13. NICO
13
NICO
I ’m at my desk, trying to get through the contract I abandoned earlier, but I can’t shake the memory of Kate, all dressed up, lips plump, eyes dark. I’ve never seen her look like that, like she’s out to—
My stomach squeezes, folding in on itself.
Fuck .
Kate Lansen is dressed up like she wants to get laid, and I’m powerless to do anything about it. I don’t know where she’s going, or who she’s meeting.
Fuck it .
What she does with her Friday night has nothing to do with me. I grit my teeth and force my eyes to the paper in front of me.
I read the same page over and over. The minutes trickle by. Nine forty-five. Ten. Ten thirty.
I can’t concentrate.
My phone rings, Seb’s name flashing up on the screen.
“Nico, where the fuck are you?” He yells when I answer. There’s a lot of noise in the background, and he says something that sounds a lot like, “ Double Scotch, on the rocks, ” before his voice comes back loud and clear. “It’s Amy’s after-party. Amy Moritz. She’s asking for you. What the fuck are you doing that’s more important than celebrating with her and christening Martini Gems?”
I groan, dropping my forehead into my open palm, elbow propped on the desk. I’ve been so distracted I completely forgot that tonight was the opening night at the new club in the basement of the Mayfair Hawkston.
“Erica Lefroy’s here too,” Seb continues. “Wants to know where you are. Get down here pronto. It’s fucking rude not to show up and everyone wants to see you.”
I let out a long sigh. The last thing I want to do is engage in small talk with the over-inflated egos of conceited celebrities. Not Amy or Erica… but the rest I could leave.
“I’ll be there in twenty,” I tell him before hanging up and dialing my driver.
There’s a queue outside. Plenty of paps too, waiting to get a picture of Amy Moritz and anyone else who’s in the club tonight. I stroll right to the front of the line, ignoring the irritated glances of the people waiting and the constant clicking and flashing of the cameras.
“Mr. Hawkston,” says the doorman, nodding at me and waving me through.
The beat of music thumps through the soles of my shoes as I descend to the basement, and I’m greeted by a blast of hot air that already smells like overheated, sweaty humans. Fuck’s sake.
I reach the bottom step and turn into the club itself. The music, louder now, assaults my ears. The place is lit like an optic migraine. A plethora of bodies writhe and grapple one another on the dance floor under the flashing overhead lights.
I’m the only person wearing a suit. I’d stand out like a sore thumb if anyone was sober enough to notice.
Velvet booths line the walls, where groups of people cluster around tables covered with champagne flutes and cocktail glasses. Everyone looks to be having a great time.
“Do you want to check your coat, sir?”
I turn to the cloakroom attendant. “No. I’ll keep it on.”
I’ll do my duty. Give Amy my congratulations. Make sure Seb knows I’ve shown my face, and then I’ll head home.
I jostle my way through the bar area when I catch sight of Seb. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans. How long ago did he check out of the office? He’s standing at a booth, leaning over the table, chatting animatedly with the people sitting down. I keep my eyes on him as I head in his direction and he must feel it, because he excuses himself and comes towards me, slinging his arm around my shoulders, tugging me close and yelling in my ear.
“You made it. Take your fucking coat off. You look like you’re about to leave.”
“I am.”
He shakes his head and leads me over to the table. Several women sit around it, including Erica and Amy. There’s also a male TV star I vaguely recognise, as well as one of Amy’s backing dancers. Judging by the way Amy’s draped over the dancer, they’re either sleeping together or about to.
Amy, who’s wearing a dress covered in more rhinestones than Elvis Presley’s jockstrap, drags her long-lashed eyes away from him long enough to notice me. She jumps up from her seat in the middle of the booth, realises she’s penned in on both sides, and climbs right over the table. Glasses and drinks go flying, and everyone tries to dodge the debris. Amy hops off the table, brushes down her dress, and throws her arms around my neck.
“You were going to miss this, you little prick,” she shouts over the music. “Sit and have a drink.”
I hesitate.
“Fucking sit down,” Seb hisses in my ear.
“Do sit,” Erica adds, extending a long, graceful arm across the table towards me. She looks more sober than the rest, exuding that supermodel elegance she’s renowned for.
They all start shuffling round the table to make space for me when a flash of sparkling green catches my eye. I turn to get a closer look.
There’s a woman pressed against the wall beyond the bar. She’s clearly inebriated because she can hardly stand up. A guy is grinding himself against her like he’s trying to have sex with his clothes on. His jeans are so loose they’re hanging halfway to his knees. In contrast to her apparent inebriation, his movements are sharp, deliberate, and obviously sober.
His fingers dimple the woman’s skin where he grips her bum, which is half-exposed in a pair of tiny silk shorts.
Shorts I saw only a few hours ago. Shorts I fucking touched .
It’s Kate.
A knot forms in my chest, immediately sending spirals of heat through me. I want to rush over there and slam him against the wall until his skull shatters, but I hold back, clenched fists deep in the pockets of my overcoat. I need to know if she’s into this.
Seb turns to see what I’m staring at. “That’s the star of that new movie franchise. Michael Bond. James Bond. Whatever the fuck it is.”
“Michael Drayton,” Erica fills in. “That’s his name.”
I’m hardly listening, staring as Kate flicks her hair off her face, and Seb squints across the room. “Shit,” he says. “Is that—”
“Yes,” I reply.
A swathe of dancing B-list celebrities obscures my view, but when they clear the actor is gripping Kate’s wrists, forcing them over her head with one hand. She’s writhing against the wall. His other hand grabs her jaw, pinning it in place. He tilts his head, his mouth coming down fast towards hers. She twists in what looks to be an attempt to escape him. But is it? I can’t be sure.
His hand slides down the column of her neck.
Fuck. Heat blazes through me, ravaging my insides, destroying every intention to hold back. I don’t fucking care if she’s into this or not. It’s not happening.
I march towards them, Seb at my elbow. He grabs my arm, tugs me round to look at him.
“Nico,” he hisses, “Don’t make a scene. It’s opening night, and he’s an A-lister.”
I cast him a dismissive glare and shrug him off. “I don’t care if he’s the King of fucking England.”
Seb retreats, eyes wide and hands raised in surrender, and I continue my march across the dance floor. People swerve out of the way, yelling and cursing at me, but I ignore them. My focus is on Kate, and Kate alone.
Michael grabs her with both hands and yanks her into him. She’s turning her face away so he can’t meet her lips, but he pursues her mouth, undeterred, adjusting her body to meet his needs.
Another step and I have the guy by the collar, wrenching him towards me. “Get your hands off her.”
Up close, he’s unusually good looking, his sweat-slick blonde hair falling over his forehead.
Kate gawks at me, a look of horror on her face.
“What the fuck, dude? We’re busy.” Michael’s voice is hard and sober, as expected. I’m itching to punch his handsome face, but there are people watching and I can hear Seb’s warning ringing in the back of my head. Don’t make a scene.
“I said take your hands off her. She’s drunk.”
As if to prove my point, Kate flops forward from where she’s leaning against the wall, and Michael roughly props her back up with one hand.
“Dude, fuck off,” he spits at me over his shoulder. “I’m about to get laid here.”
Before I can think twice, I’m pulling back a tight fist and swinging a perfect right hook that catches him in the jaw.
Kate squeals, her hands covering her mouth as Michael bends double, clutching his face, blood gushing from his nose, or his mouth or I don’t fucking know where from.
“What the fuck?” Michael groans, spitting blood through his fingers as he cups a hand over the lower half of his face. “I’ll sue you. This face is worth millions.”
“Go ahead,” I mutter. “I’m good for it.”
I signal to the security guards who are lingering discreetly at the sides of the room. They move at my command and whatever objection Michael is about to make dies on his tongue as he holds his hands up.
“Get the fuck out,” I demand, and then turn my focus to the head of security who’s now beside me. “Take him out the back. Clean him up. Call a doctor if he needs to see one.”
The men escort Michael away, him slumped between them, all bravado vanished, and I grip Kate by the elbow. She’s so unsteady on her feet, she’d be on her arse in seconds if I let go.
“You hit him,” Kate slurs. At least I think that’s what she says. She’s drunker than I thought. “He didn’t do anything to you.”
“Didn’t he?”
She frowns like she can’t make sense of what I’m saying, then wriggles in my grip. “Let me go.”
I shake my head and, keeping a firm hand on her elbow, I escort her off the dance floor, pushing through the people who paused their dancing to stare at the ruckus. Seb tries to get my attention, but I wave him off; I don’t have fucking time for whatever reprimand he’s going to give me. If there’s a PR issue because of what I’ve done, we have people to sort that shit out.
Kate stumbles, and suddenly she’s grabbing me to stay upright, tripping over her own feet, which are bare.
I fix my hands on her elbows, securing her in place so we’re facing each other.
Even drunk, her hair damp with sweat, she’s indisputably gorgeous. Her hands grip my forearms through my coat, and I wish I wasn’t wearing it.
She’s looking at me intently… at least as intently as a drunk person can. “Why did you do that? Why did you hit him?”
She’s struggling to focus. I don’t have time to answer because she lunges towards me as if she means to kiss me.
For a split second, I’m stunned, and her lips are dangerously close to mine when I put my hand out to hold her off.
She lurches into my palm, and I prop her up by the shoulder, pushing her back.
She blinks like it might help her understand what’s happening, but she can’t fully open her eyes when she’s done. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” she whines. “I thought you wanted to.”
This is new . “You’re too drunk to be kissing anyone.”
She topples toward me again. “We don’t need to tell Jack.”
With one hand I hold her up, but her body is so close to mine, and she’s soft and yielding and extremely tempting, but I won’t take her this way. “I’m not going to kiss you.”
She pulls back, trying to give me what appears to be a haughty look, but is just her wrinkling her nose. “I won’t even remember it tomorrow. It’ll be like it never happened—”
I press a finger to her lips, and her eyes widen. The drunken swaying of her body ceases. “Exactly. Trust me, when I kiss you, you’re going to want to remember it.”
“Wait.” Her lips brush my skin as she murmurs against the side of my index finger. “Does that mean you do want to kiss me?”
A few tense beats pass. “It’s all I think about.”
Her breath stutters, uneven gusts of warmth hitting my finger. She holds eye contact like she’s daring me to do something about it.
The heat in Kate’s drunken stare is undeniable. When she realises I’m not going to make a move, her tongue slides to the edge of her mouth, peeking between her lips. I can’t take my eyes off it as she runs the tip along my skin.
Warm wetness coats my finger, turning my blood thick, each beat of my pulse like a slow-motion hammer blow. She might as well have licked my dick because every fibre of my body pulses with need.
Shit. This can’t happen. Not now, not here.
I fist the hand she’s just licked and something like fear flashes in her eyes as my skin leaves her lips.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
She breathes a sigh of relief and then pushes away from me with drunken determination. I follow behind.
“I can’t leave my shoes,” she declares, wobbling about like a newborn foal as she moves from booth to booth, peering between people’s feet and bumping into everything and anything. “They’re my faves. My Erica Lefroy’s. All sparkly and silver.”
“Forget the damn shoes,” I growl, hoisting her up into my arms before she can protest. “I’ll buy you as many fucking pairs of shoes as you want.”
She squeals and attempts to hit me, a limp fist striking my chest. “Put me down. I can still walk.”
“Barely. And this floor is probably covered with alcohol and broken glass. I’m not letting you walk around in here without shoes on.”
Her body relaxes and as she stares up at me, there’s a look in her eye I haven’t seen before, as if my actions have challenged some long-held belief.
“But I smell like tequila,” she whispers into my shoulder.
“That’s true,” I mutter, although I don’t think she hears me. I don’t care either, because she’s vulnerable, and seeing Kate like this tugs awkwardly at my lungs and my breathing falters. I shrug away the feeling and hold her tighter against my chest.
I carry her through the bar and up the stairs, into the main area of the hotel.
“What’s your address?” I ask, but she makes no reply. “Kate?”
She gives a drowsy little snore against my chest.
Fuck it. She’s fallen asleep.
“Kate?”
No response. I repeat her name, a little louder this time, but it makes no difference. She continues breathing rhythmically against my chest.
I briefly debate shaking her awake to get her address out of her, but she needs the sleep. I walk over to the reception desk and the woman behind it looks up at me, recognition flaring in her eyes.
“Mr. Hawkston,” she says. “Do you need a room?”
“I do. The Penthouse.”