Chapter 4
Demi
“Demetria Grace Mitchell,” my best friend hollers from the other side of the hotel room. She’s just mad I look so hot in this dress. I’m just squeezing it down over my ass when she continues, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
I kick my heel up and slip my bare foot into a bright red knock-off Jimmy Choo I bought from a very unsavory man downtown.
He assured me they were authentic, but even I’m not that naive.
These clearly say Kimmy Choo. I have no idea who Kimmy is, but I’m positive she doesn’t actually make designer shoes.
Once I’ve secured both feet in their new temporary home for the rest of the evening, I straighten and shoot her my best scowl and jab my index finger pointedly at her before not-so-calmly saying through gritted teeth, “Cecilia Jane Owens.”
Her self-assured–no… cocky–grin falls. “Jesus, you don’t have to be an asshole about it. I’m just worried about you.”
“Call me by my government name and you get the same in return,” I spit out. “You know I fucking hate it, CeCe. And you have nothing to worry about. I already told you that.”
I know she can’t help it. It’s in her nature to worry.
My best friend, ladies and gentleman. It’s not her fault.
Her brother has been ill since the day he was born and their parents have never coped well.
She’s had to step up to help and with all that they’ve been through, I’d be a worry wart too.
He’s sixteen now, so that personality trait isn’t going anywhere without a lot of therapy, and honestly I don’t know what I would do if it did.
She irritates the heck out of me on a regular basis, but I know it comes from a place of love.
“Demi,” she pleads. “You’ve only been single for a little over a month. I just don’t want you to do something stupid because you aren’t over your ex.”
“I can’t believe you just brought her up! We promised we weren’t going to talk about she-who-shall-not-be-named.”
She raises her hands in defeat. “Hey. You know I love you. But you were heartbroken when she ended things and you kind of haven’t been yourself since.”
She’s not wrong.
The love of my life ended our relationship out of nowhere and I’m pretty sure my heart actually split in two when she did it.
I guess maybe she wasn’t the love of my life after all.
Or maybe I just wasn’t hers. And then–very uncharacteristically–I packed up everything I owned, which was not much and moved to Chicago where I now reside with my best friend, in her guest room.
She did me a solid by letting me stay with her, but all my shit sits piled in the corner, taunting me.
I’m usually always doing something with my hands-sewing or some other random ass craft, but I can’t find it in me to do anything lately.
I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do with my life now.
I steel my face because the last thing I want to think about right now is my ex.
“You convinced me to help you cater this wedding and then somehow I got roped in by the groom to fix the bride's dress. Which is fine, because Wrinley is super sweet and I wanted to help her, but watching those two exchange vows and be so fucking in love, ironically made me realize I haven’t ever really lived my life.” Well…
except when I was with her. But, I don’t say that last part out loud.
“So I’m going out. To do what? I have no fucking clue.
What I do know… is that I need to do it. ”
“Let me come with you.”
“CeCe, you are my ride or die and I love you. But I never do anything by myself. I’ll be fine. I promise. Besides, I have my phone. I’ll call you if I need anything.”
Her eyes well up with tears and I almost change my mind, but before I do, she nods. “Okay, but where will you go?”
“Not sure yet, but since the plumbing doesn’t seem to be working correctly in this room, my first stop will be to pee in the lobby bathroom.
” I really shouldn’t have had anything to drink at the wedding.
I won’t be able to stop peeing now. I wrap my arms around my best friend and make sure to tell her, “Don’t wait up. ”
By the time I make it downstairs, my legs are practically crossed and I'm internally cursing my tiny ass bladder. Shoving the door open, I rush to the stall, slide my lace thong down and sit. Grabbing my cell from my purse, I search for local clubs that are close to the hotel until I find one that looks interesting. I almost wish I could go to Gravity again, but it looks like they’re closed and CeCe paid for me last time, so I wouldn’t have the funds to cover it anyway.
My eyes catch on Velvet Vortex. When I click on the link, it takes me to the entry page for the main site, but all the info I need is right there in neon purple. They’re open and it’s ladies night, meaning no cover charge. Sounds intriguing. And it’s less than a mile from here.
Bingo.
I toss my phone back in my purse, finish my business and step out toward the sink so I can wash my hands. Mid-rinse, the door swings open and in walks… some random shithead that’s clearly had too much to drink, seeing as he just walked into the women’s room.
I freeze, convinced he won’t see me if I’m still, but my eyes clock him in the mirror.
He’s a tall shithead. A fucking gorgeous one too, with his lean frame, adorned in nothing but a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants lingering low on his hips like it’s their sole purpose.
I can’t fully see his eyes from here, but they look light.
His dark blond, slightly wavy hair is tousled like he just woke up or just fucked some poor girl through a wall.
An unfamiliar tingle skitters down my spine. I bet those arms of his–stretching that boring t-shirt to the max–could do some real damage, in the best possible way.
Huh… This is… new.
I’ve been a lesbian as long as I can recall. Not once have I ever come across a member of the male species that made my mouth go a little dry at just the sight of him.
Surely, it’s because he’s simply a perfect specimen and not because I’m actually attracted to him.
“You done eye-fucking me yet?” the man asks smugly.
Shit.
Collect yourself, Demi. Be fucking cool.
Pushing off the sink, I shake my hands of the excess water, then dry them on my dress before standing tall and turning to face him. Wait… do I know him? Was he at the wedding?
“Are you alright?” he asks once more, breaking me from my very private inner monologue.
“First of all, I was not eye fucking you. You just caught me off-guard. Second, I must be doing better than you since I can clearly tell the difference between the men’s room and the women’s.”
He runs his large hand through his dark blonde, tousled locks and cocks a brow before looking around the room like he’s confused. “Are you sure about that?”
His eyes lock on mine as he tips his head just over his shoulder to the corner where…
Oh. My. Fucking. Goddess.
I don’t have to look in the mirror to confirm a blush is actively creeping up my neck and cheeks. I can feel it happening as my eyes pull from his and land on the two urinals off to the side and tucked in the corner.
He’s not in the wrong restroom.
I am.
Think fast, Demi.
“Oh, shit. That’s what I get for rushing,” I chuckle and give my shoulders a cursory shrug. Fucking really? “And I wasn’t eye-fucking you. You’re not my type.” My face gets hotter with every word that spills from my lips and I groan. I’m pretty sure I’m making things worse.
“You know you said that twice, right?”
“Said what?” I ask, confused, because I’m so flustered right now, I honestly don’t remember anything I’ve said.
“The part about not eye fucking me.” He grins.
“Well… Then I guess you could say I’m doubly not eye fucking you.” I groan internally. Ugh. I’m definitely making this weird.
The asshole actually laughs. Not a polite little chuckle. A full on belly laugh.
Just as his laugh is dissipating he speaks.
“Thanks for the laugh. I needed that.” When I don’t immediately move on, he closes the distance between us and encases me against the marble counter with both of his very muscular arms. His face is inches from mine and I can’t stop myself from gulping down whatever saliva has taken up residence in my mouth.
“Do you mind giving me a minute? I’m not a prude by any stretch of the imagination, so I’m happy to oblige if you’re into watching this sort of thing.
I’ve never been one to kink shame, but that adorable pink color creeping up your neck tells me this isn’t what you’re into. ”
Good grief. He’s so close. Leather and some kind of spice invades my brain and now I’m very curious how it’s possible for a single human to smell so fucking delicious.
I shake my head quickly, hoping it will straighten out whatever is happening in there, before I place a hand against his chest and push. I need him out of my personal bubble as soon as humanly possible. “Have fun with that,” I mutter as I slide past him and make my way to the door.
Have fun with that? Seriously? What is he supposed to have fun with, exactly? Holding his dick while he pees?
I’m out the door before I can embarrass myself any further. Except, I don’t make it very far. My back lands hard against the lobby wall in a feeble attempt at holding myself up.
My fingers find my nearest pulse. Yep. Racing. Shit.
Unfortunately, I don’t get much time to figure out what the hell is wrong with me, because the door pops open and again, he’s there… invading my space.
“Oh, baby. You didn’t have to wait for me,” he croons with the corner of his lip turned upward into a smirk. “You could’ve just waited for me naked in the room.” He follows his taunting with an exaggerated wag of his eyebrows and the roll of my eyes that follows is suddenly out of my control.
The man is at least a foot taller than me, so I’m forced to crane my neck to meet his gaze. “Do you always pick up women outside of the men’s room?” I add a touch of snark to my question. I can’t deny this exchange with him is kind of fun.
“Only the ones that sneak into the men’s room first and clearly have some weird men’s room kink,” he snarks back.
Oh, he’s good.
But, now I’m curious if he’s actually hitting on me. Do I want him to be hitting on me?
I bite my lip and mutter, “That was an accident.”
He answers by reaching a hand up and tucking some rogue hair behind my ear and whispering seductively, “Sure it was.”
Okay, I know we were playing this silly little game of…
oh, I don’t actually know what it would be called…
but that tone does not sound like he’s playing a game anymore.
He sounds… aroused. I’ve had guys tell me they were attracted to me before, but this…
is different. This man has my stomach dropping into my ass at the thought of him wanting me.
And whatever cologne he’s wearing is heady and has me wanting him back.
My eyes find his very blue ones and I can’t help but wonder if this is exactly what I need. Don’t they say the best way to get over your ex is to get under someone else? Okay, they probably don’t mean using a guy to get over your ex-girlfriend. Or maybe they do.
“Do you ever shut that pretty little brain off and just live in the moment?” he asks, pulling me from my very confusing thoughts.
“Not really.” It’s the best answer I have and it’s all he gets.
He just chuckles, then leans over and places his mouth against my ear. His breath is hot and a shudder runs through me as he whispers, “Come to room 510 if you want to get out of your head. No strings. Just fun.”
And then he’s gone.
And I’m left standing–needy and wet–outside a fucking men’s room.