"No, it can't be." He laughs, shaking his head. "I have the best security in the city. My operation system is so encrypted, better than in the White House."
I grin. It's the best compliment I've ever heard.
"Well, the White House was hacked, as well, a couple of times," I chuckle, smiling slyly at him.
He places his hand on the wall over my head, and now his face is inches from mine.
"Are you hinting that someone hacked it for an invitation?" His voice is low, strict, angry, but his concern sounds more like an interest than a threat.
Yes, by me,I think but do not dare to say aloud.
My head is spinning. He smells like fresh clean clothes as if just from the laundry, mixed with intense shaving lotion with the scent of wood and cigars.
His deep brown eyes are darker than a night on a cloudy day, and he stares at me as if he can see me from the inside, not leaving my gaze for a second.
I swallow, unable to look away, but stay silent, not ready to confess.
"That's impossible." He shakes his head again. "Hacking my system would've cost you more than an entrance to the club."
He's so naïve. As if I'd pay for something like that. No way, even if I already had access to my trust fund. That would've been ridiculous.
"Okay, you're right. Then I'll just go." I try to squeeze myself between him and the wall, but he places another hand on the other side of my body, and now I'm stuck.
I knew he wouldn't let me go that easily, even if I play the fool and pretend that I'm leaving.
I don't want to go, at least not this soon. No matter how scared I am, for some reason, I feel deep down inside me that this man will never hurt me.
"Who did your invitation?" he asks with irritation, leaning his face into mine.
"I did," I say proudly, crossing my arms over my chest.
He chuckles. "Hilarious. A girl who can fake an ID so professionally couldn't make up something better than a mix of two supermodels’ names: Cindy Crawford and Naomi Campbell."
"Hey, I can make up anything!" I say offensively and push his chest.
He doesn't even move from my push, of course, but he looks at me with surprise. As if he's shocked that I dared to touch him.
"They are my favorite models of all time," I continue. For some reason, I instantly become more confident than I was even a minute ago. "Cindy was a girl with a huge mole on her face, which was considered a flaw before she appeared on the cover of Vogue. And Naomi is the first black supermodel, which is huge. She's like a female version of Nelson Mandela, I would say, a real role model."
He looks at me with a kind of look I've never seen before. As if he's amazed by what I say, or or maybe byhowI’m saying it.
"And what might you, a white, rich girl with a Gucci bag, have in common with them?" he says arrogantly and with contempt. His words are sharp like a blade, cutting my skin mercilessly.
He's so rude, and it's evident that he doesn't like me. And maybe for a second or two I wanted him to see me, to feel his lips on mine, but now I don't, not anymore.
He's an arrogant asshole who loves to put women down.
"Fuck you," I hiss back without thinking. "Are you telling me that you made the money to buy this club by working? Where? Paying all the taxes as a bartender, maybe? Or a taxi driver?" I scoff, making the most unpleasant fleer I can. "Hasta la vista."
I bend over and slip out of his hands quickly, rushing to the door.
I feel my cheeks are burning with rage.
How could I even be attracted to him? He's so...
But before I can reach the handrail, he grabs me by the waist and turns me around. I gasp in surprise, but I have no time to say anything before he leans over and presses his lips to mine.
His lips are warm and soft; it feels so much better than I've imagined. And he sucks me in right away as if he was starving for it the whole evening.