Page 23 of Heartfelt Pain
I lift a brow. “Is it?”
Pretty implies floral sundresses. I picture Lennie with her constant smiles and chattiness about books. I think of sunsets and the beach.
“Not the type of compliment you like?” He’s got dark hair, a curl swooping down his forehead. Despite the opulent setting and the expensive alcohol, I can’t get past the idea that this conversation could take place anywhere. A dive bar sees plenty of men hitting on women.
I remind myself this is exactly why I came here, though. I wanted a man’s attention.
“I’m wearing a three thousand dollar dress”—I don’t bother to smile or make niceties—“and I’m not wearing any underwear. I didn’t come here for pretty.”
His blue eyes scan my body. I sip my drink, uncaring. Unfeeling. “What’d you come for?” he asks.
Myself. To prove a point to myself that I’m ready to move on. I should have moved on a long time ago.
“Cock,” I tell him, flashing a sardonic smile.
His own grin is feral in response. At least until another voice cuts in.
“But not yours.”
My skin flushes.
The man glances over his shoulder, frowning at Roma Zimin. “I’m sorry, mate.”
Roma sighs and I can hear the exasperation. “She’s not here for your cock, mate. So kindly fuck off.”
“Because she’s here for yours?” he questions, looking my way. Couples getting into fights before they fuck is certainly a thing, but that’s not what’s going on here.
I straighten my spine ready to bitch Roma the fuck out when I catch his face. I throw back the rest of my martini instead.
“Don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at,” I mutter. My irritation grows when the handsome stranger leaves, only slightly put out. I honestly thought he’d put up more of a fight. “I liked him.”
Roma snorts. “You could barely stand to look at him.”
Rage, deep and unbridled, festers in my belly. Slamming the empty drink on the bar, I step away.
“Len’s not here,” I call over my shoulder, striding away.
“Elijah’s fucking her.”
I tamper the urge to let out an unladylike temper tantrum. “Did you come all the way here just to announce that?”
It hits me then, he’s not wearing a tux like most of the men here.
“Who the fuck do you know here?” I ask.
“What?” He stays on my heels, following me down a long hallway.
“You’re wearing a T-shirt under your leather jacket.” It’s the same beat-up one he’s worn forever. “They’re pretty strict with the dress code.”
My words cause his gaze to sweep down my body. I cross my arms refusing to feel any certain type of way at the way he looks at me.
“You were never really a dress code type of person,” he says.
I go back to my march, willing myself away from him. I don’t know what the fuck this is, but I decide I will be the mature one. I’ll walk away politely. Or somewhat politely because a flicker of annoyance appears when he follows.
The last time I came into contact with Roma, we were in the Akatov family home. He’d come over to check on Elijah after Leopold’s attack and Isolde and I were there, doing the same for Len. Hours before that, I’d stopped one of Leopold’s men from shooting his face off.
I hate Roma. But like I said earlier, I’m not going to be the reason he ends up dead. It’s why I warned his father about the random serial killer on the loose.
