Page 52 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“This is delicious!” The top-shelf rum warms my stomach as the cocktails flow, and I’m convinced in my tipsy state that Velour may be the best club in all of Chicagoland.

Yenn looks at me strangely. “Yeah,” she says, grinning. Or is she grimacing?

The dress I chose is entirely too daring for someone who used to be a preacher’s daughter. Yenn’s the only reason why I haven’t sold it. It cost almost five thousand dollars, and I have to admit, it’s exquisite.

The dress hugs my curves, a deep, glistening gold that looks scandalous under the dim lights. The fabric shimmers with hand-beaded crystals, catching the light in tiny flashes with even a slight movement, like stars trapped in the material. Its neckline dips dangerously low, drawing attention to my collarbone and just enough cleavage to tease without giving away too much. However, the skirt is short with a slit that exposes my thigh, revealing flesh up to my hip.

No one could wear panties with this one, and goddamn I’ve never felt so free.

The sleeves are long, balancing out the boldness of the hemline, and the fabric clings to my arms, adding a touch of sophistication. A sash ties at my hip, accentuating my waist and adding a playful edge to the outfit. It’s sexy but powerful—a dress that says,Look at me,but also,You’ll never touch me.

Tonight, in this dress, I feel unstoppable.

The DJ stopped playing Deep House music about an hour ago, shifting into sexy R&B. The Weeknd’sThe Hillsstarts, and I let out a whoop at the first heavy drop in the opening bars.

“I fucking love this song!” I scream, hopping into the investment banker’s arms. He chuckles, and I have to admit, his smile is a little dazzling. He looks like he could be in toothpaste commercials. Or any other commercial.

Angular jaw.

Dark hair styled in intentional waves, curling around his ears. His eyes are a lovely shade of honey brown.

But he’s no Storm Sandoval.

I shake my head and pull on the investment banker’s hand, bringing him onto the dance floor. Pressing my back to his front, I grind on him to the slow, sensual beat.

Oh, Abel. You make gorgeous music.

“You’re stunning,” the investment banker says. His head dips low, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, and I raise my glass high above my head.

When he pushes against me, I can map the outline of his bulge. I can work with that.

See? I don’t need no Storm Sandoval.

The investment banker runs his hand up my arm, gripping the wrist holding my drink.

“Give me some of that,” he says, pulling my hand back so that he can take a sip from my glass. It’s a hot move, I have to admit.

“Mmm, tastes like apple and you. But I’m only assuming on the ‘you’ part.” He still holds my wrist, and I look at him over my shoulder. His intent is clear in his gaze.

I should want this. I really should. But when his head lowers to mine, I turn my face away, covering my rejection by taking several sips of my cocktail until I’ve nearly emptied the glass.

When I finally face him, he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he glares past my shoulder, seeming pissed off. I open my mouth to say something like, “It’s not me, it’s you.”

Wait. I have that backward.

Sure you do.

The song changes, sliding into a more up-tempo beat, when there’s a tug on my shoulder. Yenn’s face is suddenly very close to mine.

“Shae, I think you need to slow down,” she says, reaching for my cocktail glass. I raise it in the air, above my head.

“Why? I’m just having fun!” I whine with a pout.

She rolls her eyes, and I have to admit, yes, I probably have stepped past the tipsy stage and into drunk. Her eye roll makes the room tilt.

Holding onto her shoulder a bit more so I don’t faceplant into the industrial concrete floor, I lower my voice a fraction.

“You’re the one who said I should ‘get wild.’” I make air quotes. “You can’t renege on the promise of wildness, sis! We even sang theJersey Shoretheme song together!”

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