Page 7 of Painted Truths

“Hi.” I peer at the white, bright name badge on the side of his dark suit. “Umm… Burt. I’m Olivia, and I’ve not been invited up here. As a matter of fact, I don’t know a single person in that room.”

I plough on, cringing internally at the word vomit while pleading with myself to quit it. But, once it starts, it’s hard to stop the spew.

“I’ve never been to a club before, not even a pub if you can believe that. I’ve been very sheltered by my parents, and I’m breaking a bazillion rules by being here tonight. But, I need to meet a guy who is a guest up here because he saw me earlier, and I’ve been too nervous about coming and finding him, and now I’ve drunk some strange alcohol that tastes like liquorice for some ‘liquid courage’ as my friend called it, and I’m blabbering on like an idiot to meet a McHottie, though my head says I should know better… and I should just go now.”

Inhaling a deep breath because my tirade had been one long, breathless sentence that had picked up speed the longer I’d gone on, my face flushes in a deep pink blush from the lack of oxygen and complete embarrassment at my idiocy. Still, as luck would have it, just as I’m about to cut and run, Burt, the gentle giant, catches my wrist, pulling me closer with a facial expression as close to a grin as I reckon his stoic face can get.

“After a spiel like that, I’d have to be a right bollocks not to let you in, wouldn’t I?”

My face breaks into a wide smile that reaches my eyes as I look up into his slightly less angry looking face, but just as I’m about to utter my thanks, a sudden movement through the crowded room draws my attention.

The sight of the McHottie bearing down on us at light speed, with such intensity on his handsome features, turns the still burning ball of warmth from those syrupy shots to molten lava in the depths of my stomach.

What would Jo do? I can almost hear her voice whispering in my ear, like a miniature devil on my shoulder.

“Game face on, girl.” And so, channelling my inner Jo, I meet his eyes with mine, ready for whatever the night may bring.

CHAPTER THREE

Henry

Three hours later, the VIP area is overflowing.

Caden has always been prone to excess, a product of being the only son of the world’s best-known rocker.

From the age of fifteen, when he lost his virginity to our thirty-year-old English teacher on her desk at the stupidly posh school for rich assholes where we met, his favourite vice has always been a pretty face—and an even prettier pussy.

If the man were told he could either have food or pussy for the rest of his life, he’d happily die gorging on exquisite pink tacos.

The star of the show is currently holding court with twin redheads adorning each knee and his long term, more-off-than-on girlfriend, Layla, at his feet with her hand palming his blatantly hard cock through his ripped denims while her other hand disappears under one of the redheads' short skirts.

Catching my eye, he gives me his signature self-satisfied Cheshire Cat grin, before turning to one of the redheads and running his tongue up and down her exposed neck, playfully nipping at it to the delight of the groupie.

He and Layla are into sharing, always have been. Nate and I don’t get how he can share his bird but have just given it up as a lost cause, having asked too many times to count.

Considering Cade and his band have just signed a multi-million-pound contract with Spellman Sounds, one of the world’s biggest record labels, I think the man deserves to let loose. They are starting an extensive world tour in a couple of weeks, so who knows when the three of us will be together next time.

Shaking my head at his not-so-surprising antics, I turn back to Nathaniel, who has been unusually quiet this evening, even for him. Nate often comes across as aloof or just plain rude as the most reserved of our trio, but that isn’t the case.

He is an observer, forever taking in everything around him and committing it all to memory.

For such a quiet guy, the man gets almost as much pussy as North, and that's saying something; the perks of being an award-winning, internationally best-selling author and all by the tender age of twenty-three. Four years and three revelatory books later, he’s more than a little aimless. In his own words, he “peaked at twenty-fucking-three and it’s all been one big shitshow since.”

“You fucking any of these wannabes tonight?”

“If I hadn’t been ruined by that luscious blonde earlier, I would be.” He snorts into his Jack and Coke as I grin, continuing. “Seriously, man, did you fucking see her? On a scale of one to ten, she was a stone-cold one-hundred. Did. You. See. That. Ass?”

An ass like perfect peaches.

I make an O shape with my lips as I suck air through them. Nate nods fervently. “Fuck yeah, I did. De-fucking-lish. A thing of beauty!” He stops, then questions, “What the hell was she doing with Alex?”

Rubbing a hand down my scruff, I shrug my shoulders as I nod.

“Maybe he’s got a massive cock.” My words feel like sandpaper on my tongue. The thought of my kid brother getting to put his hands on the hottest woman I have ever seen is a severe buzzkill.

“Jesus, DeMarco, I’d rather not think about your baby brother’s cock; thank you very much.”

Raising a sardonic eyebrow to match my half-smirk, I chuckle at the grimace on his face.