Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Part of me wished I could ditch being a Constantine forever and start again. Somewhere I could be free, where people had no idea who I was, or who I was surrounded by. Where the world wasn’t governed by what I should be doing, and what I was failing at.
Failure should’ve been my middle name. I was the queen of failure. Still, it hurt when people pointed it out constantly.
I guessed Cyrus Bar was as close to freedom as I was likely to get anytime this century.
I hadn’t told anyone where I was going. I’d ditched one of my regular charity events with little more than a too busy, and nobody had really pushed me for explanations, thank fuck. I didn’t want security buzzing about the place, or a chauffeur waiting outside, or scowls from my family members if they realized I was heading to some lowlife venue to see some lowlife performer without a billion-dollar record deal.
No. This could be my one night off. The one night I could mingle without anyone even looking my way.
Or so I hoped.
I didn’t have any clothes in my wardrobe that weren’t designer, so I improvised. I took a tight little black dress and tore some tights up for underneath, then checked myself out in the mirror. Yeah, that could do it. I would usually style my hair to perfection before I went anywhere, but I paused as I reached for my hairbrush. No. Messy suited me fine.
It was strange calling a cab to my apartment later that night instead of pressing the buzzer for a chauffeur. It was stranger still to meet them at the rear of the complex, not risking security catching me on my way out and alerting my mom to my disappearance.
I settled down into the backseat and tugged my gloves up higher on my arms. My eyeliner was a sweeping black, giving me an emo goth look at total odds to the woman I was. I liked it.
“Cyrus Bar,” the cab driver said as we pulled up outside.
The line of people on the sidewalk by the main doors was about as opposite to events in Bishop’s Landing as you could possibly get. Rocker types in messy, torn t-shirts, black lace, and boots. I guess this Blue Hawk guy attracted quite a weirdo fan base.
I tottered down the line on stilettos, and Tristan was waiting for me there, right by the main doors. He looked seriously damn good. Tight black jeans with a leather jacket over a fitted black tee, and his mahogany hair swept back from his forehead like a guy from the 70s. If Blue Hawk was in any way still wobbling over his sexuality status, then seeing Tristan Fields tonight would surely seal the deal.
He whistled when he saw me. “Hell, baby. You sure look fucking good.”
I gave him a twirl and grinned, because I felt it to match. I felt really fucking good. It was a sensation I wasn’t all that used to.
I stayed quiet as Tristan waved us through security and past the entrance desk. Hell knows what he’d listed me as, but it sure wasn’t Elaine Constantine. They barely even looked my way as I stepped on by.
I could already hear the warm up band’s bass as we climbed the stairs, thumping right through the floor. Loud. It was loud. Loud and wild.
Wild and free.
Tristan took my hand and we stepped through to the main stage area, and it was intimate, just like he’d said it would be. There was a huddle of people on the dancefloor moving along to the music, and another huddle gathering at the bar, ordering drinks. We pushed our way through to join them, holding back in the crowd. That in itself was a novelty.
The Constantines never had to wait for anything, ever. I walked straight through a line wherever I saw one. Again, I weirdly liked having to be patient without people nudging and staring at me wherever I went.
“What do you want to drink?” Tristan asked, right into my ear over the bass.
“Champagne,” I said, and he pulled a face at me.
“Champagne doesn’t really work in this place. How about a beer?”
I shrugged at him. “Sure, yeah. A beer. Whatever. Just make sure it’s got alcohol in it. I want to get trashed.”
I heard his sigh, even over the music. “You always want to get trashed, Lainey. Maybe one day you’ll break the mould and try having fun sober.”
Even amongst the weirdness, I never believed life would ever get that weird. Sober and I didn’t really work well together. Even the thought made me churn inside.
The music had swept me up in its grip by the time we made it to the front of the bar. The guitar was thrashing loud, and I could feel it, right the way through me. The guy’s vocals were savage, but filled with so much passion I couldn’t ignore it. I stared at him as Tristan ordered the drinks, and my heart did a strange flip as I saw how dark his features were – especially under the spotlights. He was tall, and broad, and his eyes were fierce. Deep, like burning ashes. His jaw was firm, and even though he looked like some kind of heavy metal pinup, there was something about him that excited me.