1. Eden #2
He leans over to whisper to me, all business. “Remember to smile. If anyone asks, you’re my top analyst. You went to Yale. You’re very discreet.” Oh, great. If Hender-slime thinks I’m going to lie for him, he has another thing coming.
I paste on my most neutral face because I guess that’s what top Yale analysts do. It’s either that or let my eyes roll right out of my head. “Of course,” I tell him, but really, I’m thinking there isn’t enough tequila in the world to get me through tonight.
We pass another bouncer in front of double doors covered in black leather. The guy checks Henderson’s name on a fucking tablet, then gives us a nod.
I walk next to my boss and try to make myself invisible. I’d rather drink bleach than have anyone in this place mistake me for a “club girl,” but apparently, my boobs and this ridiculously tight black dress have other plans.
Music pounds so hard I can feel my fillings vibrating. Henderson marches straight to the bar. When the fucker pats my ass, I know for a fact that it’s anything but “accidental.”
I resist the urge to elbow him in the spleen. “So, what’s the plan?” I hiss, just to keep up the appearance of giving a single shit about my job.
“Sit here. Order something expensive-looking. Don’t talk unless someone talks to you first,” he says, scanning the room. I don’t argue when he hands me his expense credit card.
Before I can respond, my asshole boss turns and heads off, moving through the crowd like he owns the place.
Typical. I have no idea where he’s going, and honestly, I don’t give a shit.
I just want to get through the night without being propositioned, roofied, or murdered and dumped in a desert.
And screw Hender-slime’s offer of a half-day off. I’m taking the whole fucking day off.
I slide onto the nearest barstool, trying to cross my arms over my chest, but the stupid dress just shoves my boobs up higher. Of course, the bartender clocks me immediately. He’s got tattoos crawling up his neck and a stare like he’s seen it all and hated most of it.
“What’ll it be?”
I scan the menu, trying not to look at the shots called things like ‘Cherry Bomb’ or ‘Broken Jaw.’ Best to go with something expensive and hard to pronounce. “Uh… the Ardbeg Twenty-Five. Neat.”
His eyebrows jump, either surprised at my taste or at the fact I can pronounce it. He pours it, slides it to me, and then goes back to pretending I don’t exist, which is a relief.
I nurse the drink. Holy shit, that’s strong. Burns all the way down, but at least it burns out the nerves gnawing at my stomach. I keep my back straight and my eyes on the mirror behind the bar, watching the circus with as much detachment as I can muster.
This club is crazy. Bikers with arms like tree trunks, women in barely-there dresses doing tequila shots, and somewhere out there, my boss is probably getting into something way over his head and capabilities.
Fuck. If there’s anywhere on earth more out-of-my-league than this place, I haven’t heard of it.
I’m just picturing Mr. Hender-slime getting himself killed or blackmailed by a guy with a neck tattoo when I realize I’ve officially been abandoned.
Unbelievable. I’m left alone to marinate in the sleaze while my “boss” goes off to hump someone’s leg for a networking opportunity.
Cool, Eden. Totally fine. I drain half the glass in one go.
Oh, damn. That’s enough fire to burn through my internal organs, but at least my boobs aren’t bugging me quite as much.
There’s a woman next to me, all legs and cleavage, doing tequila shots with a dude who looks like he only blinks when he’s killing people.
I avert my eyes and try not to stare, but the mirror behind the bar makes it impossible.
Great. Now I’m people watching at the MC version of Studio 54 and trying to look invisible.
No one bothers me at first. My guess is, the dress says “target,” but the resting bitch face and hunched posture say “not worth the effort.” I can live with that.
It gets old real fast, pretending I’m part of the scenery, but anything’s better than getting pawed by Henderson or groped by the steroid brigade in this expensive hellhole.
I check my phone for the time, realize my “boss” has been MIA for nearly twenty minutes, and finally accept the truth that he’s not coming back.
That absolute dickhead. Why bring me here if you plan on abandoning me?
Oh well, trying to figure out why Hender-slime does shit isn’t worth my time.
I refuse to sit here and die of boredom or humiliation. I’ll just use my boss’s black credit card to pay for a ride home. He might even splurge on an Uber Black ride for me.
First, bathroom. Because God forbid, I’ve been sipping expensive whiskey and there’s no telling how long it’ll take for my ride to show up.
I slip Henderson’s card into my purse and hop off the barstool.
After straightening my skirt, I weave through the crowd to the black door with a holographic woman on it.
Honestly, it’s like running an obstacle course.
A wall of muscle blocks my path at one point, but I duck around them and make it in.
The bathroom reeks of expensive perfume and desperation. I do my business and head for the sinks. That’s when a chick in a sequined mini-dress barrels into me, nearly knocking me off my feet.
“Sorry, babe!” she cackles, fake lashes askew, nearly face-planting on the tile.
“Yeah, no problem,” I mutter, already counting down to freedom.
She stumbles out, and I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror, giggling with her friends by the exit. I reach for my purse. Gone.
Motherf— Are you fucking kidding me?
I rush out the bathroom door and run right into a brick wall with the most intense brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I physically bounce off him. Like, straight up rebound, nearly falling on my ass, except he catches my arm in a grip that’s all brute strength and zero effort.
It’s not just the eyes. I mean, yeah, they’re dark brown and so intense they nearly burn right through me, but there’s more.
He has to be at least a foot taller than me.
Maybe more, actually. This dude’s built like a brick shithouse.
He’s wearing black jeans and a black tee stretched across a chest that’s thick enough to bounce quarters off of.
His arms are covered in intricate tattoos.
His dark hair is cut short. He’s got a goatee thing, and I’ve never been a fan of men with facial hair, but I’m starting to change my opinion as I stare up at this guy.
My breath legit gets stuck in my chest. He doesn’t let go of my arm. Just stares at me, sizing me up, turning my insides to goo.
His scent is sharp, leather and something spicy, definitely not cologne, just clean man. This close, he’s freaking intimidating, and his stare is flat-out predatory. There’s danger all over this guy, radiating from every muscle.
I’m in so much trouble.