Page 5 of Lesson Learned

After climbing upstairs, I stand on the landing and squint around. If Brooke and co were up here, they’ve abandoned the place. I do a circuit just to be sure, then, satisfied, walk back down.

Marnie’s bright yellow dress should be easily visible, even if the place is riotous with multi-coloured lights. I let my eyes defocus, waiting for my peripheral vision to pick her out from the crowd.

I can’t see her.

Even waiting another minute—a minute where my pulse beats faster than the music—I can’t find her in the crowd. She’s not on the dance floor. She’s not in the loosening crush near the bar. She’s not at one of the standing tables designed to mock people my height.

My pulse picks up tempo. A hollow feeling eats at my stomach, a sense of abandonment. They wouldn’t leave me, would they?

Floss? Sure. Brooke, maybe. I can’t believe Marnie would.

But if she hasn’t left, iftheyhaven’t left, where are they?

Once again, I do a slow turn, eyes peering everywhere. Once again, they’re nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTERTWO

CONNER

I noticethe girl again when she angles towards the bar, the server behind it giving her a welcome smile so sharklike he’s probably got a second row of teeth buried in his hard palette.

Her friends left ten minutes ago, the redhead pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to stem a flow of blood, the curly brown-haired girl opening the door and hailing a taxi while the third in their trio helped the injured one to navigate outside.

A fight or an accident. Either is equally likely on a Saturday night, even if they don’t seem the type.

The trio had a choice to stay and wait until she reappeared or leave. That they left her behind makes me wonder just how good a set of friends they are.

Judging from the concern marring her brow, none of them has since bothered to let her know what happened. She waggles her phone at the bartender, miming a charger, and I understand why.

He shakes his head but pours her a drink to make up for it. Vodka and cola. When he puts a tiny umbrella into the side of the glass, she smiles and reaches for her purse, but he declines. On the house.

The blonde I came with whose name escapes me—Rachel, maybe Raquelle—moved on when my attention was inadequate for her level of need.

Good for her.

She’d glowed brightly in my mind before I called her to come hang out tonight, but ten minutes in her solo company was enough to make me low-key hate her.

Not that it would have been a problem. All along, my plan for ending the night was to fuck her, choke her, spit in her face. Tell her exactly what I think of the woman she’d be proxy for. Tell her how I hate every cell in her body even while I’m thrusting deep inside her, not being gentle, not caring if it hurts.

I would have degraded her until she was nothing but a shell, screw her as many times as it took, then toss her away afterwards, my lust spent.

Even in my rage-fucked brain, drained of all empathy, I see that, for Rachel, it’s a lucky escape.

But this girl. She’s in my sights now.

She’s tiny. The beauty of her sculpted features is amazing. But that’s not what draws me to her.

The thing I love most of all is how her colouring makes her a carbon copy of my ex-wife.

Even the styling of her hair is similar; medium length but with enough wave to make it tousled, thick enough to plunge my hands into, grabbing fistfuls while I pull her mouth where it needs to be.

Smaller than Saski. I could lift her onto my lap with one hand while tearing her clothes off with the other. I could pin her wrists together and barely sense the tugs as she fought to get free.

Her eyes lock with mine for a second. She smiles shyly, her teeth worrying her lip for a flash before she locks them away.

Energy shimmers in the air between us, giving me goose bumps.

If fucking Rachel would be a quick and savage release, fucking this one would be like therapy. It might take longer, but I’d finish with my head screwed on right.

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