“And don’t worry,” Colette adds. “We’re not jailbait.” That much isn’t a lie; we’re both eighteen, after all.
The bouncer looks incredulous, but I can see the male appreciation in his eyes. I’m willing to bet even the most professional hired help can be swayed by a couple of curvy young girls, and this guy is no different. “All right,” he grunts at last, stepping aside and waving us through. “Behave yourselves.”
Oh, we will, I think, nodding my thanks as we slip past. We’ll behave ourselves. Not. By now, my nervousness is abating, replaced by excitement at the scene in front of me. The place is exactly what you would expect for a club on the outskirts of town. There are neon signs featuring naked female bodies on the walls and enormous bottles of cheap booze perched on the makeshift bar top. The dance floor is packed with writhing figures, all of them dressed scantily and grinding up against drunk, horny strangers. Perfect.
“Where to first?” I ask Colette.
“We came here to dance, didn’t we?” she replies, grinning from ear to ear.
“Damn right, we did,” I say, and can’t help but smile in return. Alcohol wasn’t what we wanted when we decided to go out. You can get that at any high school house party without having to pay a cover. No, what we want is excitement, the kind that you can’t get with a bunch of juvenile, beer-guzzling jocks. Besides, it’s probably best if we don’t break our promise to the muscle-bound bouncer. I don’t want to end up in jail.
We make our way out toward the dance floor, eyeing the debauchery all around us. Everywhere I turn, people are pressed up against the walls and in doorways, making out and groping each other like today is their last day on Earth. To be honest, there’s something strangely sexy about it, and my stomach fills with butterflies as I watch it going down. I can feel a few sets of male eyes on me as I follow Colette out onto the floor, and can’t resist shaking my ass for extra emphasis. It’s nice to be admired by handsome strangers.
Colette scopes out the situation, her eyes narrowing. Most people already have partners, but it doesn’t take long for a tall blond man to sidle up and lean forward. “Wanna dance?” he shouts in her ear.
“Hell yeah!” Colette squeals back, allowing the man to sweep her away into the crowd. “Text me if you need me!” she yells over her shoulder, and the next thing I know, she’s gone.
Left to my own devices, I wander around the perimeter of the dance floor, eyes peeled for someone interesting. It seems like everyone is paired up by now, and I’m dreading the prospect of being the only one left alone, standing on the outskirts like the wallflower at a school dance. I’m on the verge of giving up and wandering to the bar, my promise to the bouncer be damned, when my eyes land on someone leaning against a wall in the back.
I think it’s the way he’s dressed that catches my attention. The stranger’s in a sharp, dark suit, his black hair perfectly tousled. A lock falls in front of his light blue eyes as he surveys the scene, giving off a forbidding, dangerous aura. He’s not like the other, sloppily-dressed guys here, and he looks perfectly sober, to be honest: the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. As I’m staring, his eyes drift over to me, locking with mine as he straightens up a little.
I freeze on the spot. This man is older than me. Like, way older. At least thirty-five, by the looks of it, and probably closer to forty. I know he’s out of my league, but I can’t take my eyes off of his broad form, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m drifting over to where he stands. There’s nothing wrong with taking a chance, right?
“I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who can’t find a partner,” I smile invitingly when we’re within hearing distance.
“What makes you think I’m looking for a partner?” he asks, raising one black brow. His words aren’t exactly friendly, but there’s something teasing to his voice that puts me at ease.
I shrug. “I mean, what else would you be here for? Unless you came for the booze. Or the ambience?”
The man chuckles at that, and the sound shoots down deep into my pelvis. “Touché,” he says, uncrossing his arms. “Although I could ask you the same thing,” he adds. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here?”
“A pretty thing like me?” I ask archly, putting a hand on my hip.
The man merely smirks. “You know,” he says, “young, beautiful, gorgeous.” His smile broadens. “Seems almost like a waste to me.”