When she opened them, every strobe light in the room found him at the same time. Slack jawed, she stared at the gorgeous face of the man whose car she’d beaten to smithereens. It was clear that this was real. He was there.
She needed to run. Erica glanced at the VIP section’s stairs. Big Rig, the VIP’s private bouncer for the night, blocked the entrance at the top of the stairs. The only way past him would be to either make a scene or hoist herself over the balcony and risk plummeting to her death on the dance floor below. She’d rather do the latter if she had to explain to Stick why she couldn’t serve his VIP.
Her stomach turned inside out and lodged in her throat. What should she do? Her thoughts raced, and she glanced behind the bar to her best friend’s vacant station. Marie would know exactly what to do. She could talk her way out of anything. Like that time they were caught street racing on the highway. While she was hyperventilating in the passenger seat, her friend was calm.
“There’s a three-step process to this,” Marie had reassured her as the cop’s red and blue lights whirled behind them. “First, act clueless. Next, deny everything. And when all else fails, come up with a plausible excuse to explain it away.”
If her friend could convince a police officer that they were merely driving fast to move out of the way of some crazy fool who was weaving in and out of traffic, then she could convince the VIP in front of her that she had nothing to do with the shiny new car she’d beaten into oblivion. Easy peasy.
She gulped.
“Hello Vandal,” he said. His deep voice had no trouble finding her ears over the harsh synth beat playing over the speakers. A smirk played against his full lips as he stared at her like a lion who’d sunk his claws into a gazelle. Erica gathered as much courage as she could.
Step One: Act clueless.
“Vandal? I’m sorry?” She laughed nervously and looked directly into his eyes and gave him a sweet smile. Her heart thudded hard inside her chest. “My name is Erica.”
His eyebrows set into a hard line. “Oh, I know what your name is, Vandal.”
“Vandal? Is that some kind of thing they say where you’re from?” She tried to keep a saccharine smile plastered on her face as she put the drink tray down on the table in front of her. Erica took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. “Can I get you a drink?”
“So, this is the kind of game you want to play?” he asked.
“Game?” A thick lump formed in Erica’s throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure the fingerprints on the bat that destroyed my car do.”
Erica’s hand faltered when she grabbed for a bottle of chilled vodka to set it on the bottom rack of the à la carte service table in front of him. The man let out a noise that sounded like triumph as he rested his thick forearms against his knees and leaned in closer to talk to her.
“So, we can drop the pretense, Erica,” he finished, his breath hot against her ear.
Erica’s heart raced. Frick, why didn’t some divine act save her? Was it too much to ask to have the roof cave in? A sinkhole to open up? Something?
Then, her best friend’s advice skyrocketed from her memory. Deny everything.
“I-I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, hoping the music dwarfed her voice.
When his eyes narrowed, it was clear he’d heard and wasn’t pleased.
Erica started to stand, but he was quicker. A large hand grasped her wrist and kept her pinned in place. A jolt—one that felt suspiciously like desire instead of fear—shot through her at the heat of his touch.
“I am not one to be trifled with.” His voice was as hard as he was intimidating. A nervous flutter of butterflies erupted in her gut.
Don’t let him get to you. Get yourself together, Erica.
When he leaned in, the scent of his cologne clouded her mind in a foggy haze. He smelled like the crisp morning air at the top of a mountain. It was intoxicating. He even smelled expensive. His cologne must have cost more than her whole life. Like his car.
“Do you want to try that again, vandal?”
Erica tried to search for something—anything—to say but, her head emptied of everything except cobwebs and pocket lint.
Biting the inside of her cheek, she glanced over her shoulder, trying to find her boss. Stick was invisible within the sea of partiers. She glanced at Big Rig again. With his back facing them, the oversized bouncer was focused on keeping unwanted guests out of the VIP area and oblivious to what was happening inside of it.
“I-I don’t want any trouble.”
“That’s funny. Neither did I, but my car was destroyed all the same.”
“It was an accident.”
“Which part?” he asked. “The part where you shattered my windows or the part where you cost me forty-seven thousand dollars in damage?”
The air left the room.
Forty-seven thousand? Her chin dropped to her chest. Karma hated the hell out of her. How did teaching Max a lesson turn into causing nearly fifty thousand dollars in damage to a stranger’s car?
“Um. Wow.”
“Yeah, wow,” he mocked. “And someone has to pay for that.”
Pay for it?
“I don’t have that kind of money.” After forking over her life savings to enroll in art school, there was barely enough in her account to cover her half of the rent for next month.
“Then, it looks like we’re at an impasse, vandal.”
“W-what do you mean?” Her legs wobbled when she stood up. He matched her movement in one fluid motion of his own, still holding on to her wrist like he was afraid she’d bolt away again if he let go. When he reached his full height, her jaw dropped a second time.
Whoa. He was tall. Next to her five-foot-six frame, he seemed like a giant. She licked her dry lips as she watched him with curiosity. Sure, he was intimidating as all heck. But there was something else. Something alluring.
The shadows of the VIP area bounced off his angular face. The light found him in all sorts of interesting ways. It shadowed his eyes and laced around his chiseled jaw and full lips. Everything about his face was virtually flawless. Heck, even his teeth seemed polished to perfection. It was as if God had hand-carved the man in front of her himself before delicately placing him on Earth with the rest of the poor mortals. It made her want to paint his likeness.
He moved into her personal space. At first, she thought he might crush her. Instead, he grabbed a glass from his à la carte station and poured himself a drink one-handed while holding on to her wrist with the other.
He wasn’t hurting her, she realized, staring at his hand in wonderment at how large it was. His fingers overlapped around her tiny wrist. His piercing gaze traveled down her arm, as if he were curious to see what caught her eye. He dropped her wrist like she’d burned him. A chill fanned across her skin at the loss of contact.
He cleared his throat. “Someone needs to pay for the damages. Whether it's monetary or penitentiary, it makes no difference to me.”
Immediately, Erica stopped thinking of the multitude of color swatches she’d need to capture the beauty that resonated in his eyes when the club’s multicolored strobe lights flickered in them and focused on his words.
“Penitentiary… As in jail?”
The man shrugged his broad shoulders and cocked his head to one side. She couldn’t go to jail. Not when she had a career defining showcase to prepare for.
“That’s extreme isn’t it?” she asked.
“You know, I spoke to an officer who gave me his card and, funnily enough, he asked that I call if anything else came up.” He plucked a business card from his wallet and let it dance between his fingers. “I’d planned to throw this away, but I’m glad I kept it.”
“I’m sure w-we can come to some sort of arrangement,” Erica pleaded, eyes darting over to Big Rig, who’d probably hold her until the police showed if the VIP demanded it. “I-I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’re go
ing to make it up to me?” He chuckled. At least he was no longer furious. “I thought you didn’t have that kind of money.”
“Money isn’t the only currency. I can pay another way.”
A smirk settled on his lips. “I have to hear this.”
From the look on the man’s face, Erica realized what she was insinuating. “Oh my God, not that!”
“Not what?” He asked, his smirk growing wider.
“I mean—” Erica cleared her throat before turning to the only possible way out of this. “I’m an artist.”
“How does that help me?”
“I do—” Erica’s voice caught. “Custom originals. Of anything.”
“It will take a lot more than a custom original to ease the hurt of that car.” He looked amused.
“Picassos sell for millions.”
“You’re comparing yourself to one of the masters?” he asked incredulously.
“I can rival him.”
“Cocky?”
“Confident.”
“Now, I have to see this. Show me.”
“I can’t now, my paint—”
“It was said that Picasso could sketch something exceptional in twenty minutes. Do it in ten, and I’ll consider your offer.”
“R-right now?” The heavy bass of the music pounded in her ears.
“Right now.” His brow lifted in challenge. He dug into his breast pocket, found a pen, and held it out to her. “Surely his rival wouldn’t take issue with it.”
Erica bit the side of her cheek and studied him. The man in front of her made her want to please him—to prove to him that she could rise to any challenge he set. By the time the strobe lights dashed into their corner again, she took the pen from his hand and moved over to sit in the booth. He followed.
“What do you want me to draw?”
“Anything that delights you. Whatever you’re strongest at. I’ll play fair.”
That wasn’t playing fair. It was harder to work to a blank canvas with infinite possibilities. She shrugged and thought of what she could draw in ten minutes that wouldn’t look like a fourth grader drew it. Once she settled on an idea, she rolled up his sleeve.
“What are you doing?” he asked, but made no move to stop her.
“I need a canvas,” she studied the smooth skin of his forearm, then his hand. Thankfully, not a hair was in sight. “This will do.”
“I’m glad I’m to your liking,” he mused.
“Remember, you asked for this.” Her grip tightened on his hand as she examined it before glancing back at him. “So, if I draw something, and you like it, you’ll book me for a commission. The commission sets us clear.”
“If I’m impressed.” He nodded in agreement, an encouraging smile gracing his lips. Even smiling, the man was devastating. Why was she always attracted to his type? The domineering, strong-willed, always-knew-their-power-and-went-after-it types. Like Max.
Max. Her heart deflated.
“Everything alright?” The VIP asked, his dark brows collapsed together in concern. Probably because she was taking too long staring at his hand.
“O-of course,” she said quickly and pushed the thoughts of Max and why he still hadn’t called her out of her mind. Instead, she focused on the ridges of his hand and examined the bone structure. When her fingers grazed over his knuckles, he cleared his throat and shifted.
“What do you have in mind?” He took a long swig of his drink before settling back into the booth.
“I can’t give away all my secrets.” She smiled, hoping it exuded more confidence than she felt. His large hand would provide plenty of space to draw, but skin was tricky. It didn’t always behave. She prayed for the muscle memory of her high school days when she’d draw patterns all over her arms at school.
“Good. I like surprises.” He settled back into the booth. “Ready?”
“I’ll set a timer.” Erica’s hand flitted around her phone.
“I’ll keep time also,” he said with a quirked brow. “I don’t want you to cheat.”
She tossed him a playful wink. “I don’t need to.”
“I like your confidence.” His deep voice, rich with approval, reverberated just over the music.
As he fiddled with his own phone, Erica set several alarms to buzz in her pocket to keep her on track. The last thing she needed was to run out of time.
Erica switched sides, sliding into the booth next to him, and guided his hand to lay flat on the thick meat of his thigh.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Always,” he purred.
Erica pulled the man’s warm hand into her lap and ran the black ink pen over his smooth skin to test the ink fluidity. The ink glided over his skin easily and stayed exactly where she put it. She smiled inwardly. Thank goodness for small miracles. Using large strokes, she got to work.
The club faded away as she held the man’s strong hand in her lap and drew on the back of it. After a few minutes, her creation took shape. The line work was effortless, but the heat of his gaze on her every movement was intense. A flush crept into her cheeks as he watched her work.
The first buzz went off on her phone. She was halfway through. Her nerves ignited. Having only ten minutes to extinguish a fifty-thousand-dollar debt was the hardest thing she’d ever done.
“A raven,” he mused softly next to her ear. A shiver of relief cascaded down her spine when his deep voice vibrated beside her. At least he could make out the blob on the back of his hand as she shaded in what would have to pass for feathers.
Her phone buzzed again. Two minutes left.
Her nerves spiked, and adrenaline soaked her hands. With her hands shaking, Erica forced the pen to dash across his smooth skin, hoping her vision would come to life.
In no time, her phone buzzed again.
One minute.
Her breath caught in her throat as she gripped his forearm in a white-knuckled grip and willed her hand faster. She wasn’t nearly finished with her rendition of a raven.
“That’s time,” he said too soon, just as the final buzz went off in her pocket.
“Five more seconds.”
“I see what you’re trying to do.” He made no move to stop her as the pen slid over his hand.
Finally, Erica ripped herself away from him. Sighing deeply, she looked at the slashes of black ink across his hand. This raven wouldn’t even rival something a kindergartener could produce, let alone one of the great masters of art. What was she even thinking, talking herself up like that?
She looked up at the VIP in trepidation. She’d never failed so badly at something before. A sick feeling, rough like gravel in her gut, made her sink back into the booth.
Absently, she rubbed the back of her neck and fought tears. Waiting for him to show any hint of his feelings felt like an eternity.
She tugged at the hem of her shirt and bit the inside of her cheek, watching his jawline flex. When he made no other movement other than to look at the splotch of ink on the back of his hand, her heart bounced in her ribcage and threatened to tear a hole in her throat.
Nerves thrust her back out of the booth and over to the balcony. But she didn’t look down at the pit. No. She was completely focused on the VIP. He was unreadable. Did he like it? Was he going to call the police?
There was no way to know if she didn’t ask. Swallowing a thick lump, Erica steeled her courage and stepped toward the VIP.
“So,” she said, fishing for his attention. “Do we have a deal?”
4
ERICA
AS SOON AS THE QUESTION was out of her mouth, they entered into a staring contest. His striking green eyes didn’t leave hers. Maybe he hadn’t heard her.
“So,” she began, but was cut off by footsteps bounding up the metal stairs. When she caught sight of her boss’s spiky coal black hair, Erica unsteadily moved a step away from the VIP and made herself busy straightening the bottles at his drink station. Her boss would kill her if he saw her fraternizing. A gesture, she could sur
ely use right now.
“Mr. Craul,” Stick greeted the VIP.
“Please, call me Julius.” He turned to her employer with a smile.
“Julius.” Stick moved between them and motioned toward the pit. “Come, let me show you the wares of the club. We have several music areas, six bars, two performance stages…”
Show him the club? That meant she’d have to wait to hear his answer. Intently, she watched Julius’s body language, determined to soak up even a single clue as to which way he swayed. When he tugged at the crisp hem of his pristine white shirt like he was trying to force the cuff over his hand to hide her drawing, his verdict was clear. He hated it. Frick. She was going to jail.
She needed to get out of there.
“Erica, reset your station,” Stick ordered as they headed for the stairs. Julius never once glanced back.
Stick was a godsend, she decided. His relentless need for perfection would provide her with the perfect opportunity to escape. While he was giving Julius the grand tour of Savu, she would sneak out of the club unnoticed. After that, she’d quit the place cold turkey. Walk away and never come back.
Stick’s spiky hair bobbled through the club with the VIP in tow. Thank goodness for small miracles.
Erica beelined straight to the coat check and didn’t pass go.
“You headed out early tonight?” Barbie asked when Erica handed her a pink ticket.
“Yeah, not feeling well,” Erica replied, glancing over her shoulder. Julius and her boss were lost in the sea of partiers. Hopefully, it would remain that way.
“Too much booze.” The coat attendant nodded in understanding as she looked her over. “It happens to us all eventually.”
Did she look drunk? Erica palmed her hair for a moment, wondering at her appearance, but quickly decided it didn’t matter now.
“So, what did you in? My first time was Jose Cuervo. I haven’t touched the stuff since. Need me to call you a cab?” She leaned against the counter and readied herself to chat. Why did Stick require them to check their coats at the door instead of throwing them in the back like she did at every other bar she worked? Most nights, it was a perk. Tonight, when she was in a rush, Barbie’s chattiness was a hindrance.
Love Bitten (Vampire Blood Royals Book 1) Page 3