Page 34 of Milo

"I do," I say, taking another sip. "It's good."

Manuel purses his lips, his gaze darting between me and Milo. "She's a quiet one. Not like—" He blanches immediately. Milo stiffens beside me and Manuel clears his throat.

"How's business?" Milo asks in a harsh tone. "Update me."

Milo and Manuel begin chatting about business. Not like who? No. Not important. Focus. Two more of Manuel's men join him on the couch. I stay silent as I listen to them talk numbers and shipments and money. So much fucking money. Hundreds of millions of euros. And they're unfazed, speaking about such wealth as if it's pennies.

A fat smile spreads across Manuel's face as someone passes him the platter of cocaine, a glass straw rolling on the curved surface.

"It's good shit.” He shoves the tube up his nostril and snorts a line, letting out an ecstatic exhale. "Have some." He holds out the plate in front of me. "Have some fun."

"No," Milo shoots Manuel daggers, “none for her."

I eye the plate warily. "I'm good, thank you."

A greying man to the left of Manuel snickers, muttering in Spanish, "He probably gets pussy on demand. She's a good little dog."

I clench my teeth together. Don't react. Don't react. I am not a little dog.

Another man adds with a chuckle, "I'd fuck that dog dry."

Sucking in a sharp breath, I crane my neck toward Milo. "Maybe just a taste?"

He studies my expression, attempting to ascertain my intentions. I'm not opposed to drug use. I've never done drugs, but I don't like to judge those that do. I drink alcohol, technically that's also a drug. Also addicting.

Honestly, aside from not wanting to look like a weak submissive woman, a part of me is actually curious what it feels like, why it's so popular, why Milo makes millions off this fine white powder.

"Just a little?" I ask again.

"Open your mouth.” Milo lightly dips his pinky into the pile of cocaine, white dust falling on his pants as he brings it toward me. "Give me your tongue, Kiara."

I hesitate for a second before opening my lips, giving him access to my mouth. Milo smears the coke on the tip of my tongue; the taste is awful, horrendous, like acid and bleach.

Fuck, that's gross.

Milo stares deep into my eyes, his pinky still coating my taste buds. "Do you like it?"

"Mhmm," I lie, closing my lips around his finger as he pulls his pinky out of my mouth. His pupils dilate— hungry and surprised. "I love it."

"Lucky bastard," someone says in Spanish.

This time I smirk, swallowing down the bitter taste of a drug I never want to try again. My throat burns as it flows down my esophagus.

"Are you going to have some?" I take a sip on the Mezcal, hoping it washes out the disgusting taste in my mouth.

"No.” Milo shifts his body toward me. "I do not do drugs, Kiara."

I blink. "You don't?"

He subtly shakes his head, a hint of amusement in his weak smile. "No."

"Oh. Good to know."

Well fuck. I thought he was going to do it too. Oh my God, that sounds so pathetic. Oh my God, I just did cocaine. Okay. No need to freak out. It was just a little dab. Not even up my nose. It won't work. Nothing will happen.

Right?

Milo continues talking with his friends, glancing at me periodically, probably making sure I'm still alive. With every minute that passes, my body relaxes, their voices become clearer, sharper, everything turns brighter, vibrant. My fingers tingle, my heart rate increases, the Mezcal tastes so good, the smell of cigarettes is pungent and strong, and I want some.

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