Page 3 of Fearless

She swiped right for Justin.

I’ve been asking her to go on a date with me for the last two weeks, and honestly the girl is impenetrable. Think Princess Fiona in a dragon guarded tower, surrounded by Takeshi’s fucking Castle with machine gun turrets and German Shepherds patrolling the perimeter.

And in this story, Princess Fiona wears a chastity belt.

You can’t send dick pics to a Princess Fiona, which is usually my fool-proof method. The smart ones run a mile, but there are enough size-queens in the world for that not to matter. I had to woo her the good ol’ fashioned way, and that takes time and a lot more charm than I usually dish out.

So hearing she’s downstairs is surprising, to say the least.

She’s been led to believe that Justin—AKA my pretty-boy persona—works the bar here on Friday nights. I’d hoped that one day curiosity would get the better of her. And it appears that day is today.

Now I just need to make a girl who came here looking for Justin Bieber want to go home with a six-foot-six, two-hundred and forty-pound reprobate, who’s at least ten years older than her.

Aye, simple.

I stand up from my chair and crack my neck both ways before heading to the door.

“Behave yourself,” Cole says.

“Fuck yourself,” I shoot back.

He knows I’ve never been fully on board with this plan since he first thought it up on one of his acid-induced higher-level-strategy meetings (not even shitting you). So he likes to take every opportunity he can to rub it in my face.

I wonder if he’d be as enthusiastic if he were the one actually having to do it, but that’s not the role each of us plays. Cole keeps his record clean and his nose straight, while I, quite literally, deal with all the dirty work. My nose is still physically decent looking though, touch wood.

The thump of GBX music pounds in my chest as I make my way along the dimly lit corridor and down the first flight of stairs. These stairs lead to the upper level, where you have a view on all four sides down to the main dance floor—the Violet room—below.

Third time tonight I’ve come down here, and it’s only gotten busier each time.

I can barely move through the throngs of sweaty bodies stumbling around and making a piss-poor attempt at dancing.Dancing. Debatable. Some of them are just blatantly fucking with clothes on.

Giving a nod to one of the bouncers, Derek, I continue around the upper level, my eyes scanning between both the floors. Sometimes my height comes in useful, but it’s as much of a curse as it is a blessing. I feel like the only adult in a room full of children, with the exception of Derek. And these children are hyped-up on sugar, and they’re messing up my house.

And because they’re mostly smaller, their faces are a good foot beneath mine, which makes hunting out a particular face a nightmare.

According to her profile, she’s five foot one inch. And a Capricorn, whatever the fuck that means. She never drinks, she never smokes, and she’s never doing children. Makes me wonder what shedoesdo, but I’m not actually that interested.

But fuck, five foot one. She could be anywhere, including standing under one of the taller tables and using it as a playhouse. Would not surprise me, going by her age. She’s legal, but only just.

I lean my arms over the metal railing and scan the bar downstairs.

Bingo.

She’s surrounded by a bunch of boys. I’m going to say at least half of them haven’t yet sprouted ball hair. I make a mental note to kick every single one of the doormen’s arses later for not double-checking their ID. The only seventeen-year-olds allowed in are female. That’s the rules of nightclubs and everyone knows it. But her little posse is actually a good sign, because it means she’s not hung-up on Justin.

And if she’s not hung up on Justin, she might just be up for what an actual fully-grown man can offer her.

Maybe.

For her sake, I hope so. Because the alternative is only going to get messy, and I’ve had enough of manhandling women tonight.

CHAPTER TWO

MEISIE

Fuck. Fuck! I suck in a deep breath and will the walls not to close in on me. This is nothing like that damn crackpot quackhead therapist said it would be.

“Relive your trauma, Meisie.”

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