Page 3 of Lesson Learned

“If that’s the standard of patron they attract, this place can rack up my gold card to its maximum,” Floss says with a wistful expression in her eye.

Floss is her own kind of gorgeous but seems to hate all the things I would take in an instant. Like the thick slew of freckles that warm her skin or the brown eyes that catch fire in sunlight. Her curly hair is brown but a proper brown. Autumn leaves crunching underfoot in a dew-caressed forest rather than clay baked into lifelessness by an insipid sun.

“He looks like a dancer,” I say, biting my lip and staring at the ground until the wave of rampant lust dissipates enough to draw a normal breath.

It’s nights out like this that test my resolve to its maximum. Still, the eye candy is a pleasurable distraction from the forthcoming financial test at the gate. I’m happy to fall into the game of what-ifs with Floss. “Your friends have been here before, yeah? Do they have much of a dance floor?”

“Half the bottom level,” she answers, her voice still caught in a daydream. Then her vision sharpens, and she tosses her head. “Not that I’m interested. He’s just nice to look at, that’s all.”

“Cool, cool,” I agree, nodding pleasantly, feeling a rush of pleasure as I prepare to tease. “So, you don’t mind if I claim dibs on him.”

She arches her right eyebrow—another source of envy since mine don’t work independently—and casts her scathing eyes over me. “No, honey. I don’t think so.”

“Well, I wouldn’t, but when you said—”

“I was being polite because he’s with someone, but if you’re seriously taking a run at him, then obviously I have dibs.”

“Or neither of us do and we can just compete.”

A twinkle hits her eyes, making them glow almost amber. “Oh. You’re on.” She spits on her hand and holds it out to shake. “First one to get a dance, the other shouts a round.”

I shake, scrunching my nose and wiping my palm on a tissue at the first opportunity. “And what’s the prize if we drag him home?”

“If you’re bringing him back to the housing block, you’ve already won your prize.”

We share a salacious grin, and pleasure rushes through me. Not for the competition, that’s playful nonsense, but at the thought I’m making progress with her. Finally.

Brooke and Marnie slip inside, arm in arm, comparing the best traits in their respective boyfriends. Floss goes next and I blanch at the total on the portable card reader before the bouncer hands her a red rubber band for her wrist.

I hand over my ID, exchanging it for my reloadable card when the bouncer nods. “There should be enough,” I mutter like a small prayer while Floss tosses her head with impatience, eyes rolling when I put my shoes back on to make me look halfway adult.

He runs it and the machine beeps, my stomach tensing like it threw a punch.

“Sorry, love. Next.”

“Wait.” I turn a pleading gaze on Floss. “Could I borrow the entrance fee? I’ll pay you back by next week at the latest.”

She stares at me, smiling. An awful twist of dread runs through me at the thought I just undid any headway I’d made.

“You can’t afford it?” she asks in a voice that sounds way louder than normal to my embarrassed ears.

I squirm, feeling the weight of the queue’s gaze upon me. “Not right now.”

“Wow.” Her smile broadens with pure mischief. “Guess that’ll make it hard to get a dance.”

She turns, stepping inside, a cackle of laughter floating over her shoulder. The pulse of rejection throbs louder than the music. I shuffle back as tears sting, hemmed in by velvet ropes, blushing bright red, sure everyone’s staring.

“Just undo them,” the attractive lady behind me says, eager to advance. The cute guy gives me a sympathetic glance, and I cast my eyes down, embarrassed.

I grab hold of the rope, but can’t pull it up without unhooking it, something I also can’t do because the hooks are locked. When I bend to go under, my arse is practically on display for the next person in line because this dress is far, far, far too short.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” the attractive man says, resting a hand on my shoulder as he leans past to tap his card against the reader. Because he’s bending forward, his breath hits against the side of my head, ruffling the hairs over my ear, sparking a burst of tingles.

He smells of wood and leather and dark, dark spice. The scent is in stark contrast to his light hair and relaxed stance, the grey eyes shimmering like liquid mercury.

“Can’t have you losing the competition before you’ve even started,” he whispers, pulling back before I can answer, my shoulder grieving the loss of his touch.

I thought I was embarrassed before. It’s nothing compared to the wholesale shame that engulfs me now, knowing he overheard our teasing wager. My cheeks burn with such colour I feel faint.

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