- thirty - alex
Her eyes—fuck, they're the kind that messes with you. Sometimes they're all brown, like the earth after rain, then they'll hit you with these gold flecks that look like they're lit from the inside.
I hate how they shift with her mood, always so damn unpredictable.
One second, they're soft, like they could pull you in if you let them, then the next they're like daggers, sharp and cold. I swear she knows exactly what she's doing with them.
There's this depth to them, this hidden fire, and it makes me wanna tear down every goddamn wall she's built. And the way they look at me, like she's seeing through every bit of my bullshit... it fucking kills me.
But God, when they soften, even just a little, it's like the whole world's got a little bit of light again.
I could talk about her eyes for hours but that is not the fucking point. What I am trying to say, however, is that- I'd recognize those eyesanywhere.
Dana Archer.
Dana Archer—who I just kissed three hours ago—is perched like sin reincarnated in some random fuck's lap, like she's never heard my name before.
Dana Archer is going to be the end of me.
She's wearing a ridiculous platinum blonde wig like that's gonna hide her, like I wouldn't know her even if she came back from the dead wearing a disguise and a new goddamn face.
Please.
And that dress? That dress isn't a dress. It's a suggestion. A threat. A fucking trap. Black and glittery, cut up to her thighs and down her spine, hugging every part of her like it was painted on by the devil himself.
One wrong move and I'll see more of her than I've ever been allowed to, and that thought alone is making it impossible to breathe.
She's laughing at something he says, fake and airy, and her fingers are curled lightly around the back of his neck like she does that shit every weekend.
My vision goes red.
I want to break that neck.
I want to see blood.
No joke, no exaggeration—I want to walk over there and peel her off him like a sticker, grip that bastard by the collar, and pop his arms out the sockets one by one.
Just rip, like a fucking Ken doll.
Toss them to the ground and let him deal with how it feels to touch something that doesn't fucking belong to him.
My jaw clenches so tight I hear something click.
I try to ignore the heat in my chest and keep my eyes locked on her.
I know what she's here for, but it doesn't stop the frustration from crawling up my spine. She's so fucking stubborn.
And I—well, I'm just as stubborn.
I don't want her to know what I'm hiding. I don't want to lose her. But I can't lie anymore. She's getting too close.
I finally lose it. The bastard's hand slides up her thigh, slow and possessive. And she lets him. She fucking lets him. My heart slams into my chest. My hands ball into fists.
She let him.
I feel something foreign in my chest, an ache I can't quite name. A chill runs down my spine and I no longer feel pissed off, I only feel numb.
She let him.
I finish the deal in under a minute. Fast. Clean. Hands off.
The moment I step out of that room, it's like flipping a switch.
Gone is the rage, the chaos in my chest. In its place, this sharp, cutting calm settles over me like a second skin. I shove the door behind me and let it click shut without a glance back, sealing her in with that bastard like I didn't just want to commit homicide two minutes ago.
If she wants to play pretend, then fine.
Let's fucking play.
The VIP lounge is dimly lit, all seductive shadows and gold accents. Everything smells like expensive perfume, liquor, and sex. Velvet couches curl around low, black-glass tables, backlit by neon strips that pulse gently with the bassline from the main floor.
Bottles glitter under the soft lighting—champagne, tequila, whatever your poison. The air hums with bodies and temptation, heat and intent.
I sink into a plush corner couch, elbows draped along the back, and grab the nearest bottle without even checking the label. It burns on the way down, which is exactly the point.
The music shifts. Bass deeper. Slower.
I don't look at the entrance. I don't need to.
She's here.
I feel her before I see her—like a current, like pressure in my lungs. Her steps are light but hesitant. Not Dana's usual walk. Not confident.
Not her.
I take another sip, swirl the alcohol lazily, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
If she wants to be unrecognizable? Fine. I'll fucking play along for her.
I'll act like I don't know her.
Like she's just another girl in a stupid wig and a barely there dress trying to find her next high.
I see her pause at the edge of the lounge from the corner of my eye. Her posture stiffens. Like she wasn't expecting this.
Yeah. Good. Feel it.
I tilt my head back against the cushion and smile at something the guy next to me says, even though I didn't hear a damn word. She doesn't move. For a second, I wonder if she'll leave.
Then—of course—she doesn't.
A dancer slinks over to me, glittering heels clicking against the marble floor, hips swaying like music lives in her bones. She leans down, hands on my shoulders, all sultry eyes and breathy whispers. Her thigh brushes mine.
I am about to stop her before she can lower herself into my lap—
"Touch him and I'll cut your hands off."
Dana's sweet, honey-like voice. Low. Deadly.
The dancer freezes. Blinks. Laughs nervously like it's a joke, but one look at Dana's face and she's gone. Vanished.
My eyes flick lazily to her, and the glare I give her could freeze lava.
"What the hell are you doing?" she hisses, standing in front of me now, out of place and flushed and fuming.
I lean back, lift my glass, sip slow. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"Stop treating me like I'm—like I'm some stranger—"
I raise a brow. "You are a stranger. Blonde hair. Dress up to your ribs. Lapdog. Who even are you tonight?"
She flinches. Just a little. Enough.
"I came to find out what you're hiding," she snaps. "You wouldn't tell me. You kept shutting me out."
I put the glass down, my tone cold enough to frost over. "Then find it out. Why are you talking to me?"
Her jaw tightens. Her fists ball up like she's seconds away from throwing something. Good. Let her feel it too.
"I'm not gonna apologize for doing what you wouldn't let me do—see you."
"And what did you see?" I ask, my voice low and lethal. "Did it make you feel better? Getting cozy with some asshole only for cover?"
Her chest rises and falls too fast.
"Alex, don't twist this—"
"I'm not twisting anything, Dana." I rise slowly, towering over her, the air between us sharp and tight. "You want to dig? Dig. But don't act surprised when you don't like what you find. And, don't act like my reaction is worse than you crawling into his lap and playing pretend."
We're a breath apart. Her eyes—those fucking eyes—blazing with something between fury and hurt.
God help me, I still want to kiss her.
"What about you, Alex? You didn't even stop her," Dana spits, arms crossed, chest heaving like she ran here on fury alone. "She was about to sit in your lap."
I give a slow, humorless laugh—low and mean. "Like you didn't stop that piece of shit with his hand halfway up your thigh?"
Her mouth opens. Closes. No defense.
"Yeah," I breathe. "Exactly."
"I didn't want to be recognized!" she snaps, voice cracking with the weight behind it. "That was the whole point—so I could see it for myself!"
"Oh, you saw it alright," I bite out, stepping into her space again, eyes locked to hers. "You saw exactly what I didn't want you to. You just didn't expect it to fucking hurt."
"You lied to me," she throws back. "For months! You think I wanted this? You think it didn't kill me seeing you like that? Seeing you—this version of you?"
"This version of me?" My laugh is wild this time, humorless and hollow.
"Dana, this is the only version of me there is.
The one you sketched? The one who goes to you to coffee shops and lets you steal my hoodies and shares a bed like it doesn't mean anything?
That's the act. This—" I gesture around the club, to the bottle in my hand, to the room soaked in sin—"this is me. Welcome to the goddamn show."
She flinches again, like I'd slapped her, and I fucking hate myself for a moment.
But I remember her in the fucker's lap and suddenly I don't.
"You think you're so slick, huh?" I go on, voice dropping lower. "Waltzing in here in that fucking dress, acting like you're just part of the scenery? You think I didn't see you the second you walked in? You think that wig and that makeup could hide you from me?"
I stalk toward her and she steps back on instinct—right into the wall behind her.
Good.
"Your laugh is fake when you're nervous. You curl your fingers when you're pretending not to be scared. And those eyes?" I lean in, almost nose to nose. "I'd know those fucking eyes in the dark. I will always find you."
She's breathing fast now, chest rising and falling like she's about to either scream or cry or explode.
"Why do you care?" she whispers. "If this is who you are—why does it matter what I think?"
"Because it's you," I hiss, grabbing the wall behind her instead of her because I don't trust myself. "Because it's always you. Because I'd burn this whole goddamn building down if it meant getting you out safe. And that should fucking terrify you."
A beat.
Two.
Three.
Then she says, "It does."
Something snaps in me. The last thread of self-control evaporates.
"You wanna know what I'm hiding?" I say, tone suddenly quiet. Dangerous. "You wanna know what you walked into? Fine."
I grab her hand—firm, not rough—and drag her past the lounge, through the back hallway, toward the locked door she's never been behind. She doesn't pull away, she doesn't speak. Just follows wordlessly.
I open the door. The room beyond is dark, sterile, all glass shelves and metal cases. Pills. Powders. Bags sealed and labeled. My whole damn secret, laid out like a confession.
Her breath catches.
I let go of her wrist and step back.
"There. You happy now?"
Her eyes flick to mine. Wide. Stunned. Hurt. And something else.
"Why are you showing me this?" she whispers, her voice shaky.
"Because I'm done lying," I say, dead serious now. "Because you already saw me lose my mind the second someone else touched you, and I'm not about to let you leave thinking this means I don't feel it."
She takes a shaky step toward me. I don't move.
"I don't want this," she says, shaking her head.
"I never wanted you to see it."
Another step. "I don't want this version of you."
"Too late."
She's standing right in front of me now. Eyes huge. Voice trembling. Face pale.
"But I don't want to leave you either, Alex."
And just like that—my hands are on her waist, her back hits the edge of the table, and we're kissing like we've both been drowning for weeks and finally found air.
But this kiss? It's not soft. It's not sweet.
It's desperate. It's possessive. It's angry and raw and real.
It's two people who should've walked away but didn't.
And now?
Now they'll burn together.