Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
JOSIE
T he music is so loud the beer soaked, sticky floor shakes under my boots, but everyone here is too drunk, or too high to notice how high the tempo is. I am the only one who can feel the ringing in my ears.
The problem is I am tipsy enough that I keep stumbling into people, and sober enough to know the smile I keep giving Marissa is fake. Everything I do right now is so fake, it is fucking hilarious. I am dancing and pulling on this black leather body con dress with cutouts on the side down to stop showing my ass. I am giggling and winking at guys who tip their glasses to me with suggestive smirks. Sometimes if the lights hit their faces right, or if their eyes look even a tad bit blue, I smile back and let them think they could take me home.
Right now, Marissa is currently gyrating her hips on a guy who looks like he stepped out of a leather-clad boy band music video. With his Prada t-shirt, ear gauges, dirty blonde hair, and laid-back demeanor, he practically screams "douche". But I can’t cockblock her because that is her type, and who am I to judge when my type is cheating asshole, hockey players with anger issues.
I lean against the bar, my eyes scanning the club as I hold a cranberry vodka in my hand that is mostly cranberry and water by now, but from the look of the guy across the dance floor I should be getting a refill shortly.
I flip my loose curls over my shoulder and look away from the guy before turning back to look at him through my eyelashes. Jeez, what am I doing? Who even is this guy? He smirks, pointing a finger to his chest, and I nod my head slightly, calling him over.
He smirks, looking off to the side and wiping the corner of his mouth. He looks kind of cute, I mean as cute as a dark club can make someone look attractive, but my stomach drops when he pushes off the wall and starts to make his way through the crowd to me.
I cock my head to the side to get a better look at him, and I don't know if he is actually hot, or if I am fooling myself into thinking he is because he looks the exact opposite to Christopher. I don't think Christopher would ever have black hair with dyed pink ends. He would never have a septum piercing. He would never wear skinny jeans, or vans, or an Imagine Dragons t-shirt. Christopher would never chuckle at me with a gleam in his eye when a guy drunkenly bumps into him. I would never have to pretend to laugh, or act like his boyish grin makes my stomach flip.
My skin prickles as the guy slides up next to me at the bar, radiating that effortless confidence only men with too much money and zero accountability seem to have. He’s tall, not as tall as Christopher but tall enough, and his pink hair looks almost peach up close. His grin is lazy, as he leans against the bar with his back to the crowd, and I stare forward ignoring him like I am supposed to.
He leans in, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of tequila on his breath, mixed with something citrusy—lime, maybe. I feel like I am going to gag, because I want to smell smoke, cedar, leather. I want to hate Christopher for smelling so good. I already want to walk away from this guy because what guy smells like lime? Like why?
His arm rests on the bar beside me, his breath slides over my skin making me want to scrub the sensation off of me.
“You look bored,” he says, his voice low and smooth, like we’re already in on the same secret.
I arch a brow, tilting my head toward him just as a snort rumbles across my chest. “Then entertain me."
"Damn I think that's the hottest thing I have ever heard someone say to me."
"Then you need to talk to more people." I mutter, taking a sip of my cranberry vodka. Yup it’s just water and cranberries now. I cock an eyebrow at him.
"Be honest with me." He nudges my arm playfully, grinning like a kid who just got away with something. "You’re just standing here hoping someone brings you a free drink so you don’t have to talk to anyone, right?"
I let out a sarcastic laugh. "Wow, bold of you to assume I can't buy my own drink."
He shrugs, not the least bit fazed. "Nah, it’s not bold." He winks, clearly joking. "I’m practically a pro at spotting fellow anti-socials in crowded places, especially pretty ones who are low on liquor. "
I roll my eyes, and shift my body away a bit. Nothing about this guy screams anti-social, in fact he seems like the most outgoing guy here. Christopher never lies to me, especially small little white lies that don’t really matter and are easy to decipher. I almost feel like this guy thinks I am stupid.
I look at him from the corner of my eye as I speak. "And what makes you think I want to talk to you?"
He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like I just shot him. "Ouch. You wound me, mysterious leather-dress lady."
I roll my eyes.“Leather-dress lady?”
He leans in, grinning like a kid with a secret. “I don’t know your name… but I bet it’s something cool. Like… Storm. Or Blade. " He narrows his eyes in mock seriousness. "Wait— please tell me it’s Blade."
His playfulness is supposed to make me want to smirk, or disarm me but instead I think about the weighted purr of Christopher's lips when he says my name.
"It's just Josie, " I flash him a tight smile.
He snaps his fingers like he just lost a game show. "Damn. So close, but you know you look like a Josie."
Fuck, he says my name all wrong.
I blink at him, and purse my lips before spreading a fake amused grin on my face. “Yeah? What gave it away?"
He shrugs, drumming his fingers on the bar. “You’ve got that vibe. A little wild, a little dangerous. All the way sexy, and like you’re trying to behave but you’ll bite if provoked.”
I snort, shaking my head. “That’s one way to describe it.”
"No, it is the perfect way to describe it." Then he offers his hand, as if introducing himself at a PTA meeting. "I’m Milo, by the way. Not as cool as Blade, or Josie but I think it suits me."
"Alright, Milo," I say, shaking his hand like we’re closing a business deal. "What’s your big plan to keep me entertained?"
He grins again—big, boyish, and just all the way wrong for me, which means right now it is probably right. "Easy, and my answer to almost anything, but let’s start with a pornstar martini.”
I snort, shaking my head. “A what?"
He gestures to the bartender with a snap of his fingers, throwing a wink at me over his shoulder, and I know I am supposed to blush but I can't force myself to do that, so I flip my body and lean against the bar, so that my back is to the dance floor.
"Two Pornstar martinis! Please and thank you."
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the tiny laugh that slips out. The tiny, yet very real laugh that slips out. "Classy, huh? You ordered a drink with 'pornstar' in the name."
He presses a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "Hey now, it’s cultured if there’s a prosecco shot on the side. Trust me, I’ve got taste."
The bartender slides the drinks—a pale golden cocktail with a passionfruit half floating lazily on top, next to a shot glass of Prosecco in front of us, and Milo picks one up, holding it out ceremoniously. “Now, here’s the deal,” he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “There are three ways to drink this. You gotta choose carefully, though—it says a lot about you. ”
I arch a brow, playing along despite myself. "Oh really? And what are my options, O Wise Mixologist?"
Milo taps the shot glass of Prosecco with his finger, his gaze flickering—just briefly—to my lips. "Option one: You start with the shot—clean, fast, no second-guessing. That means you’re bold. You don’t hesitate. A total thrill-seeker. The kind of person who jumps headfirst into anything, no regrets.”
I hum thoughtfully, drumming my fingers on the bar, playing it cool. But the flicker of warmth in his gaze sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest, and loosens the tightness in the pit of my stomach.
“And option two?" I ask, arching a brow.
He gestures toward the martini glass. “You sip the martini first—nice and slow. That tells me you’ve got patience. You like to draw things out, savor every second.” His voice drops a bit, softer now. “ I can tell you crave some tension. You want to be pushed to your limits, teased until you just can’t take it anymore. You don't want things hot and fast, you want them slow and intense... just like this martini.”
I clear my throat and turn to not lock eyes with him as the image of Christopher's slow, long licks along my clit just a week ago flashes across my mind.
He chuckles. “I personally love to savor the taste.”
“And the third option?” I press, trying to sound bored, though I’m anything but.
Milo taps both glasses with a playful smirk. “Ah, the wildcard move—you bounce between the martini and prosecco, back and forth. It says you like surprises. You’re unpredictable. A little chaotic—” He leans in even closer, and I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “ Dangerous... in the best way.”
"No one just dumps the shot in?" I snort.
He jumps back, placing a hand against his chest as if he is offended. "No, you psycho."
Christopher would never say that to me, but I giggle the way I have practiced: four short ha-has.
I glance between the drink and him, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. "And what’s the right way to do it?"
He tilts his head, that cocky smirk never wavering. "Depends on the kind of night you’re planning to have."
I let out a laugh, though it feels more out of habit than genuine humor. I reach for the prosecco shot first, shooting it back in one smooth motion. It bubbles down my throat, sharp and fizzy, cutting through the haze of cheap vodka lingering on my tongue.
He watches me, impressed. "Straight to business, huh? I like that."
I shake my head, setting the empty shot glass down and reaching for the martini. "Not in the mood to drag things out."
I take a sip, the sweetness hitting my taste buds instantly—tangy, smooth, with just enough of a kick to make me feel like I’m drinking something more than overpriced juice.
He clinks his own glass against mine. “Well, Josie, here’s to getting exactly what you want tonight.”
I raise my glass, smirking. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
Marissa catches my eye from across the room, raising a brow as if to ask, who's your new friend? I offer her a small shrug in response—nothing serious, nothing new. Just something to make me forget the way Christopher’s lips felt against my heated skin.
I lean back against the bar, feeling lighter than I have in ages, even as the club pulses with music around us. Milo watches me, an eager anticipation dancing in his eyes, and for a moment, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually be attracted to him. I want to remember what it felt like to not know that I am slowly becoming addicted to Christopher Jackson. I want to know life before I knew how great it felt for his hands to be on my skin, and for my heart to flutter in my chest at a foolish guy in a bar.
“Okay, Mr. Mixologist,” I say, tapping the rim of my empty shot glass. “That drink was great, but I know something that tastes even better."
Milo finishes his drink, and shifts over to look at me. His dark brown eyes shine as he looks at me. "What?"
"Me." I grab the collar of his shirt and pull his terrible lime scent into my nose as I press my lips to his.
Milo's eyes widen in surprise for just a moment before he melts into the kiss, his lips warm and soft against mine. I feel the rush of excitement coursing through me as he responds, tilting his head to deepen the connection. His hands find their way to my waist, pulling me closer as if he’s trying to merge our bodies into one.
I lean into him, the heat radiating between us. I keep telling myself this is exactly what I need right now—someone who doesn’t come with the weight of expectations, who doesn’t make me feel vulnerable, who if he leaves after probably not making me cum I won't care. It won't hurt. I can stop feeling like I am burning alive.
Milo pulls back slightly, his breath coming in quick bursts as he searches my eyes. “So, if you think you taste better than a pornstar martini, what do I have to do to find out?”
"Come with me."
Without waiting for his response, I take his hand and lead him through the thrumming crowd, the rhythm of the music becoming a distant echo as we break free into the cool night air. The shift from the heat of the club to the crisp breeze sends a shiver down my spine, but it’s refreshing, invigorating. The bass fades into a soft thump behind us as we step into the alley beside the club.
The dim light casts playful shadows on the brick walls, and I turn to face him, my pulse racing with adrenaline, fear, and the need to forget— even if my body is screaming for no one else to ever touch me. Jeez, if I feel like this after just a fingering, I would be deranged if we went all the way.
Milo pushes me against the rough brick wall, his lips grazing the curve of my neck, inhaling my scent like it’s the air he’s been craving. A wave of panic washes over me, and I instinctively push against the wall, creating a little space between us. But he leans in closer, pressing his body into mine, and my skin fucking itches.
I bite my lip, my mind racing as his warmth envelops me, but I can’t shake the discomfort brewing in my gut. The way he touches me feels too unfamiliar, too intense. “Milo, wait...just stop.” I say, my voice shaky.
He chuckles softly, his breath warm against my skin, the sound teasing. “What’s wrong, Josie? I bet you taste like honey, baby. Or are you just a tease? ”
A jolt of panic shoots through me. “No, seriously, get off!” I push harder against the wall, my heart pounding in my chest. It doesn't feel right, and I don't know what's worse not being able to want anyone but Christopher, or the fact that I need to burn my skin now to get this guy's touch off of me.
He smirks, his eyes glinting with something darker. “Shut up, Josie. Just enjoy it.” With that, he covers my mouth with his hand, his grip firm enough to make my chest twist, as I struggle to breathe.
I squirm, trying to break free, but he holds me in place, his other hand sliding up the side of my thigh as he pushes his leg in-between mine. I whine against his hand, my breath coming in quick bursts as my panic escalates. Shit. Fuck. My breaths come out in hot bursts, and his fingers leave a trial of dirt across my skin.
"You are so fucking fine, baby." Milo chuckles. "I am going to-"
In a flash, a strong hand grips Milo’s shoulder, yanking him away from me.
I stumble forward as Milo is ripped off of me, the weight of his body gone. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I turn to see who my rescuer is.
I look up to see the toned back of Christopher standing there, muscles tensed as he grips Milo’s neck. Milo's feet dangle above the ground, and for a moment, I’m struck by the sheer power radiating off Christopher. He’s like a predator, ready to protect what’s his, and my heart does a backflip, because maybe he considers me his.
"Chris-"
“I will deal with you in a second,” he snarls, his voice low and dangerous, sending an electrifying thrill through me.
"Wait!"
“Listen to me very carefully, princess." Christopher looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes darkened with rage. "You are going to close your eyes and turn around because I don’t want you to see me kill a man.”