Forty-Eight #2
This is it. My last night out as Aria Boschett. In three weeks, I’ll be a MacBrady. The thought presses in, but then Tasha’s arms come around me, and it brings me back to the moment, bright and reckless. The girls’ energy wraps around me, warm and intoxicating.
I laugh, for tonight, I’ll just be me. “Time to teach Gracie and Saaha how to Dutty Wine!” I shout.
“Alright, ladies... watch and learn!” Tasha claps her hands and steps into the center of our little circle. “You drop low, roll the hips–like this.” Her movements are fluid, effortless, hips circling as her shoulders and neck follow. Saaha tries to copy her and fails. Spectacularly.
“Girl, that’s not Dutty Wine. That’s a damn hula hoop!” I laugh, nearly spilling my drink as Gracie, tipsy and determined, gives it a go. She moves too fast, loses her balance, and stumbles straight into me. We collapse into giggles.
“Okay, okay,” Gracie wheezes. “I officially respect Caribbean girls and their waist control.”
We drink some more, we dance, and we laugh. For the first time in a long while, I feel completely free. “I need the bathroom!” I yell over the music.
“Wait! Me too,” Gracie grabs my hand as we weave toward the VIP restroom.
Inside, an attendant greets us before we duck into separate stalls.
When I step out, Gracie’s stall is still occupied.
Guess she really had to go. I wash my hands at the sink, barely registering the two women at the vanity reapplying their makeup, until their voices drift closer.
“I see his plaything is still hanging around,” one of them sneers, her voice dripping with disdain.
Through my intoxicated haze, I snap my gaze up to the mirror. Did I hear that right? “Excuse me?” My heart rate kicks up a notch at seeing her.
Elana lounges against the counter, one hip cocked, a wicked curl to her lips. Her pink mini dress clings to her long body as she flicks her hair over her shoulder. Her eyes gleaming with pure malice.
“You heard me, homewrecker.” For a beat, I just stare. Did she really—
“Guess she’s too chickenshit to answer you, Elana,” her friend snickers.
Another Barbie clone. Ding. My brain finally comes back online.
It’s a fucking ambush. I exhale slowly, gripping the counter.
Not tonight, Satan. I’m too tipsy for this shit.
I focus on drying my hands, pretending they don’t exist.
Elana lets out a frigid laugh. “Look at her, too scared to even answer.”
Fuck it. Fuck the high road.
“I don’t have time for your petty fuckery,” I snap, feeling heat crawling up my spine. “Cyan made his choice, Elana. It wasn’t you. Have some pride and move on.”
Her sneer sharpens. “Honey, you’re nothing but a temporary distraction. You’ll see.” She crosses her arms. “Cyan always comes back to me.”
The urge to slam her face into the counter hits hard, but I don’t. “If I’m just a distraction,” I lift my left hand, the diamond catching the light, “why are we getting married?”
Her smug mask cracks. Just for a second. She gasps, then scoffs.
The stall door swings open. “What’s going on here?” Gracie asks as she walks up and washes her hands. Eyes sharp as they land on Bimbo One and Bimbo Two.
I toss my paper towel away. “Nothing, Gracie, just Cyan’s sloppy leftovers.”
Elana’s friend bristles. “You’re trash… one of many. Cyan always comes back to Elana. You can’t handle him.”
“That’s a fucking lie, and you know it,” Gracie snaps.
Elana’s smile turns razor thin. “What do you know, Gracie? You’ve been hiding in New York. You’re not part of this world anymore. Hell, you couldn’t even keep your own man.”
Gracie stiffens. Her hand twitches.
I step in front of her. “Fuck off, Elana. You and your bleach-blond bimbo–birds of the same skanky feather.”
Elana cackles. “Bitch… you’re kidding yourself, bride. He’ll be back with me when he gets bored with you. I give him what he wants.” Elana’s hands slide down her body seductive and something cold lodges in my chest.
“You really think Cyan is the kind of man who sticks to one woman?” she smirks. “One has never been enough. He always keeps two. Sometimes at the same time.” She leans closer. “I should know. I’ve been one of them for years…and trust me, even now… you’re not the only one in his bed.”
“That’s utter trash,” Gracie fires back.
Elana sighs. “I almost feel sorry for you, because he’s still fucking me.”
She has to be lying. But what if she isn’t? The doubt sinks in–slow, poisonous. “Keep dreaming,” I snap, gripping Gracie’s arm.
Elana’s lips curl. “Cyan doesn’t do monogamy, sweetheart. He plays house. Then he gets bored.” Her gaze rakes over me. “Powerful men lower themselves to filth once in a while.”
I step closer, fury humming under my skin. “And you’re a skanky bitch and all you’ll ever be is Cyan’s dirty little secret.” Her face twists. Good.
“Let’s go,” I tell Gracie. “She’s not worth air.” The bathroom attendant looks away as we pass, a silent witness.
But the doubt doesn’t leave. By the time we find Tasha and Saaha, I’m vibrating with it. Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck her.
I grab a shot and down it before anyone can speak. Gracie mirrors me. Tasha watches, concern crinkling at her eyes, but the music’s too loud for questions. Good. I don’t want them. I drag us onto the dance floor, out of VIP, into the crush of bodies.
The alcohol hums, and my body moves on instinct.
Earlier, we turned every man away. Now, I don’t want to.
I spot him, tall, and bearded. Not Cyan; maybe that’s the point.
I hold his gaze, smiling. As if called, he comes to me.
His hands settle at my waist. I let them, and I close my eyes, imagining Cyan’s grip instead.
His breath at my ear. Then Elana’s smug smile cuts through the fantasy.
The image of Cyan with her shreds through me.
How dare he claim me if she’s right? The man spins me, pulls me closer, his mouth brushing my ear.
“You were born to dance,” he murmurs, his hot breath brushing my ear. I barely hear him; all I see is Cyan and Elana. Naked, tangled in sweaty sheets and I don’t know which one I want to destroy more.
***
Cyan
“It’s as if Lorenzo vanished into the ether,” Sebastian grumbles, tipping back his whiskey.
Thomas crushes his cigarette into the ashtray. “Sicily. Argentina. Who the fuck knows.”
Troy exhales. “Or he’s dead.”
“We’re not that lucky,” Thomas mutters. “What do you think, C?” I don’t answer. I see her.
From the manager’s office above, the club is a pulsing organism of sweat, bass, bodies. In the center of it–my Dove. White blazer, gold corset, a vision, and she’s grinding on another man.
In a slow, rolling grind, her perfect ass presses against his hips. Like she’s trying to carve a message into my skin.
It’s Jacob—a fucking low-level street punk.
Unworthy of breathing the same air as her.
He is unworthy of touching what belongs to me.
The room around me fades. Voices blur. All I hear is the rush of blood in my ears.
My hand tightens around my glass until the ice clicks.
Dove? Did you forget who you belong to? Or are you trying to make me remind you?
“C?” Troy’s voice finally reaches me.
I set the drink down. “I feel a primal urge,” I say evenly, “to beat that Jacob fucker into a bloody pulp.”
The lads rise immediately, following, already sensing the storm brewing. My jaw clenches, I exhale my focus all for her. “Aria should know better,” I add, turning to walk to the door.
Aria is mine, and tonight she’s going to remember exactly what that means.