Girl After Dark

by Charlotte Eve

  As soon as we’re all seated, the professor begins to speak.

  “My name is Amy,” she begins, “and we’re all writers here …”

  I’m going to enjoy this, I think.

  §

  “You wanna grab a coffee?” Asia asks, as we’re heading down the steps afterwards.

  And I’m about to say yes when I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out and the display shows me the message is from my Dad: NEED YOUR HELP URGENTLY! CALL ME!

  “Damnit, I’d love to,” I say. “I have so many questions about that first lecture. But it looks like I’ve got a family emergency on my hands,” I explain, showing her the screen of my phone.

  Asia laughs and nods. “If I got a message like that from my dad and didn’t call him back immediately?” she says, shaking her head. “I’d get my ass kicked!”

  “Listen,” I say. “Why don’t we meet for coffee before tomorrow’s lecture instead?”

  “Great idea,” Asia says. “I’m gonna go and check out the best places round here now. I’ll text you!”

  And as she heads off around the corner, I call Dad back and he picks up almost immediately. “Melissa! Glad you called!”

  He sounds kind of flustered, but excited rather than worried.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, confused.

  “Sure, sure,” he says, only half listening. “Meet me in Bloomingdales. And get yourself down here as soon as you can. Okay?”

  And before I can even answer, he’s hung up the phone.

  Bloomingdales? I think. What the …

  So I make my way uptown, baffled, wondering just what could be so urgent, and why on earth he wants to meet in Bloomingdales. To my knowledge, he’s never willingly walked into a department store on his own, so I wonder what could be up.

  And when I finally get there, I find Dad pacing up and down outside the front entrance, a strange excited glint in his eye.

  “Honey bee!” he says loudly, hugging me tightly. “How was your first class?”

  “Great,” I say. “Listen. Is everything okay? You sounded kind of … different on the phone.”

  And at this point, he looks kind of sheepish. I watch a soft blush rise to his cheeks.

  “Come on, Dad,” I say, exasperated. “What is it? Spit it out!”

  “Okay,” he groans. “Well, if you must know, I need your help picking a shirt. A shirt to wear on my, um, date tonight.”

  “Oh, Daddy!” I exclaim, rushing forward to give him another hug. “That’s great! You’ve chosen the right place. We’ll definitely find something in here!”

  And with that, I grab his arm and march him into the store, in the direction of the menswear department.

  §

  I go a little overboard with Dad. I know it’s only one date, and so really, he only needs one shirt. But I’m sure he’ll be such a hit, that there’s bound to be a second and a third date too. And when we leave the store, he’s laden with shopping bags, full of new clothes.

  Anyway, he needs to buy clothes for Autumn. So, it’s totally practical, right?

  At the corner of Lexington and 59th, I kiss Daddy goodbye and start walking to Carson’s office.

  It’s a beautiful afternoon and I’m particularly enjoying the walk today.

  And as I make my way down the street his office is located on, just as I’m approaching his building, I realise he’s already waiting outside for me.

  I feel my mouth pull itself into a big grin and Carson flashes me a huge smile back too. I can’t help it: I run the last few meters, and both of us meet in a kiss.

  “So, how was class?” he asks me.

  “It was great,” I gush. “The professor was amazing, and we got straight into analyzing the texts. And on top of all that? I think I made a friend too!”

  “That’s awesome,” he replies. “I just know you’re gonna love it.”

  I take his hand and we begin to walk, back uptown. And as we do, we both talk through our days. I tell him more about the class, and of course about Dad’s date, and Carson shares with me all the strange office politics and small triumphs of his day.

  It feels so comfortable, talking like this, like we’re already an old married couple.

  But relax, we’re not married. Not just yet.

  I know what you’re thinking: But what about the ring?

  Well, we’re engaged. And we’ve both decided, what we want is kind of a long engagement. I mean, we’re still young, right?

  I want to finish school, and Carson wants to focus on his career. And we both want to make sure we have a little fun while we’re still young. But the main thing is that we’re dedicated to each other. Nothing can come between us now. And every time I look at the ring, I’m reminded of that.

  But best of all?

  You should have seen how mad it made Esme. When she first heard the news, she went whiter than her signature YSL trouser suit. I think she’d been hoping that despite everything, I would just disappear. That Carson and I would be a flash in the pan and break up soon enough. She used to hint all the time about the different worlds we came from. But she never went too far, of course. Because one carefully placed look from me would be all it took to remind her of our little deal. And then she’d be right back to fawning over my hair, my makeup, whatever.

  And these days, she pretends that she just adores me. In fact, she’s got so good at pretending, I’ve gotta hand it to her, I almost believe it myself. And if there’s one thing Esme can’t resist, it’s organising a party. She hosted the most lavish, decadent engagement party for us. It was such a hit that photos of me were back in NYGoss.com, and for once I didn’t mind.

  But of course, getting one over on Esme isn’t really the best thing about this engagement.

  Best of all was how much it pleased my dad. And my mum. And Katy. And Jonathan. All the important people in my life, whether they’re in London or New York.

  When I started this journey, I didn’t think I could trust anyone. And now when I wake up everyday, I thank my lucky stars to have all these amazing people in my life.

  Katy’s even coming over in a few weeks — and not just for a holiday either. For an editorial meeting. We’re going to be working closely together. I’m so happy with the way the book is coming together now, I can’t wait to share it with the world. I’ve put everything into it. All of the things I loved about Vintage Honey: her style, her thriftiness, her positivity. And all of the things I loved about Girl After Dark: her adventurousness, her honesty, her fearlessness. Writing this book has made me realise that me, Melissa, can be all of those things.

  And this evening, as I sit down at the desk in the office of the apartment that Carson and I now share together, to write the final lines of my book, I know exactly what I want to say …

  You can wear loads of makeup. Or you can wear none.

  You can get a tattoo. Or not.

  You might make your own clothes. You might spend your entire wage on your wardrobe. Or you might not care what you throw on in the morning.

  That guy who’s looking at you in the bar? You could wait for him to come over and say hi. Or you could just go right over there now and make your move.

  You might wake up in his bed the next morning. Or maybe, you wait for date three for that.

  In my time, I’ve tried pretty much all of the above. And what I can tell you, dear readers, is this: You can do whatever it is you want to do, as long as you feel true to yourself. If other people think your new red coat looks stupid, but it makes you dance? Don’t care what they think. You’re the one that’s dancing. Whether they call you a ‘slut’ or a ‘square’ — hold your head up high.

  Like I said, all you have to do is remain true to yourself.

  Don’t ever forget your friends. The real ones. (You’ll know who they are if you really think about it.)

  And when love finds you, grab it with both arms. Hold it tight. And never let it go.

  Xoxo,

  Melissa Lane
<
br />   Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for reading this book. I do hope you enjoyed it and I’d love to hear your thoughts, especially if you were kind enough to take the time out to write a quick review on Amazon or Goodreads. Not only would mean so much to me, but those things really do make all the difference for a new author like myself!

  And finally, if you would like to be the very first to know whenever I publish a new book, simply sign up to my mailing list at:

  http://tinyletter.com/charlotteeve

  Thank you so much for all your support,

  Charlotte

  xx

  http://charlotteeveromance.tumblr.com/

  "I'll give you a thousand dollars for your panties."

  Wait ... what?

  Tell me he didn’t just say that?

  I nervously scan the bar, crowded as usual on a Friday night. It’s not often that someone manages to catch me off guard, but right now this tray of drinks is gonna fall from my hand and come crashing to the floor around my feet if I don’t keep my shit together.

  I take a deep breath, steady myself on my heels, smile sweetly, then say, “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t quite catch that.”

  Pretend like it never happened. There’s no way he’ll say it again.

  But he looks up at me so confidently from his seat in the booth, his dark eyes glinting, a smile playing on his full lips, his thick black hair so glossy and shining in the dim light of the bar. And then he does say it again, even slower this time, never breaking eye contact, so fucking calm and confident:

  “I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your panties.”

  He’s not even alone. There are three other guys in the booth with him, all dressed just as expensively in their slick tailored suits. At first I think that he must be saying it for their amusement – making me the pawn in some sick little game of his own creation, just to get a cheap laugh. But I quickly realize that the other guys are busy laughing and joking amongst themselves, not even paying attention to what he’s saying.

  What the fuck?

  I mean, I’ve had enough sleazeballs come onto me in this place, but this is something else. Usually, they just grab my ass, ask me what I’m doing later, that kind of thing. They all act as if, just because I’m serving them drinks, that I’m their property. But nobody has actually offered to buy me before.

  And the weird thing is, just for a second, a part of me even considers it. I imagine myself stepping out of my panties and dropping them on the table, calling his bluff. I’m wearing plain black briefs that probably cost about $5 max.

  That’s a $995 profit.

  But then of course, I push the thought from my head. Because while I might be broke, I’m definitely not that broke.

  And the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s pinning me with his eyes, the smile growing wider as he waits for my reply, it becomes totally clear to me that this entitled rich-kid asshole has never heard the word ‘no’ in his entire life.

  He’s rich, he’s handsome, and he gets whatever he wants. But he’s about to learn that that doesn’t extend to me.

  “I’m afraid,” I say, my voice threatening to tremble at any moment and give away my nerves, “that I’m not that kind of girl, and this isn’t that kind of bar. But if you like, I could recommend you a pretty good strip club a few blocks from here?”

  He shakes his head, all the while keeping me locked with those fiercely dark eyes.

  “Tell me the truth,” he says, the deep growl of his voice cutting clear as a bell through the music and chattering crowds of the bar. And suddenly, it’s as if we’re the only two people in here. “They’re getting wet, aren’t they?”

  Fuck you, asshole, I think, feeling my heart beginning to pound and the anger boiling up inside me at the thought that this guy has gone through his whole life so spoiled, so full of himself.

  “Well gentlemen, if that will be all,” I say in my most professional tone, setting down their whiskey cocktails and turning to leave.

  But as I turn, I feel the warmth of his fingers against the bare skin of my arm, as he holds me in place and turns me back to face him.

  “If you ever change your mind,” he says, taking a business card from the breast pocket of his crisp white shirt and pressing it into my hand.

  I quickly glance down at it:

  Dylan Campbell

  Campbell Finance

  I yank myself free from his grip, then strut towards the safety of the bar, my heart hammering, wishing I could have thrown his fucking drink in his face – that spoiled prick.

  Even as I walk, I can feel his eyes on my ass, and I can sense that he’s stillowning me somehow with his eyes. It makes me so goddamn furious, I stop in my tracks, turn back, lock eyes with him once again and then, so thateveryone can see, I let his business card slip from my fingers and flutter straight to the floor.

  What kind of guy actually asks a girl if he can buy her panties, I think, my whole body still trembling in anger and frustration. And then has the nerve to ask her if they’re getting wet.

  But the thing that makes me angriest of all?

  He was right.

  They are wet ...

  §

  DANCE WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

  The brand new full-length novel from Charlotte Eve - OUT NOW!!!

  We had a deal, remember?

  I didn’t want a man in my life. I thought love was for losers, and all I needed to be happy were my friends and my dancing. But then, one Friday night, a gorgeous arrogant playboy called Dylan Campbell came crashing into my life and changed everything.

  At first I hated him. I thought he was a spoiled, entitled asshole. And he was – at least at first. But then he turned out to be so much more than that, too. Because he taught me who I really was – awakening desires inside me that I didn’t even know existed.

  He taught me about love and life, and maybe I taught him a few things, too. And now everything has changed. Because now he owns me completely ...

  From the author of the Taming Blake trilogy comes this brand new standalone novel about an aspiring dancer and the playboy billionaire who captures her heart. Due to a number of SMOKING HOT scenes of an adult nature, this novel is only suitable for those aged eighteen and older ...

  Out now - exclusively at Amazon!

  TAMING BLAKE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You do know who Blake Matthews is, don’t you?” Marianne hissed, as the glass-walled elevator rocketed us up towards the private conference room on the thirty-first floor.

  I nodded.

  I’d heard enough about Blake Matthews over the last few weeks to write a whole book about him. Rich kid property developer. Blue blood. Educated at Dalton and Harvard, of course. Used his daddy's money and connections to get his start in the hotel business. Now runs a portfolio of chic, boutique hotels. Never saw anything he didn't want that he couldn't just buy.

  “Good,” Marianne nodded as she double-checked her reflection, plumping her dyed red curls, tugging at the oversized silk collar of her blouse, touching up her pillar-box red lipstick. “Then you’ll be aware just how much we need this client, Jessica. Because if we do a good job on his private apartment, then he’ll be sure to give us the contract to design his next hotel. Understand?"

  Again I nodded, wondering if the butterflies in my stomach were due to the view from the elevator — by now giving us a full panoramic display of downtown Manhattan — or the fact that this was the first time I’d been allowed out of the office with Marianne since I’d started as an assistant at her interior design agency last Fall.

  Up until now, my duties had mostly consisted of fetching her countless lattes and sushi boxes, sweet-talking suppliers into giving her free samples, and sitting at my desk buried under mountains of email enquiries. To be honest, I was still a little unsure about what my role actually was at this pitch meeting, and I was still worrying about this when Marianne continued, as if able to read my thoughts:

  “Now when we get
in there, all I want you to do is take notes and look pretty, okay? Think you can manage that? Just leave the talking to me.”

  Take notes and look pretty?

  Who the hell does she think she is?

  “So, how do I look?” Marianne asked, turning to face me.

  How do I describe Marianne?

  She had the faded looks of an eighties prom queen, and she sure as hell wasn’t gonna grow old gracefully. She had killer pins (well I’d die for legs like that). She was always expertly balanced atop a pair of expensive stilettos, the kind I couldn’t even imagine walking in. She’d been a redhead when she was younger, something she wasn’t about to let go of in a hurry. So for now, she kept up the fiction with her weekly visits to the salon. Despite the fact that I always booked her appointments, she still made out like she was a natural redhead. Her hair was always matched with bright red lipstick; I never saw her without it.

  She always looked immaculate, I’ll give her that.

  But how exactly do you tell somebody: Marianne, you look great, but maybe it would be better if you let your stylist put some highlights into that color, it’s a bit brassy ... And your clothes? They’re always expensive designer labels, but a little bit ... how do I put this ... dated?

  Marianne favored the styles popular when she was young. She owned a seemingly endless array of silk Versace blouses in a variety of dazzling colors, but I swear she was the only woman in Manhattan still rocking shoulder pads.

  I didn’t know that much about fashion, but I knew she could do better than this.