Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“I’ve got to go.”
“Go?”
“Yeah, see you around.”
I don’t wait for the but and the awkward questions. I’m out of there on a mission, shoving my way through the other dancers until I get to the edge of the room. I don’t bother composing myself. It’s going to be straight out of the flames and into the fire, so I march towards the exit, barely bothering to smooth my dress down.
I’m nearly at the doorway when a figure catches my eye, leaning off to the side against the wall. I have to do a double take – a slamming shiver of recognition zipping up my spine.
I get prickles upon prickles. Tingles up my arms.
No. Fucking. Way. It can’t be.
I stop dead in my tracks.
My instincts know this man, even though I don’t.
He’s in a tailored jet-black suit with a glass of red in his hand – and he’s staring right at me as the lights flash through his silver fox hair. It’s his eyes… his gaze.
I step closer to check him out at close quarters, rationality still doubting my intuition, but I already know what I’m going to see when I get there. I already know they are the same eyes I was gazing into in the grotto. Instincts never lie.
Santa doesn’t look anything like Santa tonight. His clipped grey beard is a perfect complement to his easy smile, and he tips his head as I give him another round of open mouthed WTAF. What do I call him? What the fuck do I even say?
He speaks before I do, gesturing to the exit.
“Got somewhere to be, haven’t you, Tiffany? Someone waiting out there?”
“I, um…”
My thoughts are scattered. I stare at him, my brain a tumble.
“You’d better go,” he says with a smirk. “You wouldn’t want a bad rating to tarnish your record.”
Santa isn’t User 2906, of course he isn’t. But he knows where I’m going, he knows where I’ve been. He knows everything, since he’s one of the owners of the whole damn Agency.
He’s also well aware what I’ve been doing on the dancefloor, I see it in his stare.
He’s likely seen just as much as my client outside…
I don’t know why it gives me another zip of a shudder up my spine. I feel more self-conscious than I’ve felt in years.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
He raises his glass. “Enjoying a drink. Nothing more.”
Nothing more. Yeah, right.
There is no malice in him, nothing sinister. His smile isn’t dark or foreboding, it’s just surreal – and it gives me the kind of butterflies I like to crush under my shoe, but they won’t fuck off. They’re stronger than I’ve known in a long, long time.
There’s a twist of bizarre humour in Santa’s voice that screws with my insides. It’s just the kind of magnetism that makes my stomach tumble along with my brain.
“Have fun in the alleyway,” he says. “The clock is ticking.”
Yes, it is. I look at the doorway.
My client is out there now, expecting me any second, and as much as I’m loath to tear myself away, I have to go. Creamgirl always comes first.
I smile at Santa before I leave, but say nothing, because for once my big, bold mouth is stumped. I rely on my legs and work ethic to force myself on by.
I daren’t look back to see if he’s still watching me, because one more flash of his smile would have me crumpling at his feet, and it’s not Santa’s feet I need to be crumpling at.
I have business to attend to.
3
TIFFANY
Idon’t need User 2906 to provoke a fight or flight reaction in me. It’s already there, loud and clear. Jesus Christ. My head is wired. Spun out to hell as I stumble down the club steps onto the street.
The night chill helps, bringing me back to some semblance of clarity. I suck the cool air into my lungs, desperate to keep a hold of myself. I banish all thoughts of Santa, because I have no time to ruminate or speculate. Not now. I’ve got to get in the zone.
Creamgirl has to take the reins.
The shadowy alley is just up ahead, running down the side of the club. I figure I’m going to have to ‘stall’ as I pass by, so reach for my clutch as a pretend distraction, but I don’t need it.
An arm bursts out of the darkness, a savage fist grabbing my hair and yanking me from the street as I squeal. My squeal is barely more than a squeak, since a hand slaps over my mouth before I can blink.
My assailant must know martial arts or something, because he takes me in a chokehold – his elbow against my windpipe as he drags me backwards. I don’t know how I manage to stay upright on my stilettos, because there’s trash all around our feet. I hear the jangle of empty bottles being kicked away, and the crumple of paper under my shoes.