"Christ, you're worse than Jane, do you know that?" I snapped.
"Great minds think alike."
"No, really. What's wrong with this? Nothing is oversized, and I left three buttons undone."
Eric looked down at his outfit as if that would explain his response. His fitted gray pants and tight black shirt were a far cry from the jeans and T-shirts he had worn most as a student, but also vastly different from the conservative suits he maintained at the office. His light blond hair was messy in that way that actually required a lot of product, and the V-neck of his T-shirt revealed a small silver cross on a leather cord.
Jane would have cackled and probably asked him where the boy band auditions were happening.
"You look like you're going to a Swedish disco," I said. "I do not see your point."
Eric shrugged and finished off the bottle of beer he was holding. He had, I had realized, an amazing ability to let almost anything and everything roll off his back. The boy was immovable.
"Well, my grandparents did emigrate from Amsterdam," he said. "Look, it's stylish, it's simple, it's easy to take off––" at that I grimaced, not wanting to imagine my roommate naked ––"and I look hot, which is the main objective. You, though..."
Eric tipped the bottle at me and cocked his head in a way that was not positive.
"I'm a prude just because I don't want to dress like a two-dollar hooker after sunset?" I demanded with my arms flung out to the side.
Eric snorted. "You said you wanted me to take you out. Well, where we're going, I'm not going to get laid if I look like I'm chaperoning my baby sister on her way to a slam poetry contest, and you're going to be sitting at the bar all night counting coasters. But hey, it's your choice, Crosby."
"I do not look like your baby sister!" I yowled, even as I stamped my foot like a toddler.
Eric came to stand next to me so that we were both looking through the bathroom door into the mirror over the sink. He didn't say anything, just let our joint reflection speak for itself. He looked savvy and hot, a spitting image of Alexander Skarsgård. He had that Nordic roughness in his messy hair and slight stubble, combined with his Upper East Side polish, that would draw girls to him like flies. I, on the other hand, looked like...a beat poet. On her way to an Amish festival. As much as I hated to admit it, Eric was right: I'd probably stick out at a night club.
"You said you wanted something different, Crosby," Eric reminded me with a jocular nudge to my shoulder.
"Goddamn it," I muttered, even as Eric grinned in victory. "Okay, you win. Give me ten more minutes, and I'll be ready to go."
"Take twenty," he said as he headed back to the couch. "And fix your makeup too."
~
Chapter 5
Eric and I ended up at a club in Chinatown, the kind of place off Beacon Street where college kids went to feel more grown up and where investment bankers went to get laid. I just wanted to get lost. Even from the street I could smell the booze, and loud bass lines practically vibrated through the asphalt. It was still relatively early on a Friday night, but the place was already packed with people.
"You clean up pretty good, Crosby," Eric said for the third time, taking in my dress with appreciation.
I pretended to kick at him.
"I feel like Club Barbie," I said. "And stop leering at me like that. It's gross."
Eric made a face. "I didn't mean it like that; you're like my sister."
"Exactly."
The truth was, I was actually relieved that Eric made me change. The club was basically a sardine tin, and, considering it was already a warm night, the short black mini dress I chose had the dual benefits of being cute and cool. I had kept the silver chains, the hoops, and my silver-tipped boots and had put my unruly red waves into a high ponytail to keep them off my neck.
"Well?" Eric asked loudly over the music as he held his hand out like a tour guide. "What do you think?"
I looked around the club. It was basically just an old brick factory building that had been converted into a night club. Exposed brick walls provided insulation for the bass lines that traveled through the floorboards and into my bones. The dark red lighting created a hedonistic air that was only augmented by the young, lithe bodies filling the space from top to bottom. They writhed to the music, chattered over the bass lines, and cast eyes across dark spaces before sneaking off together to darker corners. It was basically sex incarnate.
"I think I've wandered into an alternate universe," I mumbled. This had never been my scene, and yet here I was, by request.
We were surrounded by investment wonks and other urban professionals just off from work, all enjoying drinks and listening to 1990s throwbacks. A DJ "spun" on his computer from the far corner of the club, which was done up like A Night at the Roxbury with silvery-blue velvet lounges and a long chrome bar swarming with lines of people. The familiar drum beat of "Poison", that old Bel Biv Devoe song, shouted over the loudspeakers, and the entire club erupted.
It was clear that this wasn't just a spot where colleagues came to kick back. This was a place where people went to meet other people. New people. The old-school music set a sexy, carefree vibe that seemed to be lulling all of the patrons together, like the beginning of some kind of hedonistic ritual. The orgy wasn't happening yet, but you had the feeling it would eventually.
It seemed like a decent enough place to forget everything that had been happening in my life lately. I needed a distraction, and that was the order of the day.
I followed Eric to the bar and stood beside him while he waved down a bartender and ordered our drinks: a whiskey soda for me and a beer for him.
"So how does this work?" I called out over the loud music and the clamor of voices around us. "I've never been a dude's wingman before. Won't these girls think you're with me?"
Eric snorted and took a sip of his beer. "No one comes here with their boyfriends. If they do, they're just setting themselves up for a more intense chase. Look, Cros, all you need to do is stand there. You see something you like, just make eye contact, and he'll come to you."
"And you?"
Eric gave me a particularly sharkish smile that gave his otherwise unintimidating face a rakish appeal. "Oh, that's easy. First I pretend they don't exist. Then I pretend they're the only thing I see."
I scowled. "You make these girls think you're in love with them so you can trick them into sex?"
"Please. No one ever says anything about love." Eric looked down at me sharply. "You're not going to start butting in on my sex life, are you? I left my nosy family in New York for a reason."
I held my hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, it's not my business. These girls want to get involved with your slutty ass, that's their issue. You're not going to ask me to shut up when I have my own opinions, are you?"
Eric chuckled and threw an arm around my shoulder. "Never dream of it, sis."
He looked around the room. A leggy brunette was making eyes at him from the other end of the bar. She was wedged between at least two other men trying to buy her drinks, but obviously was interested in my "date." Eric clearly knew what he was talking about.
"Target identified?" I asked.
Eric glanced at the brunette with a look that made me feel like I had been undressed just by proximity. She flushed clearly, even in the dim lights of the club. The guy next to her was talking, but she didn't respond as Eric then looked around at everything besides her.
"Looks that way." Eric pushed off the bar, beer in hand. "You going to be okay?" he asked kindly. "I can hang for a bit. There are a lot of fish in this particular sea."
I shifted back and forth on the balls of my feet. "Hey, I came here to get lost for, not to cramp your style. I'll be fine."
Eric gave me the signature grin that probably got him more tail than most men in Boston.
"All right. I'll keep an eye out. Give me a wave if you need a rescue."
I rolled my eyes. "Go chase some tail, Casanova. And make sure you wear a rubber."
Eric left, and I hopped up onto one of the stools, content to sip on my drink and people-watch with my back to the bar. This kind of place was so out of my element, filled as it was with half-dressed women (although I wasn't currently much more covered up) and men who tracked them like birds of prey. Everyone in here wore a kind of mask: a mask of skin, a mask of makeup and hair products, a mask of shiny fabric and rapacious glances. Everyone was here to be someone they weren't in their everyday lives.
"Can I get you another drink?"
I had to physically stop my eyes from rolling. That line was tired. Everything about this place seemed tired, and I had been here less than fifteen minutes. But I didn't want to go home, where I'd probably just flop on my futon and go to sleep. I wanted to be something besides tired. I wanted to stop feeling like shit.
"Sure," I replied, turning to the speaker.
His name was Marco, and he was a broker at Prudential. With olive skin and dark, slicked hair, he was only a little bit on the short side with a barrel-chested body that filled out his white Oxford shirt and navy suit pants quite nicely. With a hand at the small of my back like he owned me, he waved a hand at the bartender and sidled close, which was easy considering there were still people teeming for drinks on either side of us. I crossed my legs and turned to face the bar. Marco followed the movement of my legs hungrily.
"The bartender's a friend of mine from college," he assured me. "You in school?"
I shook my head. "Just graduated."
"Hey! Congratulations on entering the real world!" he replied jovially. "Now you have to let me buy you a drink. What school?"
I paused. There are certain kinds of men who can't handle women who are potentially smarter than them. I'd met them before, and when they found out I attended Harvard or had graduated summa cum laude from NYU, they were usually very uncomfortable, which meant they ignored me or made everything a competition of wits. Marco might have been one of those men, or he might not have been. I wasn't really interested in finding out.
"UMB," I stated over the blare of Salt N' Pepa, giving him the acronym for the Boston campus of the University of Massachusetts that mostly attracted locals.
Marco humored me with a smile that was at once condescending and thrilled. "That's great! I graduated from Amherst five years ago!"
I nodded and smiled back, hating the way my cheeks felt like they were about to crack. Come on, Crosby, this isn't you, I thought. But then I shook my head. "Me" wasn't working these days. So this would be fine for tonight.
"Let me guess," Marco was saying as the bartender came over. "You like vodka cranberries."
I was about to tell him I preferred whiskey, but then I stopped. Across the bar, Eric was leaning conspicuously close to a girl, a different one from brunette he'd seen before. She had a very pink drink in her hand and smiled when she caught me looking, like a cat who had just caught its prey. Eric looked up.
"You okay?" he mouthed.
I nodded and turned back to Marco. Why not have a different drink, the kind of drink that "girls who just want to have fun" would have?
"Vodka cranberry sounds great!" I said, trying to invest as much lightness into my voice as I could.
As fake as I felt, it seemed to work. Marco grinned again and ordered the drinks. I took a small sip. Holy shit, that was sweet!
"Something wrong with your drink?" he asked. "I know my friend makes them kind of strong."
This was strong? It tasted like cough syrup! "No, no, I'm fine. Just...haven't had one of these in a while."
Marco leered, probably thinking I didn't drink much and was thus an easy target. I smiled back and tossed down the rest of the syrupy sweet cocktail as quickly as I could.
"Damn," Marco said as he watched. "I guess you got used to it."
"I guess I did," I said, feeling lightheaded. I waved at the bartender. "Another round, please!"
I winked at Marco. It felt unnatural and strange, but he winked back.
"Next one's on me," I said.
Three vodka cranberries and two kamikaze shots later, and I didn't have to fake the winking or laughing anymore. With the pounding music and the roar of people, the world felt exactly as I wanted it: hazy, joyful. Distracting.
"Come on!"
I tugged Marco, who was getting just as sloshed as I was, off his barstool and toward the dance floor. He'd been moving progressively closer to me with every drink, and was more than eager for the physical contact. Grabbing his beer, he followed me eagerly until we were surrounded by people thrashing in the small space in front of the DJ booth.
The crowd had become even more raucous than before as the DJ put on more well-known hits. Ties had come off, skirts were hiked to the point of being indecent, and a lot of grinding was going on.
Marco pulled me close and bent to nuzzle my neck. The feeling made me jump––it was the same place where someone else used to do that, drive me crazy when he kissed me right there, under my jaw, with incredibly soft lips, not a scratchy goatee.
"You're so fucking sexy," Marco crooned into my ear. "Your ass is incredible."
His lips found my earlobe, but before he could do anything else, I pulled back. It reminded me too much of someone else, someone who could do that much, much better.
"So are you," I pronounced, ignoring the way my lips felt bloated around the words.
The vodka was seriously kicking in. I pulled Marco down to kiss me properly. He immediately sought entry in that sloppy way drunk people do. His tongue swiped around my mouth while his roving hands found my ass and squeezed. I tried not to feel repulsed. It wasn't hard. I didn't feel much at all.
Come on. Feel something. Feel anything.
But there was nothing but disgust with myself. My heart sank. Everything in my body sank. It was just no use. Every time he kissed me, I couldn't help but think about the person who used to kiss me like he meant it, used to make me feel every tremor of his touch from the tips of my hair down to my toes.
After a few moments, I put two hands on Marco's sturdy chest and pushed him off me.
"I have to go to the bathroom," I said, figuring at least I shouldn't outright tell an unfamiliar drunk male that he's just not doing it for me.
Marco nodded, his eyes glazed with alcohol and lust. "Sure, sure. I'll be out here."
I stumbled through the crowd and found my way to the congested bathroom at the end of a long hallway where, from the looks of it, several couple were looking for indecent exposure charges. It was hard not to look at the man with his hands clear up his date's skirt, at the couple in the back who were both half out of their shirts. It was harder still not to be jealous.
Once I was in the stall, I whipped out my phone. I knew it was a bad idea. I was drunk. I was being a cliché. And yet I swiped through my contacts anyway, telling myself I just wanted to look at his face, see that bashful, dimple-bearing smile he'd had when I'd snapped a photo of him in bed one bright morning. My heart turned over, and almost as if moving of their own accord, my thumbs tapped out a text to Brandon.
Me: Everything is wrong. I miss you. Too much.
My thumb hovered over the send button. No. I shouldn't send it. I sighed. Of course you shouldn't send it, you fool.
Someone slammed into the door to my stall with a loud bang and a rattle of the latch. Startled, I dropped my phone on the floor.
"You idiot, someone is in there!"
A hysterical cackle followed the intrusion, and I focused on breathing as I picked up my phone. But the screen was now different. Now there was a glowing return message.
Brandon: Where are you?
I stared in horrified shock. Startled by the intrusion, I must have accidentally pressed send. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! I started typing out another message to mitigate the first. Say it was a friend. Say it was a joke. Come up with anything but how you actually feel. But once again, the door was slammed into, and this time it flew open as several girls toppled into the stall around me.
"Oh my God,
I'm so sorry!" one of them yelped while the others laughed. They were all at least as drunk as I was, wearing heels that were twice as high, skirts that were half the length of mine. I just did my best to untangle myself from their jumbled, cackling mess, then washed my hands and escaped back into the club. There was no reason I needed to answer that message anyway. It was just looking for trouble, and not the kind I wanted.
On the dance floor, Marco was already prowling for a new partner. Someone put a hand around his neck, and I bit my lip, trying to stop tears from welling up. What was wrong with me? I didn't even care about this loser, and yet I was spitting jealous at seeing him kiss another girl.
I turned on one heel and weaved my way through the crowd, past a corner where Eric was getting very familiar with yet another girl, and ignored the several catcalls I received on my way out of the club.
"Lookin' good tonight, Red," jeered one guy as I neared the club entrance.
Without even thinking about it, I whirled around and shoved a hand on his sternum to slam him into the brick wall.
"Shut it," I said through gritted teeth, more calmly than I felt.
The world seemed a whir. All I could feel was anger and sadness––a very bad combination.
Outside, I welcomed a breath of fresh air, even clogged as it was by the pack of cigarette-smokers huddled just down the block. I placed a hand on the side of the building and heaved breaths. In and out. In and out. Outside, the world still spun, but at least I could breathe. A wave of nausea rose in my belly, and this time it didn't go away.
"Oh, God," I muttered, leaning into the cold bricks. And then I lost my dinner and most of my drinks against the crumbling mortar. What a fucking mess.
So concentrated was I on making the world stand still again that I hardly noticed the massive black sedan that pulled up in front of the club. I sucked in air and vaguely registered a clean, familiar, almond-laced scent wrapped around me as I threw up again. And again. A hand steadied my ribs, and another held back my hair.
Legally Mine (Spitfire Book 2) Page 6