Page 3 of Daddies' Little Troublemaker

What the fuck is that phrase, anyway? Aw, c’mon, baby…it’s like the mating call of every low-life degenerate fuckboy fratbro asshole. Does it work on any woman?

He makes it worse by grabbing my wrist and trying to drag my hand down his stomach to his junk.

“Fuck off,” I say.

“Don’t be like this, look how much I want you.”

I shove him away and he stumbles off, swearing about stuck-up frigid ice princesses. I give him a one-fingered salute.

“Starting fights, are we?” a low voice says from behind me.

The club is loud. I shouldn’t be able to hear this guy. And yet the rumble of him fills my ears, my head, my very soul.

Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, but I swear I feel that voice more than hear it.

I turn around.

It’s an older guy. The travel blog said Vice attracts everyone from younger twenty-somethings to people in their forties, fifties, and beyond. This guy looks late thirties, early forties, maybe. I never thought I was particularly attracted to older men, but wow. This guy—he’s hot.

“I’m not starting fights,” I say. “I’m just dancing and minding my business.”

“May I mind your business with you?” he asks.

Say yes, my brain helpfully supplies. “Yes,” I say. “But don’t try to take liberties like dick-sprout over there.”

He chuckles. “You are a troublemaker, aren’t you?”

2

LITTLE TROUBLEMAKER

Evelyn

Instead of waiting for an answer, he takes my hand and leads me back into the center of the floor. He moves confidently, easily, light on his feet. This guy’s a better dancer than I am, and while a part of me wants to be annoyed, I’m mostly impressed.

The song ends, another one seamlessly begins, and we remain where we are, dancing. I’m renewed once more, baptized in the music. I feel incandescent.

Also, exhausted. We dance through a couple more songs, and I’m panting for breath. The guy offers me his hand again and I take it, allowing him to lead me back to the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “But thanks. I’m just having lime soda. Vincent there will hook me up.”

A minute later, my new friend is sipping a whiskey and I’m gulping down soda. If I wasn’t worried about ruining my expensive make-up, I would press the ice-cold glass to my overheated face.

The guy leans in close. Smiles. There’s a very, very subtle dimple in his right cheek. So faint that if his whiskers were any longer, I wouldn’t be able to see it. He has brown eyes, but in the strange club lights, I can’t tell what shade. His hair is dark brown, but his eyes might be lighter.

He says, “You’re an excellent dancer.”

“Thanks.” Several years of competitive cheerleading provided the basics. Hours spent dancing to excise pent-up anger in my bedroom as a teenager did the rest.

“You’re too young for me,” he says, leaning back and sipping his whiskey. “You’re probably nothing but trouble, little troublemaker.”

I wave a hand at the club and put on a disaffected air. “So, leave. I’m not forcing you to talk to me.”

“I’ve been trying to make myself leave, and I can’t. You’re at least twenty-one, right?”

“They wouldn’t let me in otherwise. I’m twenty-six, though.”

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