Feeling my own eyes well, I moved along the perimeter of the room, intent on the office. I needed a few moments to compose myself.
“Hey, babe, is everything all right?” Micah asked, stopping me in the back hall. “I saw you heading this way. You seem upset.”
I went into his arms and hugged him tight, then kissed him with everything I had.
“What was that for?” he asked as I laid my head on his shoulder.
“Just because I love you,” I told him, grateful to have him there when I was feeling so fragile.
I was horrified at being the other woman, even though I actually wasn’t, while at the same time, so relieved to know I wasn’t wrong about the love Cal and Shelly had. It was the love I’d modeled my dreams on, and to see they were still together, even though they’d thought he’d been with me that night, only confirmed that I’d been right.
Their love was the kind that lasted, and I knew, as I stood in Micah’s arms, that my dreams had come true.
ABOUT BETHANY LOPEZ
Award-Winning Author Bethany Lopez began self-publishing in June 2011. She's a lover of all things romance: books, movies, music, and life, and she incorporates that into the books she writes. When she isn't reading or writing, she loves spending time with her husband and children, traveling whenever possible. Some of her favorite things are: Kristen Ashley Books, coffee in the morning, and In N Out burgers.
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BOOKS BY BETHANY LOPEZ
Want to know how it all began with Simone and Micah, and Cal and Shelly? Check out their stories in the Time for Love Series:
1 Night
8 Weeks
21 Days
42 Hours
15 Minutes
10 Years
3 Seconds
7 Months
For Eternity
Night Games
By T.K. Leigh
CHAPTER 1
I’ve often wondered what hell would be like.
Not really out of fear. More like curiosity.
Is it full of fire and brimstone, as I heard them speak of the handful of times my parents dragged me to church as a child?
Or maybe everyone’s hell is personal. Maybe Hitler’s hell is filled with all the people he thought were inferior to him. Jack the Ripper is probably surrounded by prostitutes who emasculate him, cutting his throat and abdomen. And Ted Bundy is most likely alone, not a single person there to impress or feel self-important around.
Just like my hell would be a night club fifty stories above the Vegas strip, drunk people grinding up against each other before going home together and having sloppy sex. And the sentence Lucifer would give me when I arrive at the fiery gates? To serve eternal damnation at a bachelorette party that never ends.
Yup. I have arrived at my own personal hell.
“Blowjobs! That’s what we need right now!”
I close my eyes, summoning the strength to feign excitement over the idea of drinking a disgustingly sweet mixture of Bailey’s, Kahlúa, and half-and-half, all topped with whipped cream.
Now I know how Kristen Wiig’s character in Bridesmaids felt. I sure hope this city’s marketing slogan is correct. This entire experience needs to stay in Vegas. If my cousin, Hannah, and I weren’t like sisters when we were kids, I wouldn’t be wearing a tight black tank top, “Bride’s Bitch” bedazzled on the front, and a necklace of penises, enduring this bachelorette party that’s filled with one cliché after another. Until she called to ask me to be a bridesmaid, I’d all but forgotten about our adolescent promise that we’d be in each other’s weddings when the day arrived. Out of our circle, Hannah’s the first to bite the proverbial bullet.
“Yes!” Hannah slurs, agreeing with Bernadette, her older sister and maid of honor, who planned this excursion to the tenth circle of hell. She struggles to get up from the couch where she’s sitting, tripping over several pairs of legs as she attempts to flag down our cocktail waitress.
The last thing she needs right now is any more liquor, especially after the day-long drinking extravaganza that started with a calming morning at the spa. At least I got an amazing massage from a man whose hands were magical instruments of relaxation. I would have been content to stay there all day. But Bernadette had different plans, and those plans consisted of imbibing in fruity cocktails by the pool as they catcalled to guys I questioned were old enough to drink.
“Blow jobs all around,” Hannah shouts so the entire club can hear.
Whistles and cheers erupt from everyone dancing around us. Two guys with far too much hair product jump at the opportunity to join us. I was wondering how much longer it would take before they grew some balls and came to talk to us, considering they’ve been eyeing us since we arrived here an hour ago.
“I’ll buy you those if you return the favor with the real thing,” the tall, slender blond says, his suggestive gaze scanning our group in a way that reminds me of someone selecting produce at a farmer’s market, looking for the ripest tomato, the juiciest peach.
I glance to my left, giving Izzy a knowing look, both of us thinking the same thing.
Hannah, Izzy, and I were inseparable growing up. We all lived in the same neighborhood and are the same age. For the longest time, I couldn’t imagine my life without them at my side. We went through all of life’s big changes together. Puberty. First boyfriends. First kisses. Then my parents divorced and my mom took me from Connecticut to New Jersey, where she unsuccessfully attempted to piece her life back together. But how can you do that when you’ve spent several decades completely dependent on one person?
“I’m not sure you could handle the real thing,” a petite brunette named Carmen says, suggestively licking her lips.
The lack of judgment from the amount of liquor these women have consumed has many of them giggling at this interaction. They don’t seem to care, though. If I were stuck in a marriage with a man who never noticed me, I suppose I’d relish in the attention from a complete stranger, too, regardless of how much I had to debase myself to get it. Thankfully, I don’t have that problem.
Desperate for a break from what’s become a sex-charged day in the city of sin, I extract myself from our group to head to the bar.
“Bathroom?” Izzy asks. “Or did you change your mind on the scavenger hunt and decide to…” She picks up a printed piece of card stock and reads, “build a penis with objects found at the bar?” She rolls her eyes at the absurdity of it all.
I still find it ridiculous that grown women enjoy this. It’s all in good fun, but I don’t find it the least bit entertaining. I have no idea how I’m going to survive the rest of this extended weekend.
It’s times like these I wish I were more of a drinker.
“Tempting…” I give her a tight smile, “but I think I’ll pass. I’m going to the bar to get a drink.”
“But they ordered blow job shots,” she retorts sarcastically, taking a sip of her vodka tonic.
“I refuse to do any shot made in such a way to make it appear I have cum on my face when I drink it.”
Izzy coughs, liquid shooting out of her nose and mouth.
“Who the hell invented that shot? Probably someone who didn’t give or receive blowjobs that often. If you do it right, you won’t end up with cum on your face. Unless that’s what you want. If that’s the case, more power to you. To each their own.”
She coughs a few more times, then clears her throat. “God, I’ve missed you, Chloe.”
“Missed you, too. Want anything?”
She holds up her glass. “I’m good.”
“Okay. I’m off to brave the elements. Wish me luck.” I spin on my heels and head toward the bar area.
“Good luck,” she calls out.
At least now that night has fallen and we’re in a darkened space,
the stereotypical tank top that’s been my bachelorette party uniform isn’t as noticeable. Bernadette thought each of us wearing a shirt with “Bride’s Bitch” on it was hysterical, and hers saying “Bitch of Honor” even more so. I bit my tongue so hard it almost bled in order to prevent myself from telling her how juvenile I think this entire weekend truly is. That it’s not the kind of bachelorette party Hannah envisioned. She’s too nice to say anything. She’s always been that way.
Strobe lights pulse as I maneuver my way through crowds of people congregated around small tables and lush leather couches. The smell of perfume combined with beer and fruity alcohol mixtures fills the air. Scantily dressed waitresses pass by carrying trays overflowing with drinks while the vibration of the driving club music seems to make the floor shake. Despite the temperatures being on the chilly side, considering night’s fallen, the sheer number of people present increases the heat level, causing perspiration to form on my brow.
I approach the bar, where it’s three or four deep with people waiting to order a drink. They’re all restless, craving their next fix. All walks of life are represented here, everyone pretending to be someone they’re not for one weekend of sin.
I don’t need a weekend of sin. I sin on a regular basis.
After about ten minutes, I squeeze my way up to the bar and catch the bartender’s attention immediately. That’s the benefit of having gray and lilac-colored ombre hair. It stands out in a sea of blondes and brunettes.
“What can I get you?”
“Martini. Dirty.”
“You got it.” He turns from me and grabs the vodka bottle, pouring a heaping amount into the cocktail shaker. “Having a good time?” he asks as he continues preparing my drink.
“Absolutely.” I grit out a smile.
“Liar,” he responds with a wink.
“That obvious?”
“Maybe I’m just observant. You don’t seem to fit in with your friends over there.” He nods toward the bachelorette party.
At first, I’m surprised by his words, wondering how he’d notice me when pouring drinks all night. Then I glance back at the girls, raising my five-foot, two-inch frame onto my tiptoes to peer over the ocean of people, grimacing when I see Bernadette’s shoved a brightly colored shooter between her boobs and one of our new “friends” is taking the shot from her without the use of his hands. We’re definitely hard to miss. Bernadette made sure of that.
“What makes you say that?” I muse when I return my attention to him.
“You don’t exactly scream ‘desperate housewife’.” He grabs a long metal spoon and stirs my martini. If nothing else, he understands a great martini should be stirred, not shaken, as Mr. Bond would have you believe.
“Well, thanks for that. At least I’m doing something right.”
“You certainly are.” He pours the liquid through the strainer and into a chilled glass, then pushes it toward me. “Enjoy.”
With a smile, I place a bill on the counter and turn from him, making my way back through the crowded bar area. If I were anywhere else, I might have given him my number with instructions to call when his shift was over. I’d rather not leave any piece of myself in this town.
As I emerge from the mosh of people waiting to get a drink, I look in the direction of the girls, only to find most of them grinding with complete strangers. Except for Hannah and Izzy. They’re off to the side, distancing themselves from the debauchery currently underway amongst the rest of the women. All I can do is pray this kind of behavior doesn’t rub off on Hannah. Then again, she’s twenty-eight. She had her fun during her younger years, unlike her sister, Bernadette, who got married when she was twenty — a shotgun wedding because she was pregnant.
“How much?” I hear a voice say as I start toward them. It’s so random and out of context I don’t react at first. Then a hand grips my bicep, preventing me from taking another step.
I whirl around, my fierce eyes settling on a man of average height and build. His black shirt is tucked into a pair of dark jeans, a gray blazer finishing the ensemble. “Excuse me?”
“I said…” He loosens his grasp on my arm, licking his lips as he leers at me, wavering slightly. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Great. Another guy emboldened with the help of Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, or Jose Cuervo. Possibly a combination of all three. “How much?”
“For what?”
He chuckles in feigned amusement. Then his expression falls, his eyes heating as they rake over me.
“I get it. You’re discreet. I can be discreet, too.” Winking, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wallet, flashing what I estimate to be several thousand in hundreds. He either got lucky shooting craps or hit up a few ATMs earlier. I’m guessing the latter. “Like I said, how much?”
I shake my head, backing away from him. “I am not a prostitute.” My tone is firm, leaving no room for argument.
He blows out a laugh. “Sure. You’re not a prostitute, just like I’m the fucking Easter Bunny. I can pretend to be someone I’m not, too, sweetheart. Trust me. I have an eye for these things, and any woman who comes into a club wearing a ridiculously tight tank top, a skirt that rides up her ass, and has hair colored like yours just screams whore.”
Fire flames on my face and I ball my free hand into a fist. Before I can reel back and land a blow, he grips my hip, yanking my body against his, causing my martini to splash between us. He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. I doubt this man cares about anything other than himself…just like most men.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but every second you play hard to get, the amount I pay you will decrease. If I were you, I’d give careful consideration to the next words that come out of your mouth. Ya got me?”
My jaw clenches as my distaste for him grows with each heartbeat. “Like I said…” I place a hand on his chest, glowering, “I am not a prostitute. So I’d suggest taking your disgusting paws off me before I kick my apparent hooker heel into your balls and press so hard they’ll hear them pop all the way in Los Angeles. Ya got me?” I finish, throwing his words back at him.
His composure cracks momentarily, but he’s either too drunk or too dumb to get the hint. Probably both. So instead of walking away with his dignity cracked and his tiny dick between his legs, he pushes forward.
“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? I dig it.” He loops his arm around my waist, pulling me even harder against him. “Come on. Tell me your price.”
My heart rate spikes and bile rises in my throat when his erection pushes against my stomach. What the hell is it about men these days who think they can treat women like property? Who think it’s their God-given right to exert dominance over the opposite sex?
“Like I told you. I’m not—”
“Oh, there you are!” a deep voice bellows, cutting through.
I whip my eyes in its direction, caught by surprise when an arm wraps around me, prying me out of the creep’s grasp. I’m startled at first, taken aback by the strong embrace currently holding me. But unlike before, I don’t feel the overwhelming sense of dread and disgust.
“I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?”
When he pulls back, I meet brilliant green eyes that seem to penetrate deeper than they should, considering they belong to a stranger. Then again, there’s something oddly familiar about him, making me think I should know him. But I’d remember someone like him. Wouldn’t I? He’s tall. Well, compared to me, everyone’s tall. But I barely come up to his pecs, making me estimate he’s six-three or six-four. He has a proud face, chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, masculine nose. His dark hair is a little messy, but in a sexy kind of way. He sports a beard and mustache, but it’s impeccably groomed. In fact, everything about him is impeccably groomed.
Granted, we’re at a club in Vegas with a rather strict dress code, at least for men. But something about the way he carries himself with a cool confidence makes him stand out amongst a sea of men just looking for a quic
k piece of ass. The dark jeans and tweed jacket make me think he’d be more comfortable at a cigar bar, sipping scotch, jazz standards playing in the background.
“Can I?” he repeats, giving me a knowing look, encouraging me to play along. So that’s what I do.
“I guess not.” I face the creep, a smug smile on my face as I burrow deeper into my mystery man’s embrace. “Like I said. This…” I gesture down my body, “isn’t for sale. Even if it were, you would never be able to afford it, baby. Not with that wallet you flashed me.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but all my mystery man has to do is puff out his chest and he snaps his jaw shut, turning from me.
“And for future reference,” my mystery man calls out, keeping his arm wrapped around me, despite the threat waning.
The creep looks back at him.
“When a lady says she’s not interested, it’s not an invitation to press the issue. If I find you’ve caused any more problems or offer any other woman money to sleep with you, there are two rather large gentlemen manning the front door who will have no problem helping you learn this lesson differently.” He smiles a fake smile. “Ya got me?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” He shuffles away toward a group of similarly dressed men, who all appear eager to hear how he made out with me. Obviously, he didn’t.
“What a tool,” my mystery man remarks as he drops his hold, turning to face me, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “I can handle myself. But thank you for intervening on my behalf. Although it wasn’t necessary, I do appreciate it.”
I begin to retreat from him. If I didn’t hate Vegas before, I do now. I’ve lived in New York City the past decade. I’ve never felt as cheap and degraded as I just did with that creep thinking I was a prostitute simply because I’m wearing a short skirt or my hair’s different. Back home, no one would bat an eye at my appearance. Here, with it being the stereotypical destination for a hormonally charged bachelor or bachelorette party, it’s open season to hit on anything with a pulse. I wish people had to take a test before entering the proverbial Vegas wildlife, like hunters have to in order to obtain their license to hunt prey. That’s what this place is like. A jungle. During mating season.
Blackout: A Romance Anthology Page 30