We make it to the club.
Some of our other friends are already there, sitting at a table near the bar with drinks in their hands. Thank God—we don’t do boring tables in the corner. We go where the liquor lives.
We greet them quickly and I head straight to the bar. I order a shot. Tequila. Anayah orders one too, and we throw them back like water.
We start yapping about everything—exes, sex, outfits, the usual bullshit.
I’m on my 4th shot now. Anayah already stumbled off to the dance floor, practically drunk, while Dominic is somewhere grinding on a random girl. Meanwhile, I’m still sitting because I don’t dance until I’m drunk. That’s one of my personal rules in life—don’t fuck sober, don’t dance sober. Simple.
I turn around and watch them. Anayah is dancing like she owns the place, hair swinging, body moving nasty on beat. Dominic is behind some girl, definitely going home with her tonight. Lucky him.
Then I feel it—that feeling when someone is staring at you. Not just looking STARING OR ADMIRING .
I turn my head and my eyes land on VIP. There he is. A fine-ass man leaning back on black leather, bottle service in front of him. He’s not laughing with friends or scrolling on his phone like everyone else—no. He’s staring and its right at me.
I stare back. Just a few seconds. Something in my stomach flips—not a soft butterfly feeling, more like a darker one. Heat mixed with curiosity.
Before anything can happen, Anayah appears out of nowhere.
“Bitch, you’re not gonna dance?”
“I am, but I’m not drunk,” I say.
“All right then, tell me when you're drunk so I can dance with you,” she winks and disappears again.
I laugh and shake my head. I love her drunk ass.
I turn back to VIP to see if he’s still looking.
He is.
Same posture. Same stare. Like he’s trying to strip me without moving a muscle.
I look away and order another shot. Then I feel it—someone step up behind me. Close. Too close. Close enough to feel a presence.
I turn around in my bar stool—and have to tilt my head up. Damn.
It’s him. The handsome VIP guy . Up close, he looks even better. Tall as fuck. Tattoos covering his forearm, Rolex catching the light, jaw so sharp it could cut me. And his eyes—Jesus Christ. Dangerous.
And of course—now I’m wondering what he’s packing under those black dress pants.
“Hey, angel,” he says, voice deep enough to drag across my skin.
“Hey,” I say back. “Wrong girl though. My name’s not Angel.”
He smirks, slow. “You look like one.”
I laugh because—trust me—I’m the opposite of one.
He takes the empty seat next to me, casual like he owns this spot now. “I was waiting to see if you had a boyfriend,” he says. “Had to ask myself though—do you?”
“Why did you wait?” I ask. “You scared?”
He chuckles. “No. I have respect.”
Interesting.
I nod. “How about you? You got a lady?”
His eyes drop to my lips before coming back to mine. “I do not, angel.”
I raise a brow. “You keep calling me that.”
He leans in slightly, voice low. “What’s your name then, angel?”
I smirk. “Definitely not Angel.”
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