Page 7 of Scattered Glitter

“I’ve never asked.” I lean on the bar, making sure my tits look good while looking up at him with a playful smile. “What’s your name?”

He chuckles—a low, sexy sound that makes my stomach flip. “Oh,nowyou wanna know?”

“What?” I grin, taking another sip of my drink. “Can’t a girl ask for her favorite bartender’s name?”

“When I asked about yours, you gave me a dumbass answer and didn’t even ask for mine in return, so I figured you didn’t care.”

“I didn’t then.”Lie. “I do now, though.”

His chuckle comes again, and damn, it’s even sexier the second time. “Will you tell me yours?” he asks, leaning in a little closer as if we’re about to share some big secrets.

“Glitter.”

“Again, with the bullshit answer. Nobody’s name is Glitter. That’s a fucking stripper name.” He laughs, and a teasing grin spreads across his lips as I stare at him blankly,waiting and watching as his gaze flicks between Annabelle and me twice before the light bulb goes off in his head. “Youarea stripper.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” Annabelle jokes, turning back to us with a wide grin.

“What’s your real name, then?” he presses.

“Nah, sounded like you don’t likefucking strippers, so you don’t have to get to know them better.” I shrug, not giving an inch, setting my empty glass on the bar as Annabelle empties hers. “Dance?”

“Yes!” She beams, slipping off the barstool.

I’m about to slide off my stool when Hottie’s hand catches my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. I glance down at his tattooed hand, following the inked designs up his forearm to his bicep, appreciating how the tattoos add to his perfectly lean and muscled frame.

He’s so damn hot.

When I meet his eyes again, the flirtatious glint is gone, replaced with something more sincere. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

His earnestness catches me off guard, and I’m not sure how to respond. I’m not in the mood for sincerity, and it’s a little too real for what I’m looking for tonight.

Or ever.

Yet the way he says it, soft and without pretense, scrapes against the edges of Glitter, threatening to peel back the layer she hides behind. I can’t let that happen. People like Hottie don’t get to see the cracks underneath.

They don’t get to know me, not the girl who used to cry herself to sleep when she thought no one could hear. Not the girl who swore she’d never need anyone again.

Nobody knows me.

“All good,Hottie, no foul, no harm.” I pat his hand on my wrist before he lets go.

“Hottie?” he questions, his grin returning. I shrug, hopping off the stool and grabbing Annabelle’s hand to pull her toward the dance floor. “Is that my stripper name?” he yells after us with a laugh, but I ignore him. We let loose like we have almost every night for the past six years until she got her serious boyfriend. It’s hard to shake the feeling that this might be the last time we do this. But I’m not here to get sentimental.

This is my escape, where I don’t have to think about my problems, life,or past.So, I push the thought away, bury it deep, and make myself enjoy it as if it’s just another night and there are a hundred more to come.

While we dance, guys try to get close, their hands reaching out, trying to touch or pull us in. It would be so easy to let one of them succeed, to let him drag me to the bathroom stalls and forget everything in the haze of skin on skin. But I promised myself no guys tonight.

This is Annabelle’s night,our night.

I grab her waist and pull her close, pressing our bodies together, moving in sync with the beat. We’re putting on a show, and we both know it.

When the heat of the crowd gets to be too much, I lean into Annabelle. “Wanna go outside for a smoke?”

She nods, and we make our way through the crowd, pushing past eager hands and hungry looks until we’re outside, where the cold air hits us like a welcome wave. We head to our usual spot in the small alley next to the club. It’s lit well enough that the bouncer can see us but far enough from the front door that we don’t have to deal with catcalls and bullshit.

As we round the corner, I spot him. Hottie. He’s leaning casually against the brick wall, a blunt between his fingers. He looks up as we approach, a half-smile playing on his lips as he sees me pulling out a cigarette. We stop at the alley’sentrance, but he doesn’t stay put for long, sauntering over to us, a confident swagger in every step.

“Needed a break from all the dancing you’ve been doing for fun?” Without the bar separating us, the sheer difference in height becomes impossible to ignore. I look up at him, and damn—my gaze travels up and up like scaling a skyscraper. He’s at least a foot taller than me, six-foot-four compared to my five-foot-four frame, and it’s dizzying to have to crane my neck just to meet his eyes. His black T-shirt is cropped just above his belly button, giving me a good view of his abs, which are inked with random tattoos that somehow all work together.

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