Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Lee leans into my side, and his breath skates across my earlobe, making me shiver. “I’m going to assume that the smile on your face means you’re happy?”
Am I smiling? I didn’t even realize it. “I’m just surprised. You really thought of everything, didn’t you?”
Placing his hand on my lower back, he guides me up the stairs into the booth. “I wanted it to be perfect.”
“It’s beyond perfect.” My chest feels warm, my emotions turbulent. I’m not sure if he realizes how much this means to me. No one except my family goes out of their way to show this level of kindness and care. “Here.” He presents me with a sealed bottle of vodka, already using a sanitizing wipe on the cap. “Premium stuff. No one else’s lips have touched it.”
I watch him pour the bottles into clean glasses, trying not to focus on the writhing mass of bodies below. “That’s a lot,” I observe as he downs his second shot, both of them back to back.
“Liquid courage.” His smile is all white teeth, gleaming in the light. “For both of us.”
I guess that makes sense. We’re at a nightclub, and honestly, my nerves will be shot by the time we finish here. A little liquid courage could dull the edges of anxiety, and maybe I’ll enjoy myself instead of worrying profusely.
The music pulses through the space, making my ears throb. It’s sensory overload between the flashing lights and thundering bass. But as I look back at Lee and the clean bottle in his hand, I know I have to try. He’s done so much, too much for me not to at least sit down and have a drink with him.
The bottle is clean. His hands are clean. The glass is clean.
It’s all a reminder, I tell myself, as I take the shot glass from him and down the bitter clear liquid, letting it blaze a path down my throat.
“How can anyone drink this?” I cough around the burn.
“The more you drink, the less it burns,” Lee states proudly while handing me another shot. Of course I take it, letting the campus bad boy corrupt me one drink at a time.
“Yeah, only because every nerve ending is fried off. Not because it stops burning,” I reply and wrinkle my nose at the next shot before taking it. Immediately, I regret it because it still tastes awful. I can’t believe I used to drink this crap straight from the bottle.
“One more because three is your lucky number.” Lee smirks, and all I can do is shake my head as I pluck the glass from between his fingers.
The alcohol burns a little less this time, and that’s either because of the proud grin Lee gives me or because the nerve endings in my mouth have been reduced to nothing.
“Good girl,” he whispers into my ear. His tongue darts out over his bottom lip to catch a stray drop of vodka. This foreign feeling unfurls in my stomach, and it resembles red-hot desire.
Note to self: Don’t let him call you a good girl. You may spontaneously combust.
Lee and I sit together, people watching for a while. The nearness of his body makes me feel safe and protected, and it’s easier to let go. As the alcohol works its way through my system, altering my senses and judgment, the world around me softens.
Below us, people writhe on the dance floor, their bodies colliding, everyone touching everyone. It’s a nightmare for a girl like me, yet somehow, I wish I could be in the thick of it. They’re all smiling, having the time of their lives, carefree and unaware of all the things that could go wrong.
“How are you feeling, Pantry Girl?” Lee questions, his tone curious.
“Like I shouldn’t drink any more vodka.” I smile back at him. “How are you feeling?”
“Better than ever with you by my side.” He winks, then orders another drink as the server passes by. It strikes me that he’s utterly at home in this environment—confident, authoritarian, at ease. But then, I imagine very few places where he wouldn’t feel like that, or at the very least give that impression.
The very opposite of me.
“Dance with me,” he says suddenly, standing and holding out his sanitized hand.
“I don’t—”
“Trust me.” His eyes are dark and full of promise. “I’ll keep everyone else away.”
The vodka makes me brave enough to take his hand. I let him lead us to the dance floor, but he doesn’t stop in the crowd. Instead, he creates our own space at the edge, positioning himself between me and any potential contact.
“Breathe. Feel the beat of the music,” he murmurs against my ear. “Nothing else exists. No one else matters.”
He grabs my hips gently but firmly. I should panic. Should count breaths. Should run. I do none of those things. Instead, I lean back against him. The bass thrums through us as he guides my movements, his body a solid wall of heat behind me.