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“No. Ties are so passé. Wear those black dress shoes you have. Your hair looks good. I think you turned a bit metrosexual since I last saw you.”
“Why because I like to style my hair?”
“And you manicure your nails. They look nice. Do you manscape?”
I’m horrified at the question as if I would tell her that I do.
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“Oh my God, you do, don’t you?”
“Paige…” I caution.
She kisses me on the cheek, puts my clothes on the bed, and grabs her dresses.
“This club is awesome,” Paige says.
I can barely hear myself think, but she’s right. Club Wicked Ninety Two is incredible. Miguel is friends with one of the owners. When we came in, we were immediately ushered up to the VIP level. We have our own area with bottle service and a view of the dance floor below. The area has several white and black banquettes, glass coffee tables, and funky S-shaped floor lamps with large white shades stamped with “Wicked 92.”
Miguel immediately zeroes in on a petite, curvy brunette at the table next to ours. He brought her over and introduced her as Candice. Harry brought a date, a tall willowy blonde named Alison. I can see Paige shooting daggers at her when she thinks no one is paying attention. I’m glad he’s occupied. Harry has been engaging my sister in conversation too much as far as I’m concerned. I don’t like the way he touches her arm or hand when they talk.
Grace finds her way to us about fifteen minutes after we arrive, and she asks Paige if she wants to hit the dance floor. They try to drag me with them, but I prefer to sit and drink my vodka rocks while watching the action below. I’m about to settle into the comfortable red upholstered bench seat when I spot her.
Lana is down below dancing with a man. He’s tall, handsome, and has his hands all over her body as they move together. I grit my teeth and take a long sip of my vodka, never taking my eyes off them. I watch as he slides his hands from her waist to her hips and then cups her backside. She doesn’t pull back from him the way she did me. He must be the guy she is seeing, and it’s apparent that they’ve been intimate.
I want to go down there and rip his arms out of their sockets. I want to be the one to cup her lovely ass, preferably while I have her backed against a wall with my dick buried to the hilt inside her. The thought gets my blood heating, and even with the bass pounding against the walls, I can feel my pulse quicken, thrumming in my ears.
I down the rest of my drink and stand against the railing, watching, hoping she’ll look up and see me. For one split second, my wish is granted. Our eyes meet, and I see a smirk come across her face. Lana rubs up against the guy, and he holds her tightly against him. I know what she’s doing, trying to make me jealous. It’s working because I want her to myself. I want the world to disappear, and it just be us.
Paige sees me and gestures to come down. I do just because I want to be near Lana. I want to touch her. I get between Paige and Grace; we’re dancing together, not far from Lana and her date. I need an in, and my angel, my best friend, Grace, gives me one. Apparently, she knows this man with Lana and touches his arm, they hug, and my chance comes.
I hate to leave my sister alone, but she recovers fast enough with a guy that she starts to dance with. I pull Lana into my arms.
“I saw you looking at me,” she practically yells.
“You’ve been teasing me.”
“Not at all. I see your friend knows Jeffrey.”
“I know nothing about that, but if it gets you into my arms, then perfect.”
Jeffrey comes to Lana, and she introduces us, saying I’m a friend. He smiles and gives me a weak handshake. I can see his look is suspicious, but Grace is inviting him over to the VIP area so they can catch up.
“Will you be alright?” Jeffrey says to Lana.
I answer for her. “She’ll be fine. I don’t bite.”
He frowns at me but sees she’s nodding, so he walks off with Grace. Now she’s all mine, and I splay my hand against the bare skin of her back. It’s so soft and slightly damp with sweat. The dress she’s wearing is black and hugs her body like a glove.
“I want to talk to you,” I yell.
“Where?”
I scan the room and find an area marked Lounge.
“There,” I point.
I don’t bother offering my hand because I don’t want to feel the sting of rejection when she turns it down. I’m surprised when she wraps her hand around my biceps as I take the lead. The lounge area has a few red vinyl padded benches. The music is a dull roar in here, and you can speak without yelling.
