Page 5 of Secret Obsession
Miles Whiteshaw isn’t going to chase me out of the club.
I claim a stool at the bar and smile brilliantly at the man beside me. A working professional, maybe, judging from the little bits of silver at his temples. His gaze swings around my face and then dips to my body.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.
I grin and nod.
Two hours later, I’mdrunk. I thought I was on the verge before, but now I’m at a whole new level. The floor keeps tilting under me, but I don’t really give a shit. The amount of people on the dance floor with me keeps me upright. And I seem to have a never-ending line of guys who want to dance.
I’m toxic, you’re going under…
That song played an hour ago, but it’s stuck in my head. Even when the DJ’s music should distract me, those words keep playing.
A guy reels me into his chest. I glance up at him, vaguely concerned when the face looking back at me is blurry. But I push it away and shimmy against him. My smile widens as his grip tightens on my hips, steadying me.
“You want to get out of here?” he asks in my ear. His voice is familiar.
Same guy as before. The one who waited for me outside the bathroom, who groped me. Except now, I don’t really give a shit that he’s hulking and full of bad vibes.
I twist around, giving him my back. My hands go up in the air like they’re floating on their own, and my body moves to the beat.
“No, I don’t want to get out of here,” I call over my shoulder. “I want another drink.”
“Sure thing, baby.”
My nose wrinkles. I don’t like being called baby. Or babe. Or sweetheart.
Knox called me babe or baby for a whole year, luring me in with false promises andlies. Utter horseshit. But the alcohol already in my system dulls the bite of it, and the guy’s hands leave my hips.
I dance by myself. I swing my hips, run my hands through my hair and down my neck. I’m putting on a fucking show for anyone watching, but I’m not really alone. The club is full of gyrating bodies and pulsing music, and while no one else touches me for a time, the air smells like perfume and sweat. Or maybe that’s just me. I can barely keep my eyes open.
“A drink for the lady,” the guy says, appearing at my side.
It’s not so much a drink as a double pour of straight alcohol. It’s clear, or maybe golden. I can’t tell in the flashing swoops of colored lights. No ice in the glass either.
Good choice.
I take the glass and toss the liquid back. It’s tequila.I think. It’s the slow burn through my stomach that gives it away. Grimacing, I grip the guy’s hand. He lets me through the crowd, all the way to the bar. Where his hand then becomes an assistance for me to climb up on the stool.
Then the bar top itself. I wobble, and someone grabs my ankle. Cold hand against hot skin. No amount of alcohol can hidehisidentity.
“What thefuckare you doing?” Miles growls.
I giggle and look down at the hand, which has moved up to the back of my calf.
“Dancing,” I say. “Obviously.”
“You’re too drunk to even balance.”
The hand becomes two, and then I’m dragged from the bar. I screech and flail, and I land across a set of wide shoulders. My fingers dig into his shirt, but I barely jostle when he turns and strides through the nightclub.
I’m toxic, you’re goin’ under…
I should get those words tattooed across my forehead. Although I’m not sure those are the actual lyrics—does it really matter? Iamthe toxic one. I’m terrible.
Certainly not worthy of love.
My stomach twists, and I tap his arm.
