Page 2 of Fame and Obsession

After downing the drink, I take in a sweeping view of Club Vanquish. Unofficially dubbed the trendiest new local hotspot, it sits tucked away in an unassuming building that lacks all the glitz and glamor of a normal New York City nightclub. While the plain brick exterior implies simplicity, inside, strobe lights illuminate a hardwood dance floor while rows of velvet furniture line the walls.

I squint through the darkness, my eyes land on an upper level complete with its own bar and seating area. Only a few silhouettes fill the area—unlike the herd of cattle meandering around me. The forbidden “Narnia-esque” VIP section intrigues me, sitting high above the action like its own throne.

Contemplating a closer look, I shift higher onto the wooden bar and gasp when a pair of strong hands wrap around my waist from behind.

A gasp lodges in my throat as I remind myself I’m not helpless anymore. I’ve come prepared for unwanted attention.

Slowly, I reach for my purse, my pulse racing.

A pair of lips reeking of booze grazes my ear. “What goes up, must come down.”

I shift away, my self-defense training kicked in as I shove an elbow in his chest and toss a glare over my shoulder. “Did you learn that line in physics class, or was it written on the inside of a Snapple cap?”

He chuckles. “Sass. I like that.” After passing an inebriated gaze down my chest, he winks at the bartender. “Chuck, put this one’s drinks on my tab.”

I can’t help but laugh. I’m not interested, and definitely not intimidated. He’s average height with average thinning brown hair and average shit-brown eyes. Not only that, he’s had way too much to drink, and I’m sure as hell not a defenseless victim anymore.

Sass is about to go down a couple of notches on his list.

“Actually, Chuck, I’ll pay for my own drink as soon as your friend takes his hands off me.”

He lets go of my waist and holds both hands up in surrender. Seizing the reprieve, I grab two bills out of my purse, hesitating when my fingers skim the stun gun tucked inside my purse.

The one cleverly disguised as a digital camera.

I’m cautious, not stupid.

However, just as the thought forms, I reject it, quickly closing the clasp. A bar is no place to deploy a stunner. Especially since civilian stun gun possession is sort of illegal in New York.

Or completely illegal.

As I hand over the cash to the bartender, the guy grabs my elbow and swings me around. “It’s not polite to turn down a drink, baby.”

I jerk my arm out of his grasp. “Fuck off.”

I’ve had a lifetime of proper etiquette reprimands—I don’t need any from him.

Keeping my eyes on him, I slip my hand back into my purse and released the stunner’s power button with a flick of my thumb.

One. Press. Down.

He grabs a handful of my long hair, his grin twisting. “You’ve got a real smart mouth.” Raising his fist to his face, he inhales, and flashbacks hit me from all angles.

Before I know it, I’ve clenched my fist.

From out of nowhere, a hand catches my wrist mid-swing. “Is there a problem? I believe the lady said fuck off.”

“Who the hell are you?” My aggressor sneers at the voice behind me, clearly annoyed.

Before I can turn around, arms hook tightly around my waist and pull me against a hard chest. A tattooed hand dislodges the fingers gripping my hair, shoving them back into the owner’s chest.

“I’m the guy giving you until the count of three to get your hands off my girl.”

His voice rolls over me with just enough gravel to weaken my knees. My reaction to the simple rasp of his tone shocked me.

The jerk who grabbed me isn’t intimidated. “What’s up your ass, limp dick?”

Electricity sizzles as the coiled body behind me tenses.

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