Zelda
Ilook hot tonight. Hot enough to feel alive. Hot enough to feel reckless.
The first “going out” clothes that came to hand were a black skirt that’s at least three inches too short to wear to the library and a halter top with lace detailing around the halter part.
Getting out of the car at the club—a taxi, not Carly’s Ford Taurus—the wind shifts directions and brushes against enough cleavage to get me fired.
I don’t hate it.
Carly wouldn’t tell me where we were going until we got here. I knew she was planning to get a little wild the moment the car service pulled up at the curb, but for once the warm excitement in my chest outweighed the darkness pooling in the pit of my stomach.
It outweighed it by a lot.
The entrance to the club is ringed with people, but Carly steps up to the bouncer, rising on tiptoes in her cherry red heels, and says something into his ear that I can’t hear.
Then she reaches for me. “We’re in, we’re in,” she says urgently into my ear, as if the bouncer might not pull aside the velvet rope.
But he does, and we go through.
The music is way too loud, but the beat and throb of it is electric.
It grabs for my hips. I want at least one drink before I dance, but it’s hard to resist. Carly splits off from me and pushes her way up to the bar, and I stand at the edge of the dance floor like a person waiting to jump into a pool.
The only thing keeping me out of the proverbial water is a standing table, one of the only ones free.
God, it’s loud. I can feel the music in my teeth. Maybe the library is turning me into an old woman. But the hell with going home. Not tonight.
I’m not that kind of woman tonight.
“I have drinks!” Carly’s voice cuts across the heavy beats of the music. Thank God. I have never needed a martini more.
She hands mine over. “Cheers!” I say, and we clink our glasses over the tiny standing table we’ve managed to snag somewhere toward the front of the dance floor.
Carly takes a big sip of her drink. “Mmmm.” I taste my own.
It’s not a martini. Whatever it is must be a risky drink, because it tastes fruity and wonderful and not at all like alcohol. Excitement zips down my spine, and I take another sip—maybe more of a gulp.
Heat builds in my chest, in my cheeks, and suddenly the music doesn’t seem overwhelming anymore, it seems exhilarating and fun.
“Where are they?” Carly’s drink is half gone, and her eyes are narrow as she scans the crowd.
“Where’s who?” I no longer care that I have to shout over the music.
“The guys. I’m looking for somebody sexy tonight.”
“You didn’t find anybody at the art show?”
“Not a single one!” She downs the rest of her drink. “It was practically all women.”
How much of my drink is gone? I don’t know. I don’t care. I want another one. “What, the guys weren’t brave enough for it?”
Carly waves a hand in the air. “No, and who cares? That’s in the past. I want a guy for tonight.”
“I’ll be your wing woman.” I’m feeling pretty fancy-free now that my first drink is gone, but I’m out of practice as a flirt, if I ever was in practice. I’m happy to hang back and scout out men for Carly.
“No way,” she says, tugging at my elbow. “There’s a whole crowd in here. Find somebody hot for you!”
“You first,” I insist. “But I want another drink. That was so good.”
“One more, and then we dance!”
Carly makes her way over to the bar and starts to talk up a guy at the outer edge of the crowd, and it’s not long before he steps aside and lets her go first.
She, unlike me, is a natural with men. But odds are ten to one she won’t leave with his number, and she won’t say why.
I turn my eyes back toward the crowd, watching the couples grind on the dance floor, most of the women wearing something that reflects back the pulsing lights. Maybe all black wasn’t the best choice for my outfit.
Another drink will cure me of thinking about it.
At the opposite end of the club, the hallway leading toward the front door goes dark, and the change catches my eye. The light has been blocked by two guys. The first one steps in, eyes immediately going to his right and starting to take a slow look around, but the second one—
When he comes around from where he’s been hidden behind his friend, I gasp out loud.
A hum starts rising up between my legs at the sight of him, and my nipples pebble hard against my bra. He hasn’t touched me—hasn’t even looked at me—and my knees feel weak, unsteady.
He is the hottest man I’ve ever seen. His jaw looks like it’s been carved out of stone, and the rest of his features are as chiseled as you could ever wish for. And his body—
Holy shit.
Even under the dark jacket he’s wearing, I can tell that he’s built. And not in an unbalanced way—he has hard, defined muscles, but something in him speaks of leanness, a coiled energy waiting to be unleashed.
The expression on his face is pure danger.
I don’t run.
Unlike his friend, who is tall and lanky and clearly here to pick up women, he doesn’t scan the club to see where the best prospects are. His jaw works—maybe his eyes are still adjusting—and then he throws one smoldering look straight across the crowd.
My heart goes wild.
Because he’s looking right at me.
And his eyes sear my soul.