Page 54 of I Would Die For You

Thebarisseedy,dark, the smell of stale beer mingling with the reek of a dozen bad colognes that have decayed into a pungent musk lingering under the pall of acrid cigarette smoke permeating every wall, column, and beam.

I’m standing out like a white calla lily in a dark funeral home, the short bubble dress on me doing nothing to hide my legs extending into four-inch-high stiletto sandals with a tell-tale red sole. I’m here to score, but not with any of the unwashed and greasy little asshats haunting this place like bad ghosts.

“What can I get you, sunshine?” the woman behind the bar asks me.

“Uhm, a screwdriver?” I force on the Cali-girl accent, my tone with a higher pitch than usual.

She scoffs, then whips up my drink and serves it.

I take a sip and moan with pleasure, even though in truth I think it’s disgusting. I hate alcohol, the taste even more than the smell. “Ooh, that is good.” I nod at the young woman sitting a few paces away at the bar. “What’s she having?”

Barwoman cackles and shakes her head. I open my small designer purse and pull a hundred-dollar-note from inside, slipping it her way.

She takes the money and slinks to the side, conferring with the other patron. I’m sure the money is talking, and she’s taken me for some gullible cash cow looking to slum it in this dump for a cheap thrill. Fine by me—that is, in fact, the intention.

She returns to polishing a glass, and I sip my drink some more. A few moments later, the stool next to me is filled by the young woman I asked about.

“Bourbon,” she says.

I motion to Barwoman to bring her a glass.

“That’s a strong drink for a pretty girl like you,” I say.

“I’m a strong girl.”

I rake my gaze over her.

“That, you are.” The drawl in my voice sounds lascivious. “You also seem like you’re made for the good stuff.”

She laughs. “And what’s that? You?”

“Don’t diss it until you try.” I open the purse a little, give her a glimpse of the wad of bills inside.

“You’ll pay me to sleep with you?”

“You don’t rock that way?” I shake my head. “Shame. But I actually have a proposal you may find interesting. Let’s sit.”

I take my drink and head to a booth, hoping she’ll follow. She does. Money is always such a potent lure.

“I’m listening,” she says as she parks her skinny ass on the banquette.

On cue, a man steps inside the bar, his gaze roving the interior to find us. Some of the folks here are with me, watching my back, and also keeping an eye out for trouble. Their job was to send the alert when I sat down with this girl.

“What’s your name, honey?” I ask her.

She glances at me before checking out the man walking in. “Mandy.”

“Mandy. That’s my husband.”

“What?”

“That hunk walking in, he’s coming here. He’s my husband.”

Her mouth is hanging open now. And I can totally understand. Stefano’s long legs are clad in designer jeans molding to his strong quads and tight butt, the waistband hinting at his washboard abs, the dark-green Henley emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the firm, rounded curves of his pecs and biceps. His long hair is loose on his nape, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed so that fuller lower lip juts out a little more.

He's devastatingly gorgeous, and it isn’t Mandy or even Barwoman who’ll contradict me.

Stefano slips into the booth beside me and dips his head to kiss my neck. It’s a shock when his lips graze my skin. It’s been so long since he’s touched me, let alone put his mouth on me. I don’t need to conjure the moan that slips from my mouth when he lingers and starts suckling. The love bite is evident when he leaves me, the spot smarting and hot.

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