Page 22 of Mr. Wicked

How she could barely breathe or respond.

I instinctively glanced at the table where Grayson had been sitting with his friends. Of course, he wasn’t there now. All I had was the memory of him.

The way he’d looked at me when our eyes first connected.

The way my body had reacted, the swish of tingles that started at my feet and whipped across my legs and stomach and landed in my chest, where it simmered the rest of the night.

The way I’d been so consumed by his stare, it took me several seconds to even respond to him. To inhale and exhale without the tightness in my lungs.

The way my body needed to be satisfied by him, needed to be closer to him, needed to feel his hands on every part of me.

I didn’t want to give him my number and wait for his call.

I didn’t want to go home alone.

I wanted to do something I never did because my mind, my body, wouldn’t allow anything different.

I sighed, attempting to push that memory and those feelings far, far away. “I wish I was at the Jelly Roll concert.”

I wished I were anywhere except here, thinking about him.

She eyed me as she poured two different types of liquor into a mixer and began to squeeze in some fresh lime. “Don’t even think about leaving me.” Her hands moved so fast, all I could see was a blur of black nail polish and silver rings.

“I can’t. I’m broke. Those tickets are far above what I can afford, which is absolutely nothing at the moment.”

She patted my shoulder before picking up a martini glass. “All this hard work will pay off. I promise.”

She reminded me of that at least once a week. But those words had nothing to do with my work here; it was the job I did at home—my passion—that seemed financially hopeless.

That passion was my dream of becoming the most well-known online influencer. I didn’t just concentrate on fashion, fitness, or cosmetics. I was the go-to for women in their midtwenties who were looking for lifestyle inspiration. Like any other entertainer, I created a persona for my demographic. What I showed them, what products I pushed, what tidbits I revealed were all with the intention to strike curiosity. Most clicked that follow button because they wanted to live vicariously through me—they connected with me somehow, were fascinated with a life that was so different from their own. Perfecting this persona and nurturing her had been my focus for the last two years, and most recently, when I wasn’t slinging drinks in the evening, I was making content, filming and digitally retouching my photos and videos.

As my numbers grew, so did the endorsements and brand deals, the kickbacks and commissions I received.

But my two hundred and fifty thousand followers weren’t a large enough audience to pay my bills.

Not even close, in fact.

“Yeah, yeah,” I groaned. My phone vibrated several times in my pocket, alerting me of incoming notifications. “And one day you’re going to own this bar and I’m going to be able to pimp the hell out of you and make it the most popular spot in Boston.”

She smiled, showing the diamond gem she’d bonded to her tooth this morning. “I’m so ready for that to happen.” She wiped her hands on her apron, and as she took out her cell, she added, “Because it’s exhausting to deal with ...” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening before she slowly glanced up at me. “Ummm, do me a favor. I know you just got the alert on your phone that I’m looking at right now, but I don’t want you to see it. So don’t check your phone, ’kaaay?”

“Huh? Why?”

She put her cell away and grabbed the new paper that had just printed out, giving her the next order of drinks. “Because you just don’t need to. So go greet your tables and find out what they want and do your thing for the rest of the night, but whatever you do, don’t look at your phone.”

“You’re kidding, right?” As if I hadn’t heard her, I slipped my phone out of my back pocket and held it at my side. “That’s like telling me not to pee for a week.”

She pointed at the hand that was gripping my cell. “Then look at your phone all you want—just skip over the Celebrity Alert that was just sent.”

I couldn’t imagine why she was saying this to me. How a Celebrity Alert would matter, considering I wasn’t one myself and I didn’t know any personally, at least not outside the influencer space.

But all her warning did was make me more interested, so I lifted my phone to my face, immediately hearing, “Don’t do it, Jovana,” as my eyes scanned the first notification on my screen.

Which just so happened to be the Celebrity Alert.

Groaning, “Fuck me,” as I processed the words.

BREAKING NEWS: Boston’s Biggest Bachelor Hooked SIX.

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