Page 8 of Fearless

The fact she hasn’t smeared them with an inch-thick layer of makeup tells me this was either a last-minute decision to come out, or she just doesn’t care.

I’m leaning on thedoesn’t give a shitside because her hair has been thrown up in a messy ponytail, and she’s not even bothered with high heels. But then again, it’s a nice dress she’s got on, so the last-minute decision also stands.

She’s a puzzle.

I guide her to one of the cordoned-off VIP areas and gesture for her to sit down on the black velvet couch.

The second I’ve done it I kick myself. The tables are bolted to the floor so they can’t be used as weapons, and since I can’t get my knees under the table, I can’t sit beside her.

Rookie mistake. And a prime example of why Cole should be doing this, not me. Getting inside a girl’s knickers is as second nature to him as snorting lines.

I take the seat opposite her and lean my elbows on my knees, sitting forward so we can talk over the loud racket. She leans in too, but only slightly.

She’s still in her shell.

We’ll soon fix that.

“What’s your poison?”

A smile plays on her lips while her fingers fiddle with her purse. “Guys usually start withwhat’s your name?”

That gets a laugh from me. She has no idea I already know her name, her fucking star sign, and what she had for dinner yesterday. Justin likes to know what she’s wearing, thinking, and eating. Never know when shit like that can come in handy.

“What’s your name?”

“Meisie,” she replies.

Aye, aye.Meisie.

I already know you say it like Macy, because Justin already asked her this. “Like Macy?”

She nods her head. “It’s South African.”

Iknow.

Jesus. I’m going to have to go back to the start and play the good guy all over again.

I can’t do it.

Patience has never been my virtue and the clock is ticking.

“Meisie, I’m Cillian, spelled with a C and said with a K, but you can call me whatever the fuck pleases you. Now, what do you want to drink?”

She looks momentarily startled at me cutting the bullshit, but then she flips her ponytail over her shoulder, eyelashes instantly fluttering. “Vodka?”

There she is.

Her internet dating history might suggest she likes the pretty-boy Justins of this world, but put her in her room with a man who dominates the situation and she’s no different from the rest of them.

Good fucking girl.

I gesture to one of the servers standing in the corner and tell him to bring us a bottle of Ciroc and a jug of mixer. That stuff goes down easier than water, which suits my purposes nicely.

“Where are your friends?”

She glances down at the table, and if it wasn’t for the dim violet light I swear I’d see her blushing. “Yeah...uh...I came alone,” she admits reluctantly.

I try to fight my snort.

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