CHRISTIAN
Valhalla on a Fridaynight was pure debauchery, but instead of partaking in the high-stakes poker game at the casino or indulging at the gentleman’s club in the basement, I threw back my sixth drink at the bar.
Scotch, self-loathing, and anger burned through my blood while the brunette next to me chattered on.
Three hours and twice as many drinks hadn’t thawed the black ice coating my veins since I left Stella alone in the apartment. Neither had the women fluttering around me, all of them beautiful and accomplished in their own right.
A cosmetics tycoon. A candy heiress. A supermodel who seemed unconcerned about abandoning the media magnate she’d showed up with.
“I’m staying at a hotel nearby.” The model leaned closer until her low, throaty voice percolated through the din and into my ears. “Perhaps you’d like to join me?”
I ran a thumb along the rim of my glass and observed her in silence.
Her skin flushed a faint red beneath my scrutiny.
Part of me was tempted to take her up on her offer and drown my frustrations with heat and sex. That had been my plan when I’d started flirting with her.
But that was the problem. No supermodels or sex could erase Stella from my mind for a single fucking second.
Aggravation tunneled through my veins.
“Not interested.” My reply came out harsher than usual, and the aggravation deepened.
I needed to get the fuck out of here. I was too on edge. If I stayed, I was liable to do something I’d regret.
Before the model could respond, her date finally noticed she’d wandered off after he finished his conversation with another club member.
He barreled toward us, his face clouded with dark displeasure.
“Anya. I told you to stay by my side.” He closed a proprietary hand around her wrist and glared at me.
I stared back, bored.
Victor Black, CEO of a media empire consisting of dozens of trashy but widely read newspapers and websites.
He was also one of the more annoying members of Valhalla.
“Sorry.” Anya didn’t sound sorry at all.
“Harper.” Victor gave me a nasty grin. “Shouldn’t you be spending your Friday night with your girlfriend instead of flirting with another man’s date?”
My smile iced at the indirect mention of Stella.
If we weren’t in public…
“You’re right,” I said amicably. “Have fun with your date.”
Victor’s grin wavered at my agreeable response. A hint of panic crept into his eyes as I stood and dropped a hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar.
“Where are you…”
I left without listening to the rest of his insipid question and made a pit stop at his prized sports car.
I may not have a gun on me since Valhalla didn’t allow weapons inside the club, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have other, less obvious weapons at my disposal.
Two minutes and one planted device later, I got into my car and drove home.
When I pulled up to the Mirage, I watched the security footage from outside Victor’s house on my phone. As expected, he’d left soon after me; his car pulled into his driveway less than ten minutes after I parked.
He and Anya exited the car and entered his house.
I waited until the door shut behind them before I activated the device.
I couldn’t hear the footage, but I could hear the boom in my head as his car exploded into flames.
By the time Victor ran out, it was already a twisted, blackened hunk of metal beneath the raging fire.
For the first time that night, I smiled a genuine smile.
Much better.
I tucked my phone into my pocket and straightened my jacket as I stepped out of the car.
He could probably guess who was behind his car’s untimely demise, but he wouldn’t do a damn thing about it. He was lucky I didn’t blow it up when he was in it.
Unfortunately, the relief I gained from fucking with Victor was short-lived.
Every step closer to my apartment reminded me of what happened with Stella.
We lived in the same house, yet I could feel her slipping away.
You’re not my boyfriend. I’m not sure if we’re even friends.
My jaw clenched.
I’d bought her the watch in hopes it would bridge the distance that’d sprung up since New York. That’d backfired.
I’d gone to Valhalla hoping to take my mind off her. That’d backfired as well.
I could’ve gone home with any woman I wanted, and I chose to come home to the one who didn’t want me.
A caustic laugh singed my throat.
Fate was a fucking bitch.
* * *