Page 130 of The Contract

I just blink.

Where have I been? Is she fucking serious?

I want to unload an entire landfill’s worth of emotional baggage right at her feet. How I went from freezing my ass off outside to letting Jabba the Butt paw at me just to squeeze through the goddamn door.

How I’m still processing that I had to hold a knife to his dick to make him back off.

And how no amount of tequila in the universe will ever scrub the ghost of his sweaty grip from my skin—though fuck if I’m not going to try.

But the words lodge painfully in my throat.

My attention shifts, landing on the sash slung crookedly across Mila’s chest. “It’s your birthday?”

She nods dramatically, lips pursed. “I didn’t wanna say anything, because you were clearly having some sort of emotional crisis, but yeah.” Her eyes abruptly widen, zeroing in on me. “Oh my God—where did you get that necklace?”

It’s only then I realize Mila isn’t wearing one.

My gaze darts quickly around the room. Mostly men, though about half of the women here are wearing them.

A knot tightens deep in my stomach as I rub the pendant self-consciously. “They wouldn’t let me in without it. How’d you get inside?”

She shrugs, expression clueless and blurry. “No idea. But I totally want one. I’ll have Derek grab me one when he’s back from the bathroom,” she slurs.

“You mean Decker?” I smirk dryly.

“Deck,” she snorts, throwing back the rest of her drink in one dramatic gulp. “Rhymes with dick. Coincidence? I think not.”

A laugh escapes me, easing some of the knotted tension from my shoulders. “Exactly how many of those have you had?”

“Not nearly enough.”

A woman appears beside us, gliding in like smoke wrapped in silk. A black feathered mask hides half her face, and a burlesque corset molds perfectly against every curve.

Effortlessly balanced on one hand is a silver tray stacked high with champagne flutes and a tempting assortment of lowballs and shot glasses.

“Champagne?” she gestures smoothly. “Premium tequila…or aged whiskey, perhaps?”

I reach for a champagne, craving something safe and fizzy. The last time I drank was on a flight to my sister’s wedding. And since total shitshow barely scratches the surface, buzzed, not blackout. That’s the plan.

But before my fingers even brush glass—Slap.

A sharp sting lashes the back of my hand.

Mila wags a drunken finger in my face, eyes sparkling with delight. “Oh, hell no,” she scolds, grin wide and completely shameless. “We’re doing shots. Because if we’re doing this, we’re fucking doing this.”

I hesitate, just a heartbeat.

Then I see her birthday sash and…fuck it.

Why not?

She swaps her lowball for two shot glasses, grin wide and carefree.

Worry pinches my lips. I frown. “How much?” I ask cautiously.

“Complimentary,” the waitress says, already melting back into the writhing crowd.

I eye the clear liquid suspiciously, tracking her path. Drinks vanish from her tray like candy spilling from a busted piñata.

---