Page 8 of Crushed By Love

I’m not sure what to do with that. “I wouldn’t know. I can’t go out to the clubs or bars or anything. I’m only eighteen.”

She pouts. “Aw, you’re just a baby, you poor thing. You know what though, there is a club that does eighteen and older nights. It’s fun, we used to go all the time before we got older. If you want to go, I’ll give you the name and directions. Lots of locals and service people go there too, not just the summer-people, so you’ll fit right in.”

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to check it out. “Tell me more.”

Sighing deeply, I step out of the shower and study my naked body in the foggy mirror. It’s fine. It’s nothing so perfect as the bodies I’ve seen out on the beach, but it’s not too bad either. Truth be told, I’ve never really given a lot of thought to my figure in a sexual way before, not even when I went through puberty.

Looking at it now, I cup my breasts and wonder what someone else would think of the B-cups, then turn to study my side profile with its small pooch instead of flat abs, and the little bum that is definitely not the BBL so many guys are attracted to these days. The status of my hair is still up for debate. I’ve never been able to decide if the unique color makes me good-different or bad-different. Sometimes being different isn’t a good thing. Sometimes different gets you teased mercilessly and makes you stand out when you’d rather be invisible.

I turn to the other side and adjust into a sexier position, twisting my torso and sticking out my chest and ass. Surely there’s a great guy out there that would want this? A hunger forms low in my belly, but I ignore the sudden urge and laugh at myself. I’m being ridiculous again. This isn’t me; this is just nerves. I get dressed for the evening, ignoring this newfound pull to explore my sexuality, especially while under this roof.

Tomorrow is my day off, so I plan to stay out late tonight and get the lay of the land. Maybe I’ll even make a friend of two. There’s got to be others in the service industry here that are also looking for people to hang out with. Even though I’m used to my own company, I don’t want to spend the entire summer on my own.

Back home I was on the outskirts of several social circles, which is exactly how I like it. I can get invited to things when I want to go out, but I don’t ever feel obligated to be somewhere I don’t want to be, nor do I get pulled into unnecessary drama. It’s the kind of social life I’d like to keep going here and plan to adopt when I’m in college.

Wanting to look cute, I slip into tight black shorts and a loose silvery halter top. I don’t have a lot of going-out clothing, so I hope this outfit will be good enough, and at least I can handle my bike with shorts on.

Feeling a little brave and a lot reckless, I leave my bra at home.

A half hour later and I already regret that choice, because my nipples are poking an outline through the fabric of my shirt for everyone to see, something I’ve never allowed since hitting puberty. I locked up my bike a few blocks away so I wouldn’t look like a total dork rolling up to the club on a bicycle. And then I waited in the line with everyone else to get in. The cool evening air is not being kind to the girls under my slinky top and I’ve gotten more than a few side-eyes from it. People either love this look or they hate it. I think I might hate it.

When it’s my turn to get up to the bouncer, he asks for my identification.

I hand it over and after glancing at it, he lets out a barking laugh. “What the fuck is this? Get out of here, kid.” He hands me back my ID and then reaches past me to the next person.

My stomach sours but I hold my ground. “Don’t you guys have an eighteen and older night tonight?”

He turns back to me. “Never have, never will. Come back in three years.”

Several people laugh, a camera flashes, and I step out of the way, feeling as if I’m sinking into the concrete. A wave of hot anxiety flushes over my skin and I start to sweat. I’ve never been so embarrassed.

Fucking Bree.

But that’s not even the worst of it, because when I turn back to the gawking onlookers, one face stands out among the rest.

One face that has daggers sharpening his gaze—Ethan King.

He rushes forward and grabs my arm, his fingers biting into my bicep as he marches me away from the group of onlookers. I catch Bree and Cooper among them, Bree grinning like an evil bitch and Cooper grimacing.

I’m not sure where Ethan thinks we’re going, but I choose not to fight him off. Not yet anyway. One, because he’s knocked me out of my anxiety, and two, because I’m still wanting to be a little reckless tonight and I’m curious to see what he’s going to do. And I’m also curious to see how I’ll react to him. There’s something about this man that makes me feel like a different person. Not better. Not worse. Just different. And right now, I really want to be anyone but myself.

“You can’t stop me from having a good time tonight.” I toss out nonchalantly.

At that, he whips me around, standing in my personal bubble with his hands on my upper arms. His touch feels electric to my nerves and my heart goes haywire at the feel of him. He towers over me and I stare up, my chin lifted. He’s not backing down and neither am I.

“Why are you dressed like this?” he demands.

The audacity of his question throws me off. “Umm because I wanted to.”

His jaw tenses. “You mean you wanted people to notice you.”

I don’t even know how to answer that, so I don’t. I stand my ground and narrow my eyes. Who cares if I want to look good on a night out? Everyone is dressed up, not just me.

“Are you trying to look like a slut?” he continues.

Anger burns through me. Of every word he could’ve used, why did it have to be that one? “You think it’s okay to call women sluts?” I throw back.

“If you don’t want to be called a slut then don’t dress like one.” His eyes track down my body even though we’re standing so close. My skin pebbles under his gaze but I hold my ground. I won’t let him rattle me. “I can see the outline of your nipples through your top, Ardie.”

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