Page 161 of Irreversible

I blink at him, startled. “I… Yes, I’m sorry, I have somewhere to be?—”

“What’s your name? You’re very beautiful.” His focus dips to my cleavage. “Striking, really.”

Wrenching my arm free, I rub away the insidious tickle left from his touch. Then I turn around, noting that the occupied stool is now empty.

He’s gone.

Dammit.

“I-I have to go.” Flustered, I stalk away, pushing through a slew of small groups, trying to uncover where he disappeared to. But he’s nowhere to be found. Disappointment filters through me after I make three laps around the club, coming up empty.

That disappointment follows me on stage an hour later.

It weakens my steps, drains my enthusiasm, and tightens my smile. I pick apart the crowd, searching for him in the oceanof eager faces, but he’s not there. I feel like I’m going crazy. Losing my mind. The patrons don’t seem to notice my missteps and disenchanted eyes, and I leave the stage with over three hundred dollars in tips when the song is over.

But the pocket money does little to fill the holes inside me.

As I veer off to the dressing room to freshen up and discard my cash, Latte catches me by the elbow. “Hey, Bee. You have a private dance in the champagne room. He prepaid for an hour.”

“Really?” My gaze drifts over to the staircase leading up to a row of private rooms. The past few nights, I’ve had to work my ass off to earn a private dance in the champagne room. They’re not cheap, so there’s often a lot of schmoozing and forced connection-making on my end. “Wow, okay. About time a bit of good luck landed in my lap.”

“Now, all you gotta do is land in his.” She winks. “Go take five to freshen up. He’s in the pink room.”

“Ball and Chain?” I wonder. Married men generally know what they want because they know what they’re not getting at home.

Her muted cocoa lips twist to the side. “Don’t think so. No ring,” she says. “He was kind of intense. Really hot, though. Enjoy the change of scenery.”

Hot and intense.

A shiver creeps down my spine.

No.

It’s probably not him.

That guy clearly wants nothing to do with me.

Before Latte skips away, I ask her, “Description?”

She pauses. “Hmm. Dark hair, kind of shaggy on top and shorter in the back. Didn’t catch his eye color because I was too busy counting the veins in his arms.” She fans herself. “Vein porn is real.”

My heartbeats kick up speed. “Tall? Muscular build?”

“Rugged, built, sexy, and pissed-off.” Nodding, she flicks a finger in the air. “That would be the guy. Have fun.”

She scampers away.

My nerves tangle into a sticky web as I falter for a beat, then swerve into the dressing room to fix my hair and lipstick, slap on a fresh coat of deodorant, and dab some pheromone-infused oil onto my pulse points. I make a quick pitstop at my locker and slip the wad of cash I earned into my wristlet.

Five minutes later, still wearing my brown wig and violet slip dress, I make my way up the industrial steps to the row of five VIP suites. They go by color: pink, purple, red, black, and white.

The pink room is made of pure velvet, from the walls to the sofa benches, and even the beaded curtain. Magenta and carnation tones glitter under vibrant chandeliers, and I inch the shimmery skirt of my dress down my thighs as I clear my throat.

Anticipation dances through me as my breaths flounder. Exhaling deeply, I turn toward the pink room and approach the entrance.

The beads flutter in front of me, almost like someone just walked through them.

I frown.

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