by Sunniva Dee
I down another cocktail. I catch the unspoken command he sends Arriane when she bustles by him. I see how she refills my drink a second time without asking me. “Time to rock out!” I scream at Mica.
“Bar top?” Mica squeals back, and I shake my head.
“Need more room.”
“Yeah!” Mica is my partner in crime again tonight. She interlaces fingers with Destiny, shaking them for effect, but Destiny squeezes her hand and drops it, pointing at Shannon. She’d rather be a party pooper and stay behind. Fine by me—it’s how we used to be. Mica and me on the party side, and Shannon and Destiny on the pooper side. It’s familiar. In one way, familiar is good.
Mica flings her arms around my neck as we giggle our way through the crowd to the dance floor. It teems with dancers tonight. We get in the middle, hop, and wiggle. I’m loud—I scream out the few lyrics of the song, which hypes Mica up more. She straightens, lifts her arms, and leans her torso forward. Without warning, she rolls into breakneck twerking with her legs straight, causing the lower half of her body to spasm.
Some guy lights up behind her, trying to grind against her, but she swats him away and leaps to the opposite side, bumping into people and earning herself strings of drowned-out cuss words in the process.
The laughter’s back in me, real laughter. It’s bubbling inside of me at the sight of her antics. This is what I need. Fuck Dominic and fuck all the chicks he’s got hanging around wherever he is.
I half expect Leon to make it onto the floor like he did yesterday, but he doesn’t. He still surveys me from the raised podium of the bar.
I can take on the world. I’m invincible. The alcohol warms my veins, lulls my distress. I’m in the mood for anything now—everything, and Leon is high up on my list.
Yeah. I’m in the mood for Leon.
On the way back from the dance floor, I have tunnel vision. All I grasp is my green goop waiting in a cocktail glass between Destiny and Shannon. I let the sweet, sticky tranquilizer slide down my throat like it’s a shot, and I shudder.
Arriane immediately plops in another round for me.
“Me too—me too,” Mica yells. Arriane lifts her index finger in the “one-moment” sign, spins a glass in her hand like a total dude bartender, and pours a swift refill for Mica too.
Shannon drags me over to her just as I’m climbing the brass footrest of a stool to get up on the counter. “Pan! Dominic called. He sounded really concerned on the voicemail. Did you turn your phone off again?”
“Yeah, deff. Dominic’s an ass.”
She stares at me over her light beer, mystified. “What did he do? He’s still on that island he’s from, right? Taking care of his grandma?”
“Sshyeah,” I spit out. “Doesn’t mean he can’t be a total ass! So he texts me and calls me every night, right? He sleeps with his boss, right?”
“Uh, well, if he does, she’s nowhere near him now, though, is she?”
She’s interrupting, and I haven’t gotten to my point yet.
“Yeah, but guess what? Dominic and I might have a friends-with-benefits sort of relationship, no strings, etcetera, etcetera and yada-yada, but stuff gets a bit complicated when he suddenly has a freaking honey at home too. I’m out. Totally out. Perfect Dominic can shove it.”
Shannon’s lost. If I weren’t so upset, I’d be laughing at the cute frown she’s putting on. “A… honey?”
“A honey. A girlfriend. Yet another fuck-buddy, Shannon. What the hell do I know, except when I called, he picked up from his freaking bed—I know he did—and she was there, all sweet and lovey-dovey, going ‘honey, who’s that on the phone?’ or some crap. Fuck her.”
Shannon blinks. Then, she leans over to grab Christian’s arm. Of course, Mr. Awesome Boyfriend stops the drink mixer and steps over to her immediately. At her inquiry, he shakes his head. He didn’t know of any girlfriend on Dominic’s island. Well, now he does.
“Call him back,” she suggests. “This might not be what you think.”
“Why’re you trying to save a relationship I don’t have, Shannon?” I laugh. “You’re ridiculous. I thought you wanted me to be happy, and what would you say if I just realized I can’t be happy being his friend?”
“Why’s that, Pandora?” she prompts.
“Because I don’t care to be friends with a guy who sleeps with everybody!” My laughter turns into sputtering halfway through my explanation as I let myself consider what this means. Dominic sleeping with someone else—
No. Just—no!
Shannon has the nerve to shake her head. “Not true. We have friends who do that at home. Remember Les and Mick? You never had an issue with them.”
“Yeah, right. That was different. They were simply fun to be around, and I didn’t care what they did when we weren’t together.”
“Yep, ’cause you didn’t like them as more than friends,” she explains.
I’m silent, trying to find a good retort. I know this. I’m aware that my feelings for Dominic are complicated. Why else would I be jealous? I think about him all the time, but the thing is… How do I explain to Shannon that even if we were more than friends—even if he did want only me—he deserves better than to be stuck with a hot mess?
“Dominic and I aren’t good matches, Shannon,” I say simply.
“Yeah, you are. You’re perfect matches.”
That word again. Perfect. I shoot a look at Leon who’s across the room, directing a bouncer toward the patio.
“Uh-huh,” I agree sarcastically. “One-beer, all-studies-and-work, takes-care-of-his-grandma, about-to-head-back-home-with-a-diploma Dominic makes a match made in Happily-Ever-Afterville with freshman, wild child, good-for-nothing Pandora.”
Without a word, she pushes her phone in under my nose and clicks the button. The screen lights up with two messages from Dominic.
Dominic here. Is Pandora okay?
Have her call me. Tell her it’s not what she thinks.
“Told you! Now, call him.”
“Oh my God, Shannon. ‘Not what she thinks?’ You are so gullible. What else could send him to bed with some girl whispering ‘honey’ into his ear? Oh, wait—” I nod emphatically. “She’s the old cleaning lady. How stupid of me. She simply leaned over him to dust off the… hmm—headboard!”
I’m done talking. I swipe up the glass, part of my drink sloshing over my hand, and bottom up the rest. I’m four drinks in. I do keep count as long as I can, although not necessarily to remain in control. Already, I’m experiencing a short dizzy-spell, and I have to concentrate not to lose my balance. I trip my way down the single step from the bar area while lapping the sweet liquid off my skin.
“Are you part feline, Pandora?”
I stop licking myself and find Leon curling a measured smile my way. His gaze gleams bluer than I remember as he takes in my black halter-necked cat suit with legs flaring from the knees and down, seventies-style. Grasping my bare arm, he moves into me.
The alcohol anesthetizes me. This room filled with people and heat and sound. I won’t ever call Dominic again, because the stress in my life is already too much.
Leon turns my arm to study the green trail my beverage creates down to my elbow. “Let me,” he mouths, and eyes locked on my face, he raises it to his lips.
In this place, my shield is down. I don’t need to protect myself at Smother. I’m here because I want to be, and I don’t object when Leon corners me, blocks my view of my friends with his body, and sucks the flesh of my upper arm into his mouth.
I’m pressed against the old one-armed bandit no one uses on club nights, puffing out a breath as I watch his sinuous moves, the sleek, toned shape of him in the all-black clothing.
Funny you should mention cats, Leon.
I’ll let him fill the vacuum in me. Like the alcohol does. Like his bar.
“Mmm,” he says
against my skin, his eyes shutting in pleasure. He is filling me, and I am glad.
“Crème de menthe kicks ass, huh?” I relax into the cool metal of the game machine and inhale quickly at the sensation of his mouth skimming up the inside of my arm. My numbness retreats in favor of the sensations he provides, and when he replies “Not as much as your sweat,” I’m not numb anymore. I’m warm—no, hot—and the heat shoots down to my belly.
“Sir,” comes a gravelly voice behind Leon.
“Jason.” Without changing his hold on me, Leon turns to face the bouncer.
“The police are here for the guy who started the patio fight. They need your input—uh, statement or whatever.” He straightens, lifting his chin the way a soldier would to his superior, awaiting his order.
“I’ll be right out.”
Leon’s strange eyes snap back to me. “Don’t move. I’ll be back. And don’t drink anymore. I want you sober in a couple of hours when we close.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?” I flirt, lowering my lashes.
He leans in enough to answer against my temple. “Because I’m going to trick you into coming upstairs with me.”
I’m wanted. I feel wanted. I yelp when he scrapes his teeth over my skin, but he probably can’t tell over the music. Leon’s mouth travels to my lower lip, bites down, and sucks me in against his tongue. After last night, I sort of expected him to chase me down tonight, but this happened fast. He lets go as my heart stumbles into an erratic sprint.
He eases through the throng of people, head held high and arms in defense position, ready against any sudden moves around him. Like with Dominic, I’ve never witnessed Leon drunk, even the slightest bit buzzed, really.
I chortle at my own thoughts. Maybe sober’s my type? Hot as hell and sober. Sighing, I push off the game machine. Obviously, I’m not staying here, waiting for Mr. Black Knight to return in all his glory. In my experience, he has no problem locating me whether I’m puking in the bushes outside or dancing in the crowd on the dance floor.
I see Destiny at the bar, with Shannon next to her pointing in the direction of the restrooms. I recognize their tense postures. I’m usually to blame when they’re worried.
From atop the narrow seat of a barstool, Mica perches on her fake Louboutins. Now, she sits back on her haunches to yell into Destiny’s ear. No one looks in my direction, though, so I can’t show them that I’m fine. I want to put their minds at rest.
Again, I’ve worn heels too high for my own good, and on my way over, I bump into a guy. He’s huge, a total offensive lineman type and yet, with the impact, I manage to rock his equilibrium. Dude spins on me, eyes bloodshot from the booze he’s probably been consuming all night.
“Watch out, bitch,” he shouts.
“Yeah, fuck you,” I shout back as I walk on, my focus on my friends at the bar.
“Excuse me?” I hear behind me. His meaty hand shoots out, grabs my arm, and tugs me around. I stare straight into a set of furious little piggy eyes that drown in his red face. They meet mine from two heads above when I swing toward him. And here I’d thought I was tall?
“Hey, man—simmer down,” his buddy tells him. “The owner banned you from Smother for six months the last time, remember?”
I’ve watched Ultimate Fighting on TV, and I’m pretty sure I can take him. It’s all about being fast. Plus I’m really brave, which must be half the win anyway. Heck, and if not—how ’bout I die trying? Yep, right now, I don’t give a shit. If this douche bag wants a fight, I’m in.
I flash him a wide, fearless grin. The good thing is every crème de menthe cocktail of the night has kicked in, and I doubt he can make me hurt. All considered, my sudden streak of invincibility could be everlasting, I realize.
“Sorry,” I say, enunciating clearly. “I didn’t mean to half-ass my answer. What I meant was of course: fuck you, LOSER.”
“Oh, shit,” his little friend has time to mutter before “Biff the Wife Beater” grabs me by the neck with one hand and slaps me flat in the face with the other. My arms do some sort of windmill dance until I’m anchored into his hair with both fists. I can tell he plans to hit again, but by now I’m tugging at his roots as hard as humanly possible and he has to let go of my neck to pry my hands free.
“Get her off me!” he yells to his friends, but they’re drunk too and unable to absorb what happens next. See, I did gymnastics when I was little, and even wasted, I have no issue climbing onto this guy’s back like a monkey.
I hook my legs around his midsection and latch into his hair again. Every time a frizzy chunk loosens, I shift my grip over and pull harder. I’m his worst nightmare—he’s about to go bald. I don’t pay attention to the left side of my face that’s numbing slowly from his backhand.
Finally, he throws me off, and I thump to the floor like a sack of potatoes. He leans in over me, grabs my throat, efficiently obstructing my breathing. Within seconds, fireworks brighten the sudden darkness behind my eyelids, and the only thing reaching me from outside is the curses he grinds out.
Then, everything happens fast. In flashes, I catch the crowd closing in and Mica’s horrified expression between the others. Leon elbowing his way through. Biff the Wife Beater being thrown violently off me.
The air rushes into my lungs again, and I scramble up on all fours, grabbing onto the closest leg for support.
“She’s crazy!” Biff wails. “She started it!” A hysterical chuckle sits in my throat. I let my eyes move up to the person I grabbed onto. It’s Christian, and he’s helping me to my feet. My knees wobble a tiny bit.
“You’re a loser,” I croak to Biff. I wish I could shout my insult, but phantom hands still seem to be thwarting my speech.
A pissed-off Leon reaches me. His gorgeous features contort with barely controlled rage as he pulls me away from Christian and tucks me under an arm. He pins me against a hip while he shoots off orders to his staff without a second glance at me.
Soon, Leon’s bouncers have Biff’s arms locked on his back. They keep him steady long enough for Leon’s icy glare to run over his face. I’m forced to move closer to him when Leon advances, still with me tight against him. Once we’re inches from Biff, I get to admire the bloody scratches and troll hair I’ve left him with.
Score.
“Loser,” I say, because now he can hear me.
“Okay, you’re banned from Smother—indefinitely,” Leon informs Biffy. “And if you as much as look at anything mine again, I’m going to have you gutted.”
Well, then.
Wait. “Mine?”
“Christian. Check if the cops have left yet. We’re pressing charges.”
Later, I’m in the back room, crying and sniveling like a six-year-old. The adrenaline has dissipated, and my body trembles with the aftereffects of the fight I took on with that hulk. A haggle of people flow in and out of the room at Leon’s wish. Destiny, Mica, and Shannon stay close, sweet Mica petting my hand. Then, Arriane brings me water to drink and crushed ice wrapped in a hand towel.
One of the bouncers returns with a first-aid kit too, because Leon insists on dressing the miniscule cut at the corner of my mouth. Part of my lip is swelling, though, which is where the ice comes in handy. My thick lip pisses him off. Leon is growling under his breath.
“I told you to stay put, Pandora.”
“Uh-huh, in the dark, all by my freaking self.”
Leon fixes on me while he rubs layers of smudged kohl off my face. “No matter. You need to trust me. For this to work, you have to listen to me.”
I feel the urge to be difficult, either because of his general bossiness or because of how little sense he’s making. What the heck is he referring to? I had no idea I was part of some operation that needs to run smoothly. I snort loudly at my own thoughts. I mean, would I even have it in me? I should resign before I’m hired for this, whatever it is.
> “And if I don’t?” I ask.
Leon hunkers down between my legs and leans his elbows on my thighs. “Then this happens,” he says, waving a hand wand-style over me as if my physical state is his doing.
Shannon’s brown stare catches mine over his head. She rounds her mouth into one clear command, her head moving insistently from side to side. “Don’t. Go. There.”
So I do the logical thing. I roll my eyes.
At both of them.
27. UPSTAIRS
LEON
Schoolgirls. Little innocent schoolgirls. I shove her up the stairs backwards, the short gasp she emits feeding my fury. My lust. The fuck was she thinking?
I shake my head slowly as she retreats into my apartment, staring back at me with a mixture of desire and fear blooming over her lovely, battered features.
I’ve had my eyes on her for a while now. She’s my type. Beautiful, sexy as hell, weak, and messed up. I know what they say about me, that I want them broken, but they’ve got it all wrong. It’s not how broken the girl is that attracts me. What makes me hard is when she doesn’t give a shit.
Like me.
I can run a mean business with my clubs, go through the motions of keeping up the charade of life. That’s all I have to do, though, because you survive easily with my kind of talent. But when I die, I hope whomever I leave behind cremates me and flushes me down the toilet.
“The fuck, Pandora,” I say out loud, scolding her for what occurred a couple of hours ago. Finally, I have a reason to discipline her. The way Pandora looks at me right now thrills me. Finally, she’s where I want her. She’s not too drunk to play, and with that college kid, Dominic, absent, I’m ready for fun.
“Seriously? You’re still angry?” she asks against my mouth. I hoist her up around my waist so I can squeeze her into me before I drop her on the couch.
She whimpers, surprised at the sudden fall.