AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m fine,” I lie, refusing to let Gus Winter’s name cross my tongue, even though he has fully overtaken my brain.
I know Jay can tell I’m lying because he scoffs softly. He doesn’t push though. After his father cut him off when he dropped out of college, Jay has desperately avoided conflict. His days are filled with nothing more than alcohol, cocaine, women, and various other forms of hedonism—and as his oldest friend, I’m happy to respect that. No drama from me.
“There’s another post about us in The Carraway today,” he mentions before he reaches over and takes one of the countless shots of vodka from the table.
With an eye roll, I pick up a shot glass of my own. “What is it today?” Exhale, shoot, burn. I suppress a cough because I’ll be damned if anyone ever catches me coughing through a shot. “Am I pregnant with your child? Or better yet—are you pregnant with mine?”
Jay lets out a snort. “Just pictures of us looking disgustingly attractive,” he replies, holding out his phone to show me a grainy photo of the two of us standing outside the club an hour ago.
The first time I appeared on The Carraway, I was eighteen years old. The post was a picture of me in Portugal during my summer vacation, and I was making out with a member of the national football team. By the time I was twenty-two, there were salacious stories of all degrees about me, including a notable recap, with pictures, of a drunken night in a hot tub in Berlin with the son of one of my father’s biggest rivals. My father was so angry with me, he sent the former KGB operative on his payroll to drag my ass back to the States, but that still didn’t stop The Carraway from tracking my whereabouts weekly. Dates, hookups, sloppy make outs on street corners, and even an ecstasy-fueled nightclub fingering—nothing is beneath The Carraway.
I wave my hand. “Pathetic.”
“Agreed,” Jay says before lowering his lips to my ear. “Then we should dance, shouldn’t we?”
The sound of his voice, that soft and sultry tone, is Pavlovian. His whispers bring me back to reckless, tipsy nights at boarding school when I would sneak into his room and ride him senseless while his roommate pretended to be asleep. Jay loved those nights because I was on top of him; I liked them because I knew his roommate was watching.
Holding my hand, he leads me to the dance floor, where we melt into the surging crowd. Music intermingles with my heartbeat. I press against Jay, who offers his familiar touch. His hips swell against mine and his hands drag along my arms, stoking simmering want.
Before long, his lips drift to my ear. “Back to the hotel?” he offers.
While Jay’s proposition floats between us, I recall the last time we slept together. It was a year ago, and we did it in the jet tub in our suite in Singapore. That night, I asked Jay to choke me; his decline was so immediate, it ruined the mood entirely and neither of us came.
Different strokes—I get it—but I’m not interested in being kink shamed tonight.
“Pass,” I answer, resting a reassuring hand on his cheek.
“Fair enough,” he replies, forcing a smile. He’s obviously hurt though.
We dance for another song, but the uneasiness doesn’t dissipate. A newfound discomfort sticks between us, and the bad vodka in my stomach isn’t helping.
“I’m going to take off,” he announces—his MO. I turn him down and he disappears, presumably to sulk at the hotel bar for the next few hours.
I nod, trying to keep my demeanor positive for his sake. “Text me later. Stay safe, okay?”
He barely sticks around for the platitudes.
Once he’s gone, I realize how little I want to be in this crowd. I weave off the dancefloor and head outside of the club. Faintly, the music pounds behind me, tangling with echoes of other DJs at the countless outdoor clubs that speckle Ibiza in the summer.
The warm air gives me some much-needed clarity. I breathe in deeply and will myself to be here, to live in the now, but respite is impossible with so many loose ends: The messages from Davis. The deal.
Gus Winter.
I’m probably the only person on this island looking up tech CEOs on her phone, but I’ve been to Ibiza enough that I don’t savor these nights anymore. Been there, done that.
When I search for Gus’s name, Google gives me over one hundred million results.
One hundred fucking million.
The fact that I didn’t know anything about Gus Winter now seems ignorant. He’s world famous—not to mention universally respected. Hell, he was literally on the cover of Time Magazine once. Granted, I was eleven and he was twenty-six when the cover was published, but still.
God, that’s twisted…
I hastily skip over the Time cover and scroll through the countless pictures of him. The man photographs exceptionally well—I’ll give him that. I study the sharp blue of his eyes, which stands out in every picture. Posed, candid—it doesn’t matter. His eyes are two deep pools of icy water, borderline intimidating…
…and beautiful, honestly.
Asshole.
