Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
West Fifty-Seven, a swanky Midtown bar and dance club, had a line wrapped halfway down the block, even this early in the evening. New Year’s Eve brought out everyone who wanted music, alcohol, and zero responsibility.
We hadn’t made it ten steps out of the Uber before the bouncer held up a hand and shouted at the crowd.
“Main floor’s at capacity.”
Sofia didn’t slow down and walked right up to him. She leaned in, said his name as if she’d known him forever, and kissed him on the cheek.
“We’re here for the private event upstairs.”
Recognition flickered across his face, and he broke into a grin. “You’re late.”
“I know,” she said. “Don’t punish me.”
He laughed, unlatched the rope, and waved us through as if the line behind us didn’t exist.
Margaretta whooped. “That never gets old.”
Inside, the music hit first—the kind of bass that vibrated in your chest. The place was packed but not sloppy yet. Good-looking people were everywhere. Jackets were tossed over chairs and girls already danced barefoot on the floor.
Sofia quickly flagged a bartender.
“Hi, Brandon. Three lemon drop shots,” she ordered, handing him her phone to scan. “And keep my tab open, please.”
He smirked and nodded, moving fast. When he slid the shots back across the bar, Sofia didn’t even look at them. She picked one up and handed it to me.
“Happy birthday,” she said.
I blinked, stunned for a second.
“You remembered,” I stuttered.
“Of course I did,” she shrugged, as if it were obvious. “You think I’d forget?”
Margaretta grinned. “A New Year’s Eve birthday is kind of iconic.”
“Not exactly,” I said, lifting the glass. “It’s actually January first. I was born a couple minutes after midnight.”
Margaretta laughed. “Even better. You came into the world with a bang. You even get fireworks every year.”
Sofia raised her shot. “To the birthday girl!”
“Here’s to bad decisions,” Margaretta giggled, already good and buzzed from our pre-gaming.
I smiled and clinked my glass against theirs before knocking it back. Sweet. Tart. Gone.
Another round appeared almost immediately, this one delivered by a group of guys who had clearly decided we were their New Year’s Eve project.
“Happy almost New Year,” one of them said. “On us.”
We took them from the tallest guy, grinning from ear to ear. Sofia clinked her glass against mine. “What hospitality!”
I laughed and drank.
The entire bar was filled with people having a great time and shouting over the music. A guy with blonde hair and dark blue eyes caught my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor, sliding me easily against him as the beat dropped.
I didn’t resist. I leaned in.
His hands settled at my waist—confident, warm, clearly interested—but he didn’t crowd me or push for more. We moved together, hips matching the rhythm, his mouth close to my ear as he laughed at something I couldn’t hear. It felt good to be held—wanted, but not owned.
I’d missed this. The casual closeness. The way someone could want to be with me without expecting anything in return. No performance. No obligation. Just a dance.
When the song ended, I smiled, slipped out of his arms, and disappeared back into the crowd before he could ask my name.
I liked being wanted.
And I also liked choosing when to stay and when to leave.
One guy danced with me for two songs—his hands polite, eyes appreciative. When he leaned in for a kiss, I smiled, pressed my palm to his chest, and stepped back.
“Bathroom,” I mouthed.
He nodded in understanding, and I disappeared into the crowd again.
Another drink landed in my hand. Another face. Another smile.
I played nice. Always polite. Flirting just enough to keep it fun, never enough to promise anything. That was my line for the night, and I stayed right on it.
Tonight, sex wasn’t the point.
Movement was. Attention and starting my life on my own terms.
They were all attractive and decent men. The kind who knew how to buy drinks, dance, and keep their hands where they were supposed to be.
But for some reason, none of them made my stomach flip the way the man from the church had.
I hated that he kept showing up in my head.
The memory slid in when I wasn’t looking: his hands on my hips, the heat of his body when he pinned me in place. The smell of him—clean, masculine, something earthy underneath.
Terrifying.
And yes—seductive.
I didn’t belong anywhere near a man that powerful. He probably snapped his fingers and had tall blondes lining up, women who knew exactly what they were getting into and wanted it.
I shook it off and finished my latest free drink.
Sofia found me near the bar, her hair wild, eyes lit up.
“You’re killing it,” she said. “I forgot how fun you are.”
“Thank you again, Sofia,” I said, giving her a side hug. “It feels good to be home and out from under my father.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s such a conman.”
Margaretta found us, and we danced together, the three of us in a loose circle, laughing and bumping into each other and singing along badly.
There was another round of shots.
I was loose and light, with enough of a buzz to stop editing myself.
Sofia clapped her hands decisively. “Okay. That’s enough, we’ve got to go.”
Margaretta groaned. “Why?”
“Because I have a surprise.”
I groaned with her. “Oh, but I like it here. It’s getting close to midnight, and I was hoping for a kiss to kick the year off with.”
“Don’t you worry, and don’t forget I’m always right,” Sofia said. “Coats. Now. We’ve got to go.”
Outside, the cold hit hard, sobering me just enough to notice my heart was still racing—not from fear, but from excitement. A cab pulled up before we even reached the curb.
Inside, Sofia leaned back, grinning as if she’d been waiting all night for this moment.
“We’re going to The Black Ledger.”
I blinked, having no idea what—or where—that was.
Margaretta’s eyes flew open, and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “You didn’t!”
“Oh yes, I did!” Sofia squealed, practically vibrating. “It’s going to be the best time of your life. I go all the time.”
Margaretta nodded. “When you mentioned it last week, I thought you were joking. But yeah—I’m in.”
“What is this place?” I asked, already suspecting I didn’t want to know.
“A sex club,” Sofia said, as if it were an invitation to the Met Gala.
“It’s consent-forward,” she continued. “No pressure. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You can dance, watch, make out, whatever feels good.”
She squeezed my hand. “I wouldn’t take you somewhere sketchy.”
I believed her.
That wasn’t the problem.
Madrid hadn’t been about choice. Everything there had come with strings attached, expectations disguised as rules. I knew this was different, and Sofia wasn’t pushing.
I didn’t really want to say yes, but I wanted her to see me as someone who belonged in her world—not a charity case. I wanted to show her that I trusted her the way she’d trusted me. That I was grateful.
So I smiled and said, “Okay, I’m game.”
Her grin widened. “You’re going to love it.”
The cab turned, headlights sweeping across wet pavement, and something settled low in my chest—not fear, exactly—worry. So much for starting my life on my own terms.
I told myself I was choosing this. I could draw a line in the sand and decide whether to step over it.
And for now, that was enough.