Page 122 of Taste of Addiction

I hold up my phone and set it to selfie mode. I slide next to Claire and make my best animal noise that gets both Collins’s and Parker’s attention, just as I snap the pic—including them in the background. “Nailed it!” I chant, fist pumping the air.

I send the pic to Graham with the caption—Slumming it with my homeboys. I even managed to capture my slice of pizza in the shot.

He is not as humored by it as I predicted, because it is only a moment later when he is giving Collins the riot act through his Bluetooth.

“Our boss has a temper,” I announce—not even earning a smirk from the men. Sheesh, everyone needs to lighten up.

My phone buzzes with a text.

The Boyfriend: Behave.

Welp, that is direct and to the point. I am feeling brave from my liquid courage, so I text back.

Angie: Maybe.

The Boyfriend: I will come get you.

Angie: Fine. I can pretend to be good.

Collins drives back to Slay and valet parks the limo across the street at a private garage, not affiliated with the dance club. He nearly has a heart attack when I forgo my cloak and walk out of the backseat with half the clothes on than he probably expected.

“Mr. Hoffman is not going to like this,” he warns, not elaborating on his meaning, although it is obvious. He probably hopes I’ll reconsider my choices.

“Stuff it, Collins,” Claire interjects, tugging me toward the crowd waiting to get inside the club.

We manage to jump to the head of the line with a quick exchange of some Ben Franklins. Collins follows us inside—probably on strict, finely detailed orders—and looks as comfortable as a father giving his daughter the infamous sex talk for the first time. He has a perpetual scowl on his face and eagle eyes. Parker lingers outside. Neither man thought it was necessary to wear an outfit to blend in with the crowd.

Glancing around, I spot Malcolm along the back perimeter of the room. I wish he would have at least stuck with the winter theme when he chose his suit for tonight. He is big enough to be confused as a bouncer but nice enough to pose as the greeter.

Claire leans into me and whispers, “I think Collins could have used some pizza. He looks hungry for a fight.”

“He does seem pretty angry,” I mutter, making him look at me and glare. “Oops, you heard that.”

The entire club is vibrating with techno Christmas carols. Snowflakes are strung from the ceiling on long wires, sparkling like flattened disco balls. There are three separate bars, all lit up with frosted blue lights. The club is two levels with the top one wrapped just around the perimeter, with private viewing booths and a personal waitstaff.

This is definitely not the type of dive that has the little bowls of cocktail peanuts for everyone to spread their germs in on the bar. This place is too classy for that kind of snackage.

Along the side of the dance floor, huge ice sculptures are carved into a winter scene, decorated with up-lighting and moving parts. Claire grabs my hand, pulling me toward the far side bar that appears to be less crowded. The bartenders are all male and all dressed like strippers. Low hung white pants, no shirt, and a white bowtie make up their uniform. Oh, and a six pack of steel. Let’s not forget that.

We order the signature Snowflake Martini drink which is colored Caribbean Ocean blue. The rim is decorated with white chocolate and shredded coconut flakes. It is like a luxurious liquid dessert, despite mine missing the alcohol.

“Do these things even have alcohol in them?” Claire asks, staring at her empty beverage. I know mine doesn’t. “I need something that’ll make me feel alive.”

“Well, I got just the thing,” the bartender says, filling up a shot glass with something clear.

“This better not be bottled water,” she teases, earning a wink. She throws back the shot—squinting over the throat burn—slamming the empty glass down onto the bar’s surface. “That ain’t no bottled water,” she whisper-yells, looking dizzy from the surge of alcohol to her system.

We order another drink, chat about stupid shit, and laugh until our bellies hurt.

Feeling in the dancing mood, I grab Claire and push her toward the blaring music and the polished floor. We enter with our drinks in one hand and the other waving around obnoxiously in the air, probably not even in beat to the music—although I think my rhythm is right on the tempo.

With each song change, we either shout compliments to the DJ spinning the sounds or scream our request on what should be played next. My corset rises as my arms fly into the air—exposing more bare belly than I probably realize. My flaring skirt is fun and flirty, swishing side to side with the sway of my hips. I shake my ass and get into the groove, ignoring everyone in my vicinity. I feel pretty and just let go and breathe in the atmosphere.

While I give him credit for being discreet, Collins is still here watching my every move. It’s a bit daunting when I am able to slow my mind down enough to think about it. When Claire flinches beside me, I follow her gaze down to her phone.

“What’s wrong?” I yell, trying to get my words out above the music.

“Nothing.”

---