Page 2 of Bound to Death

I sipped the cocktail Emily bought for me before heading onto the dance floor to find herself a new victim. I leaned against the bar, a little uncomfortable with how packed the club was tonight.

I’d window shop for an hour and hopefully find someone decent enough to take home for a sexy romp to scratch the itch. If not, I’d head back to the apartment with a buzz and spend a little time with one of my book boyfriends. Either way, I’d make the most out of getting this dolled up to go out.

Tomorrow was my day off, so I didn’t need to worry about being late, or Mr. Big Boss Asshat complaining about how I looked like death walking. Mark really did know just the thing to say to woo a girl, always pointing out the flaws in my appearance or suggesting I try to wear more makeup or sexier clothes. Or my personal favorite, how I looked like I needed to sleep better. It was obnoxious, but he was the grandkid of the company owner, so if I wanted to keep my job, I needed to deal with his sexist bullshit.

The things a girl does for a paycheck.

The guy beside me tapped my shoulder. Mistake number uno. “Hey, pretty lady. You here alone?”

Pretty lady? Ugh, spare me this shameless playboy torment.

The second I looked over, I wished I hadn’t. The dude was a raving poster bro for every stereotypical version of a bad lay. The asshole was pretty, I’d give him that, but too damn arrogant about it. Guys like him didn’t have to work for it, and most times, they preferred their prey ignorant and barely legal.

I’d been told too many times to count that I didn’t look my age when I put effort into my looks. How sweet, right? Every girldreamed about being told they looked two steps from the grave until they slathered on some concealer and eyeshadow.

Gross compliments and pet names aside, these narcissistic frat boys took whatever pleasure they wanted and didn’t give a shit about whether or not their partner got off. Which meant he wasn’t worth my time. I didn’t wear these ridiculous clothes and paint my face with expensive-as-shit makeup I stole from Emily to be some guy’s sex toy.

A girl had standards.

“Yeah, no.”

“What?”

I motioned to him, nibbling on my straw with a smirk. “You look like a walking red flag, and not in a good way. I’ll pass, thanks. I don’t have the bail money this month for putting you in your place when you forget what the word no means.”

The blonde bro opened his mouth, ready to argue, but I’d already taken my drink and my “pretty lady” ass the other direction. Safe from retaliation, I let loose a breath. It wasn’t the smartest idea to insult a strange guy I didn’t know, especially when I hadn’t trained in over a year.

I used to workout daily and practice several styles of martial arts. After one of the girls in my fifth-grade class was attacked by a predator, my overly religious parents, worried I’d betaintedbefore marriage, put me in self-defense classes so I, the potential victim, could be burdened with the responsibility of keeping myself safe.

Probably the only time those religious zealots got it right.

I might not agree with the idea of putting the onus on young girls and women to do something instead of—I don’t know—raising our men to see them as people rather than objects, but I fell in love with how powerful it made me feel. I even went on to compete in several tournaments during college.

But with my terrible work-life balance, I never had time anymore. Granted, the muscle memory of it never truly left a person, so if it came down to it, I’d still be better off than some poor, helpless woman without a history of kicking ass.

Once upon a time, I went through a vigilante phase. A few brushes with the law nearly put me in juvie. They didn’t take too kindly to my approach of getting even in the name of justice. Said I needed to leave it to the law to punish the criminals. But their justice wasn’t asjustas they claimed. Guys like Bad Lay back at the bar always had their daddies pay off their misdeeds, or they got away with painting the woman as a drunk whore.

Our voices didn’t matter.

I’d seen it enough to know that if he attacked me, I was on my own. Either I let him take what he wanted, or I break a few ribs. The type of person I was, I’d break the ribs and ask Emily to sweet talk me out of a charge later. She was a damn good lawyer despite her partying ways, and I’d relied on her a little too often to step in when my mouth got the better of me. Of course, she was also my biggest fan and did it every time with a smile and wink. I was starting to think she enjoyed the drama of it all.

Peeking over my shoulder, I made sure Bad Lay wasn’t following and made my way through the crowd. I’d finish my drink and get a much-deserved buzz. After, I’d dance away the horrible feeling of Bad Lay’s eyes skating down my body. Then, I’d find someone who didn’t talk—like, at all—and bang one out so I could get on with my life.

The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen came out of a sea of gyrating bodies when the music changed and the crowd started to yell their approval. Her ethereal blue gaze caught mine before she headed straight for me.

Her waist-length golden-blonde hair was a wavy cascade down her pale shoulders, and every limb was gorgeously long and perfect. Every part of her body glittered beneath the strobe lightsas she sashayed towards me. I didn’t move the entire time she closed in on me like I was her prey. I barely caught what she said to me as she pushed past, but I could’ve sworn she told me to “Go home, Asha. He’s looking for you.”

Did she just say my name?

My drink splashed over my exposed cleavage when her arm swiped mine. Turning my head quickly, I lost sight of the strange woman. My skin prickled, left electrified in her absence like she dragged static with her everywhere she went. It didn’t appear she’d been swallowed by the crowd. If anything, it was as if she disappeared into thin air. But that wasn’t possible. People didn’t just disappear. Maybe I’d already had too much to drink.

Blinking away my confusion, I looked down at my chest. So much for finding a stranger to fuck. Apparently, I’d be washing my shirt as best as I could and then going home tonight.

I’d chosen a white, low-dipping top tucked into a high-waisted, black-and-silver flannel skirt, so my lacy bra was on full display. Some asshole would be convinced I wasasking for it.So, sadly, my night was over. Whatever attention this wet-shirt situation attracted, I didn’t want any part of it.

Guess the strange woman got what she wanted. This chick was heading home. I wasn’t sure who theheshe referred to was, but unfortunately, that guy would have to find someone else to set his sights on.

Cursing the heavens because I didn’t want to be sticky and smell like booze for the walk back to my apartment, I headed for the bathroom after leaving my cup on one of the tables. Grumbling, I instantly regretted letting Emily talk me out of wearing a jacket. “For the plot!” she’d always yell whenever I’d argue that it wasn’t sensible to be this cold or half-dressed for a one-time lay. But she was a lawyer, so Emily always won the argument.

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