Chapter 9
I check myself out in the rearview mirror in my car one more time and take a long, deep breath.
It’s been a while since I’ve done something like this.
Do I even remember how to? I pull on the black mask and sunglasses I keep in my car.
If someone were to take a picture of me walking into a place like this, I’d be a laughingstock—I have a reputation to uphold, and I don’t think I can afford that.
I walk up to the entrance and pull my mask down at the bouncer and away from the line.
Thankfully, he doesn’t react, only nodding and allowing me through the door.
I can hear groans and whispers from the people in line, but I ignore them.
As soon as I step through the threshold, booming dance music and flashing lights assault my senses.
I’m reminded why I avoid these types of places.
I keep my head down and head straight for the upstairs VIP area.
Another bouncer stops me. We repeat what happened at the entrance.
I find a near-empty sofa in the back and try to get comfortable.
Looking at me, you’d think it was my first time trying to pick someone up at a club.
If these guys could hear anything over the deafening music, they’d be able to hear my heart hammering against my chest. I wipe my sweaty hands over my jeans and take a look around.
No one immediately catches my interest, only dull faces in a crowd of dull faces.
A cocktail is placed in front of me and when I look up to see who placed it there, I find a not-as-dull face smiling down at me.
He’s got dark brown hair that’s neatly combed back, dark-colored eyes that I can’t quite make out the color of in this lighting, and a bright, wide, opaline smile.
He’s got a thinner build. He’s tall—maybe even as tall as me, yet totally different from Miles.
I immediately try to shake thoughts of Miles from my mind. That's why I'm here, after all.
The tension in my muscles relaxes a little and the man slides in closely next to me. We haven’t exchanged words, but I know this feeling, and I’m grateful that I didn’t have to work very hard to see results.
“First time?” He leans in closely, his breath on my ear as he speaks. The smell of cologne assaults my nostrils. His scent is much stronger than Miles’s, almost too strong. There I go again, thinking about him. I need to get a grip and focus.
“What makes you say that?” I turn on the charm and face him. We’re close. I can smell the alcohol on his breath and see the glossiness of his eyes.
“I haven’t seen you here before, and you seemed nervous when you walked in.”
I shake my head. “I’m not from here.”
“Are you sure you should be in here?”
His question takes me by surprise.
“I watch television, Mr. Ellis. What if someone catches you?” He’s got a devilishly sexy grin on his lips, and I can’t help but stare at them.
“Are you going to tell on me?” I wrap my arm around the back of the sofa behind him, and he slides in closer, his arms pressed against my body.
He shakes his head. “I’m Jordan, by the way.” He sticks his hand out, and I take it gently in mine.
“What are you drinking, Jordan?”
“Whatever you buy me.” He places a hand on my thigh and a chill runs through my body.
“Top or bottom, Mr. Ellis?” Jordan hands me a freshly dropped-off drink.
“What?”
“Seriously? Top or bottom? Pitcher or catcher? Give or take?” He laughs. It’s not nearly as sweet to hear him laugh and just makes me miss Miles more. But I catch on to what he’s saying.
“What about you?” I ricochet the question, too embarrassed to say.
“I’m a switch. But you seem like a top, am I right?” He runs his hands over my body, careful not to push too many buttons.
Something about this doesn’t feel right. Jordan’s hands are cold, and his touch feels like prickles on my skin. I feel uncomfortable and like what I’m doing is wrong—not because he’s another man, but because he isn’t the right one.
I try to drink the feeling away and keep my mind off him. Jordan keeps me occupied, talking enough for the both of us. As the drinks keep coming, my head starts spinning, my movements are sloppy, and my words slur together. My eyes flutter shut, and the blaring peals of the club become muffled.
“Are you ready to get out of here?” A familiar voice runs his tongue over the shell of my ear, sending a tingle down my spine.
I blink open my eyes and look toward the familiar voice.
Miles? Is that you?
My heart smiles. There he is. I lean in closer, pressing my lips to his.
He reciprocates readily, straddling me and leaning in.
But the sensation isn’t as warm as I remember, not nearly as satisfying.
I blink my eyes a few times, focusing my vision.
Wait. This isn’t Miles. I grab the man’s shoulders and push him away.
I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and stand up from beneath the man, leaving him in a confused heap on the couch.
“Hey, what the hell, man?”
“Sorry, I just—I have to go.” Panic and guilt course through my veins as I make a mad dash down the stairs.
I keep my head down, shoving through crowds and out the door back onto the New York City sidewalk.
Tears threaten my eyes, and my heart thunders against my ribs as I rush to get a cab.
I feel sick, like I’ll vomit right here on the street.
What have I done?