance song that is as familiar as apple pie on a Friday night in Philadelphia. The energy is so thick inside of the club tonight, that I could cut it with a knife and spread it on a piece of toast.

Endless bodies are winding and coiling around each other on the dance floor. Writhing to the beat in a sexual tango. A prelude of what's to come at the end of the night for some. It's quite a hypnotic experience. Even if you're just watching.

I'm a party girl by nature, but I come to this club specifically for the unique experience, the stunning ambience, and the beautiful people. Working the room of a place like Lotus gives me the most incredible high.

I usually go clubbing with a girlfriend or two, or sometimes with a group of coworkers, but I never stay with them all night. That's no way to meet a man. I'd rather fly solo. I think it was one of my mom's nutty friends who taught me that dating strategy.

I dance to be seen. I dance to sweat. Then I walk around on a complete euphoric high to the music and see who's inside. Stalking my prey much like a lethal predator. Hoping I spot someone worth dancing with, then perhaps exchanging phone numbers with, and maybe even sleeping with. But believe it or not, those kinds of men are very hard to find nowadays. Especially in this city. Talk about six degrees of separation.

I think I personally know or at least know someone that knows almost every single, professional, man between the ages of twenty-five to thirty-five in Philadelphia. It's a smaller pool of men than you would think. Tonight though, I'm not here for any of that. Tonight, I'm planting myself at the bar strictly for the alcohol. After the crappy day I've had at work, all I want to do is get blitzed, because my sales numbers are off.

Way off.

I ran my monthly sales statistics at work a ridiculous total of fourteen times, but the end result was still the same. Disappointing and well below last month's numbers.

Several years ago, I graduated with a degree from the prestigious Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania. Regretfully, I didn't get into Penn on my own merit, but because my father's fame and wealth bought me a spot. While I was able to keep my head above water academically, I'm actually amazed that I graduated in four years. I was mostly a partier or the type who would rather Netflix and chill–not study. After graduation, I stupidly thought that the school's reputation and the last name on my degree would be enough to land me a sweet position at a Fortune 500.

Boy was I naïve.

When it came time to secure a job after graduation, HR professionals didn't care that my dad was a basketball legend, all they cared about was my skillset–which wasn't that impressive. I was twenty-one years old, with no real job or solid intern experience, and my daddy was paying my rent. All I had was a fancy degree and a pretty smile. No one would hire me.

It was at that moment that I'd finally seen the light. I realized that I had been leaning on my family name like a crutch instead of a ladder. My dependency on my family was stunting my growth, and I didn't like who I had become. It was time to make a change. To stand on my own two feet. So I accepted the first decent job I could land, without my father's help, which was in the pharmaceutical industry. Specifically, pharmaceutical sales.

Drug companies are big in Philadelphia. I'm not exactly sure why, but a lot of big pharma companies have large offices or are headquartered here. I started working as an entry level sales representative for my company a couple months after graduating and have worked my way up to sales manager–leading a team of five. As jobs go, I haven't been working there that long, but I've been working there long enough to know that this low numbers thing isn't going to bode well for me.

When I first started out as a sales rep, it was easy, or at least it was easy for me. Selling pharmaceuticals (in my opinion) is all about being personable, looking your best, and building trust with physicians so that they feel comfortable ordering from me and not someone else. It also doesn't hurt that I get to sell the most popular drug on the market.

Men define their manhood based on their virility. Their dicks. If they can't get it up or keep it up, their whole world ends. It's my job to keep doctors up to their eyeballs in my company's generic brand of Viagra, so that they can prescribe it to their patients, recommend it to their friends, and to give it out like candy. In fact, I'm pretty sure that some of those men think I'm doing the Lord's work.

You'd be surprised about the types of men who want a prescription even if it's under the generic name of Sildenafil. It's not just baby boomers suffering from erectile dysfunction who legitimately want to maintain healthy sex lives with their significant others. It's young guys too, and not because they medically need it. Some are single men who want the drug in order to be able to go all night, and the next night, and the next; and some are not single and want it so that they can keep up with the Mrs. as well as their chick on the side.

So the demand is there. That's actually the easy part. But now that I head my own team of sales reps, my job is much more complicated. It's all about making projections, meeting sales goals, and lots of team building. I'm not only responsible for my own results, but for the productivity of five other people as well. I'm a hard worker, and I want to climb the company ladder, but I'm learning the hard way that meeting productivity expectations isn't as easy as I hoped.

That's why I'm getting drunk.

"You're late tonight."

I turn around toward the stranger's voice and notice a man who looks unimpressively like many of the other men in here (average height, overworked, slightly buzzed) approaching me with a glass of wine in his hand. He's actually my type in a sad sort of way. I tend to go for the corporate shark types. The suit and tie. The man who doesn't look like he's ever put in a hard day of work with his hands. Not because I'm terribly attracted to them, but because I've decided that they are in my best interest.

I have my reasons for this, but if I had to sum it up, I guess I would say that I choose men like him because that's what grown women are supposed to do. Pick men who actually look like adults, act like adults, and not like overgrown kids. I've had enough of that to last a lifetime.

I grew up as the daughter of Dan Pearson. My father was a bona fide superstar in his day. A point guard for the Philadelphia 76ers back in the early 1990s. Some say the most underrated basketball player to have ever played the position. I grew up in a privileged world. Private schools. Expensive gifts. Elaborate summer vacations. That was the nice part. The not so nice part of our life was the fact that my father's antics often overshadowed any talent he may have had; and they especially overshadowed any illusions one may have had about us having the perfect family. We didn't.

My father was considered a "bad boy" of the league. He hated structure and didn't think the rules applied to him. There was plenty of drinking, drugs, gambling and lots of women over the years. I think my father was a plaintiff in at least five different paternity suits, and while not all of them were legit, one actually did result in the birth of my younger sister, Dawn. So, while bad boys may look and sound good in theory, in real life they're all smoke and mirrors. Style and no substance. Immature. Headaches. I avoid them at all costs. I will not waste my time on them. No woman should, although I think that my best friend Elizabeth may be a lost cause at this point.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

I'm not sure that I heard him correctly. The music is really loud, and I may have misheard him. I could have sworn he just said that I was late arriving tonight.

"You like Pinot, right?" he asks as he tries handing me the glass.

Okay, now I'm not sure whether to be flattered or freaked the fuck out. I give the head bartender, whom I know, Marco, a quick glance and he responds with a head nod. Letting me know it's safe to accept the glass from this perfect stranger. Men often buy me drinks here, but I only accept them if I know the man or if Marco has poured it himself and watched it the whole time.

"Umm, yes and thank you." I take a sip. It's delicious. Guess I'm starting tonight's "get blitzed" mission off with wine instead of the hard stuff. "Have we met before?"

"We have not, but only because I haven't had the chance to introduce myself to you. You're quite the popular girl at Lotus."

"Uh, I guess." Not really sure if that's a compliment or not.

"As I was saying before, I notice that you usually come around nine on Friday nights, but tonight you arrived a little late."

I raise my eyebrow at his creeper-like observation.

"And before you run for the hills, the only reason why I know that is because I come here at the same time too. Pretty much every Friday night I stay late at work, have a drink with a few of my boys, then we head over here. I always see you when you're headed inside. You're kind of hard to miss. You're a very beautiful woman."

I smile with some reserve. "So I take it you already know my name too."

He looks a bit taken off guard by my bluntness, but there's no need for us to beat around the bush. I can see where this is headed. I'm pretty sure he knows who I am because of who my father is, not because I'm such a "beautiful woman." Puh-lease.

"Of course. You're Sloan Pearson." He extends his palm for a handshake. "Nice to finally meet you. I'm Cord Prescott."

I don't shake Cord's hand but instead take another sip of my wine and give him a long hard glare. I don't really like that he's been watching me for however long he has. It's weird. While my gut reaction is to say "thanks for the drink, Cord, but this feels forced," I won't–because I'm starting to think that the only reason I haven't gotten laid in eons is solely because of me. Coming to a club just to get plastered is stupid. The whole point of this place is to meet other people, isn't it? Maybe I've judged Cord a little too harshly and too quickly. Perhaps that's my problem. I'm seriously jaded.

"Nice to meet you, Cord."

An almost smug smile spreads across Cord's face. Bleck! His arrogance is a huge turn off, but like all his other noticeable flaws, I dismiss it.

"Want to dance?"

I take a final gulp of my wine and set the glass down on the bar.

"Sure. Let me run to the ladies' room first though."

I'm either going to psych myself up, while I'm in the bathroom, to either dance with this guy and get to know him a little better or ditch him. I think I'm leaning toward the latter.

"I'll be right here. You want me to order you another glass of wine?"

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Cord?"

"Maybe." He winks.

Good grief.

"Don't bother," I say as I stand off my stool and smooth my skirt down. "I don't put out on the first date . . . or the second."

Cord grasps one of my arms. Not roughly but the contact is still unwanted.

"Not a problem," he says. His mouth practically salivating and not in a good way. "I can wait."

I don't mind the occasional one-night stand, it's the norm for a place like this, but a girl has to have standards, and right now I'm not too sure Cord will meet a single one of them. Sadly, at this point I feel like I'm just passing time. This guy seems like all the other duds I've met lately, and I'm bored already.

As I decide whether or not I'm going to ditch Cord, I scan the periphery of the room, wondering if I'll catch a glimpse of one of the club owners. There are three of them and they're like rock stars in here.

One is Elizabeth's fiancé and soon-to-be baby's daddy, Roman Masterson. Damn attractive but a real son of a bitch. While I can't deny that the two of them share something powerful, I wouldn't want any part of that type of love. I've always pictured my bestie with a soft-spoken, computer nerd, much like herself. Not Roman. He's too alpha. Too condescending. Too much.

Then there's Roman's best friend, Camden King. Now he actually is a computer nerd, or rather a computer hacker, but there's definitely nothing soft about him. He's just another overbearing jerk who's always sporting what I call the "alpha scowl" across his face. I tend to avoid him at all costs, because I never know what he's thinking behind those cold eyes of his. It always seems like he's talking about me.

And finally, there's Camden's brother, Cutter King. The one who's at the club the most. He's actually the worst one out of the three, because you don't tend to see his assholery coming. He smiles a lot. Laughs a lot. Flirts a lot. To the untrained eye he seems fun and easy going, but I know better. It's all an elaborate setup. A ruse. Because from everything that I know–he's not nice, he's not funny, and there's nothing easy about him except for the fact that he'll sleep with anything with a vagina.

The only reason why I look for him is out of habit. To gawk. I can't help myself. Roman and Camden tend to stay in the background, tucked hidden away in the club's office upstairs (when they're here) but Cutter doesn't.

He likes to stay among "his people." To hold court. It's a sight to see. Those women, or the "mindless minions" as I like to call them, are absolutely ridiculous when they're around him.

Eyelids fluttering.

Breasts heaving.

Mouths giggling.

All waiting for their self-appointed king to bestow his blessings of an eye wink, an ass grab, or a quick and dirty grind in the corner of the club.

I observe the lunacy from afar. It's best that way. In fact, anytime I come to Lotus, I try to stay completely out of Cutter's way. This is mostly because I don't want to actually have to be forced to speak to him. I made such an ass out of myself the last time I did, that I refuse to risk a repeat performance. He probably thinks I'm in complete lust with him, which I'm not, it's just that he uncharacteristically threw me off my game that night.

Admittedly–it was a train wreck.