Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
And right now, I want to be drunk. I want to feel free. I want to take part of myself back for once and for all.
Romero thrusts the martini glass my way, and I take it without more than a glance at his stony, disapproving face. He’s not drinking—big surprise there. Wouldn’t want to let loose. He might have to admit he’s a human with human weaknesses. He might lose the thrill of holding himself above mere mortals like me and everybody else here tonight.
The crisp, cold vodka helps give me the courage I need to hand him the empty glass and leave him behind without saying a word. I can do this on my own, and I will. I don’t need him. But by the time tonight is over, he’s going to wish I did. He’ll wish he hadn’t turned me down when I needed him more than I’ve ever needed anyone.
I have to fight my way onto the floor, sliding between dancers, jostling around before I find a pocket of space I can move in. There’s just enough light to see by, but not so much that any illusions will be broken. Everybody’s in it for escape, and you can’t escape in bright light.
I like it. The darkness feels dangerous, but nothing beats the sizzle of breathless, toe-curling danger of finding Romero watching me from his spot near the bar. There are girls gathered on both sides of him, but they don’t exist. Only I do. His eyes seem to glow, burning a hole through me until I flush at the intensity of his stare.
He wants me; I know he does. Last night wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t a one-time thing. And it’s not the kind of thing you just forget and brush aside.
The heavy thumping of the music forces me to move to the beat. I don’t care who sees, so long as he does. He wants to play this game? I can play, too.
I raise my arms and cross them behind my head, grinding my hips. I don’t have to be me now. I can be anybody. It doesn’t matter how many people are around — they brush against me and move on. I even feel a hand on my hip more than once, but they may as well not exist. Because now that I’m out here and he’s watching, only one thing matters: making him regret rejecting me. Making him forget everything he thinks he should do in favor of doing what he wants. Nobody looks at me the way he is now if they aren’t fighting like hell against what their body’s telling them to do.
Come on. What are you going to do about it? I run my hands down my sides, lost in the beat. Lost in the thrill of being completely, totally present in my body. Fuck, it’s such a rush. Being in control. Feeling like me.
And I don’t know if that’s because he’s watching and knows me. He knows who I am. He knows most of the worst things about me and still wants me. Maybe that’s why I dare to do this — that, and the vodka running through my system on an empty stomach.
I freeze at the sudden touch of a firm chest against my back. Before I know it, there are large hands at my waist, holding me lightly yet firmly. “Hey! Are you here alone?” the guy shouts into my ear. I can barely hear him over the music and the overwhelming pounding of my heart.
Run, run, I have to run. My body goes ice cold all at once while a wave of nausea rolls over me. I have to get away. He’ll hurt me if I don’t get away.
This time, I’m able to think before reacting. I will not run. There’s nothing to be afraid of – I’ve got a hold on this. Whoever he is, he just wants a little fun, and I’m safe with Romero watching.
I’m safe, but this guy is not. What started as something dark, brooding, and dangerous hardens into plain old rage — I’ve seen it on his face before, usually while the two of us fight. He wants to tear someone apart, doesn’t he? Poor baby. I bite my lip, trying to hide the glee that bubbles in my chest, letting the stranger grind against me. What are you going to do about it? Come on. Do something, tough guy.
At first, he stays still as a statue. The only sign he’s alive is the glow in his eyes that intensifies when I let the stranger wrap an arm around my waist and pull me closer.
That does it. I can practically hear Romero’s resolve break.
My heart skips a beat when he begins pushing his way through the crowd. “Thanks for the dance,” I call over my shoulder, prying the guy’s arm from my waist. “I think you better go.” I don’t even know what he looks like, and I don’t care. He did what I needed him to do. That doesn’t mean I want him to get his ass kicked for it.