His voice dropped to a whisper. “Four times, Tara. We’ve painted that room four times with three different shades of pink.”
“Just be glad you aren’t painting it gray,” I reminded him.
I heard him groan. “Yeah, you have to come help now. You owe me for listening to that lame joke.”
I sighed and looked around my apartment. I wouldn’t be able to afford it come December, not without a job. “Do you really want me to?” I asked, unable to hide the hope from my voice.
“Of course.” I could already picture Tristan’s warm brown eyes on the other end. “Who else am I going to beat at poker?”
“We’ll see about that.” I snorted.
“So you’ll come?” he said hopefully.
I hesitated for a second. “Yeah.”
“Awesome. When can we expect you?”
“Give me a week.” Pulling up stakes in seven days and hauling my ass to Tristan’s wasn’t going to be the hard part. Saying goodbye to the city was. I moved here right after college, determined to make a life of my own.
Well, I had done that, but maybe now it was time to move on to better, healthier things.
So after I ended the call with Tristan and ate my third bowl of Lucky Charms, I formed a plan.
I would go out and paint the town by myself one last time.
I slipped into a tight-fitting dress, one that hugged my curves, and let my hair fall in soft waves around my shoulders. Maybe it was ridiculous, getting all dressed up just to distractmyself from the gaping hole in my chest, but I needed something, anything, to take my mind off Jason.
Even if I knew there was a chance I might run into him.
Outside, the night air was damp, thick with the scent of wet pavement and the faint metallic tang of an oncoming storm. A fine drizzle misted over the city, clinging to my skin as I stepped onto the sidewalk. The forecast said it would rain all week, and judging by the low-hanging clouds, it had no plans of stopping anytime soon.
But I wasn’t going to let a little bad weather stop me.
I turned onto the familiar alleyway, my heels clicking against the slick pavement. The narrow space was packed with hopeful perverts and thrill-seekers, all eager for a taste of something they couldn’t find anywhere else. Voices mixed with the distant thud of bass leaking through the heavy doors.
I pushed my way to the front, ignoring the leering glances and murmured comments. A small window in the middle of the familiar steel door slid open, revealing a pair of tired, unimpressed eyes.
“Name?”
“Tara Holloway.”
The man grumbled something under his breath, then asked the only question that mattered.
“Password?”
“Please, Mistress, let me come in.” I tried to push out my bottom lip like Sarah, hoping to sell the act, but the guy only chuckled at my attempt.
“Alright, get your ass in here.”
The heavy door creaked open just enough for me to slip through, and I scurried inside before he could change his mind. A rush of heat hit me immediately, a stark contrast to the cold drizzle outside. The air was thick with sweat and perfume, whilethe bass from the speakers thrummed in my chest like a second heartbeat.
I flashed a brief smile at the doorman before making a beeline for the bar, weaving through a sea of bodies pressed too close together for comfort. The room pulsed with dim, crimson lighting, gleaming against metal cuffs and chains dangling from the ceiling.
The bartender was swamped, his hands moving in a blur as he poured shots, shook cocktails, and slid glasses across the counter. Orders flew at him from every direction, but when he finally whipped around with two empty cocktail glasses in hand, his gaze landed on me—and he grinned.
“Well, look who’s back,” he whistled.
“You remember me?” It was hard not to shout over all the music and begging for mercy.
