Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
With a deep breath, he plastered on the are-you-happy-now face his sister knew so well and turned to face the music.
“Satisfied?” he asked with as much calm and nonchalance as he could muster.
Meg blinked at him, her eyes wide, and for once in her life she didn’t speak, she just nodded.
Thank God for her girlfriend, who stood and pulled Meg onto the dance floor with an, “Oh my God. I love this song.”
The rest of the group followed, leaving him in peace. For that blessing alone, he’d have to go to church on Sunday to thank the big man upstairs. He grabbed a napkin off the table and wiped his mouth, just in case. He didn’t want to go the rest of the night wearing evidence of the kiss. He wished there was such a thing as a napkin for your brain, but he knew these memories wouldn’t be removed so easily. He’d be lucky if he could ever think of anything but the seductive feel of that hard body beneath his hands or the scent of that addictive perfume.
He sighed. God fucking damn it. Motherfucker. What was he going to do? He looked down at the napkin, at the faint red smear across the pristine white surface, and the rest of his life played out in front of him, clear as day. His future was plain as the paper he crumpled in his fist. He had a plan and one little kiss wasn’t going to change his whole life. Even if, deep down, he kind of wished it had.
He stuffed the napkin in his pocket and looked toward the bar to see if he could flag down a waitress. He couldn’t get swamp-ass drunk tonight because he was the designated driver, but another Coke would help wash away the sweet taste of the dancer’s kiss.
* * *
“Terry, give me the rainbow.” Ansel ran a shaky hand through his hair and avoided eye contact with the bartender.
“The full rainbow? You all right?”
“Fine. I just need a little color in my life.”
“Don’t we all, sugar, don’t we all.”
Ansel kept his head turned toward the dance floor. The last thing he wanted to do was explain the roil of emotions threatening to drown him.
How could he even begin to? It didn’t make any fucking sense.
It was just a silly little kiss, nothing to get flustered over. Except he was. His heart was beating a wild cadence and he was struggling to catch his breath. All because some stranger had looked at him—seen him.
Really seen him.
Fuck.
He just needed to get drunk or—even better—high as a fucking kite. Erase all these pesky emotions and float away into the clouds.
Lirim probably had a stash in his bag.
Terry went to prepare the drinks, leaving him alone at the end of the bar. God, why was he so shaken? It wasn’t like he’d never kissed a trick before, though it was rare. Usually it was a tactic for a better tip or to lure them into another dance. It had never been because he couldn’t help himself. Where was his usual detachment?
The shots would help and so would taking whatever he could pilfer from Lirim.
Terry lined up eight shot glasses and started pouring the mixture. From left to right, the rainbow took shape. “There you go, dollface.”
He tossed the first shot back and sighed. “Thanks, Terry.”
“You know your lipstick is smeared, sugar?”
Ansel lowered his eyes. Of course his lipstick was smudged. Half of it had transferred to the guy he’d just worked over. He downed the next three shots and willed himself to forget the incident.
It was just a dance. Same as any other night, same as any other trick.
The tingles started between his shoulder blades, a warm, pleasurable sensation of being watched. Without turning around, he knew Fitch was looking at him. It could have been anyone in the club; any number of his regulars were in the room waiting for him. But the heat, the comfort, and the fucking panic that darkened the edges of his psyche were a specific combination. One he’d never felt before tonight.
Fuck, he needed to get some air. His hand shook as he tossed back the rest of the colors. With a final thank you, he pushed through the crowd to the dressing rooms backstage. After eight shots, he had the beloved tingling in his fingers, the beginning of numbness that he craved, but it wasn’t enough.
Lirim’s bag hung on the back of the chair, a canvas carryall with a long strap.
He didn’t waste time. He dumped the contents on the counter and began pawing through in search of something, anything, to help him forget. He pushed aside lip gloss, a pen, a scrap of paper and some receipts, a case for glasses, which Lirim didn’t wear, some candy, and his friend’s phone. With every item, he cringed. This was a huge fucking invasion of privacy, and Lirim would probably kick his ass if he knew what he was doing.