Page 3 of The Pursuit of Happiness

She hesitates before nodding and retreating back to the bar most likely to order the drink specially for Slater. Ivory giggles beside me, slapping my arm playfully with the back of her hand, “That was fucking genius,” she compliments.

I grin, my eyelids suddenly feeling heavier from the alcohol’s effect on me. I blame my giggly feeling and the calmness of my breaths on the vodka too. The feeling is so glorious, I need another shot immediately. As if on cue, our waitress returns with two fresh shots for us and she gives me a defeated look as she brings her tray over to the VIP section across from us. My eyes are firmly locked on Slater as the waitress strides over tohim. His eyes never leave mine and the question in his brow as if he’s unsure why I didn’t accept his drink weighs heavy on my chest in anticipation.

As the waitress stops before him and places the tray on the table, he leans forward as if to accept his drink. Ivory’s hand is wrapped tightly around my wrist as we watch the madness unfold. A slew of groupies who are hanging out in Slater’s booth and around him vie for his attention, but he’s only been focused on me and now this drink. I watch his lips move as he says something to the waitress and I watch as she reluctantly tells him something. His face falls and he looks defeated as she walks away with her tray under her arm. His eyes meet mine once more and he frowns as his eyes lower to the drink I sent.

I feel another set of eyes on me and glance a few feet away still in Slater’s booth. Another man with bright, coppery hair and pale skin is staring at me so intensely, it almost feels as intense as when Slater’s eyes were on me, but it doesn’t steal the air from my lungs in the same way. Our waitress returns with another round of shots for us and huffs, “That was so rude.”

I reach into my white leather shoulder bag that sits beside me on the couch and pull out three-hundred dollar bills. I hand it to her and smile in thanks. She quickly accepts the cash, stuffing it into her cleavage as her mood changes into a brighter one. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” I demand.

She shakes her head at me, a faint smile on her lips. “You may be one of the ballsiest people I’ve ever met.”

I place my hand on my chest as if in genuine thanks, “Thank you!”

Ivory laughs before her laughter cuts off abruptly. I turn to see what’s caused the shift in her mood. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer me right away. Instead, her eyes are trained on the red haired man in Slater’s booth whose eyes arestill locked on me. Ivory looks uncomfortable and unsettled in a way that I can’t explain. “Who is that?” She asks the waitress.

The waitress’ eyes land on the man before she looks back at Ivory and rolls her eyes, “Seriously? You don’t know him either?”

“Answer the question,” I snap. I want to know what’s got Ivory so unsettled. Does she know him?

The waitress huffs, “That’s Rogan Loughlin, the guitarist for Thunderstrike.”

As his name rolls off her tongue a memory comes back to mind. I knew there was something almost familiar about Rogan and now I know what it is. I’ve met him before at a few events. He’s approached me plenty of times in attempts at getting to know me and asking me out. I’ve turned him down everytime, politely of course, and claimed that I wasn’t interested due to a new lie every time. The truth is, I’m not attracted to him at all. Sure, I can recognize that he has nice features, but he just isn’t my type. My breath doesn’t escape my lungs when I look at him. I’m about to ask the waitress for a whole damn bottle of vodka but she’s already gone. I glance at Ivory, my head buzzing from the liquor. “What’s wrong?”

She shivers for a beat before shrugging, turning back to face me, “I don’t know. He just gave me a weird vibe.” She lowers her gaze to the shots and relaxes her shoulders as she reaches for the small glasses, handing me mine. “Here, let’s take these. We need to relax.”

I reach for my glass immediately, tossing the clear liquid down in a second, “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Ivory and I set the glasses down as the alcohol starts to take over our senses. I feel tipsy, on the verge of being drunk, but not quite there yet. “Brody would’ve loved the name of the drink you sent him,” Ivory praises.

I smirk, Brody would one-thousand percent love it. It’sa shame she isn’t here to see it. “We’ll just have to tell her tomorrow when she’s home.”

Ivory nods and my eyes wander around the club. As much as I try to avoid looking in the general vicinity of Slater Nicks, my eyes betray me. Just as my eyes land on him, our eyes connect and once again, the air leaves my lungs. I don’t know how long it is that we stare at each other but it feels like hours. I only realize what’s going on when he suddenly rises from his seat and starts walking over to our section, the drink I sent in hand. I stop breathing.

Ivory chokes on air and swats my arm, “Oh my God he’s coming over here! Why is he coming over here?” She panics.

I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out. Slater Nicks is coming over here with a mischievous look on his face and a dangerous smile on his lips. I watch as he continues walking through the sea of bodies and stops only before the bouncer who’s posted outside our section. He says something to them and they let him through. I squeeze the edge of the vinyl couch so tightly in my hands that my nails must dig through the fabric.

With every step he takes closer to me, my eyes widen more and more in shock. I was expecting him to let it go after I sent him that drink but apparently, he’s persistent. He stops on the other side of the table, now only about three feet away from me. Ivory watches, jaw practically on the floor as he and I stare into each other’s eyes. Now that he’s standing so close, I can get a better look at him. He has deep blue eyes almost like Brody’s but more turquoise in a way and he wears a sleeveless shirt that reads “Thunderstrike.” I scowl at the shirt before forcing my eyes back up to his stupidly perfect face. He looks completely cocky and amused by my visible discomfort before he bends down to set his drink on the table. I realize then just how tall he is. He must be around six-foot-five. I’m a tall girl, coming inaround five-foot-nine, but I’m sure standing next to him I would still have to stand on my toes to- No! To nothing, Aria Kane!

Oblivious to my internal battle, he grins, “Thanks for my drink but I would’ve preferred a ‘french kiss.’” His voice is so husky and firm I want to record it and listen to it on a loop when I get home.

I get so lost in his voice that his comment about a french kiss martini was forgotten. He’s looking at me expectantly and I quickly retort, “I guess I’ll just have to get more creative the next time I’m turning someone down.”

My words roll off his shoulders as he smiles, striding around the table in two steps and sitting beside me on the couch, his thigh pressing against mine. I’m too stunned to speak. I thought thatIwas bold, but he may have me beat. Ivory is so appalled that she’s still sitting with her mouth open.

Slater drapes his arm over the back of the couch where I’m sitting and looks up at me expectantly. I’m tipsy and trying to have fun and he’s over here being persistent. I’m putting a stop to this. I lean in closer so he can hear me better, “Since the drink I sent you didn’t get the memo across, I’m not interested,” my voice comes out sweet but the message cuts deep.

How dare he come over to our booth and not take no for an answer? I know I have quite the reputation in the rock world for turning men down and rejecting them. I’m no fool, I know that’s what other stars are whispering behind me when my back is turned. I’m not mad about it. It’s the reputation I’ve wanted for myself since we blew up and our faces were all over the world.

Another thing you should know about me, aside from the previously mentioned fact that I love the color blue, is that before we got famous five years ago, I was in a long term relationship with my highschool sweetheart, Duncan. Duncan came from a picture perfect family with picture perfect siblings and a picture perfect house. I mean even the dog was pictureperfect, the little bastard. Duncan was a year older than me and straight out of highschool he knew what he wanted to do for the rest of his life, quickly starting a career as a blue collar worker.

We had plans for a future together. I would get an associates degree at a local community college and from there I would become a cop which looking back, totally ironic considering I broke so many fucking laws, but I digress. We planned on moving in together in two years, getting married in six, and from there having children and being picture fucking perfect.

But the universe had other plans because after four years of being together, the walls came crashing down on our little plan. I’d always had an interest in playing the guitar. Even from a young age, I was captivated by the instrument and my interest never faded with age. But Duncan had never liked me playing the guitar. He didn’t see it as a suitable or appropriate hobby considering it wouldn’t get me anywhere…so I stopped playing. And by “stopped” I mean I didn’t have much of a choice because he destroyed my guitar in a fit of rage after we’d gotten into a fight one night.

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