Page 24 of Born Sinner
Chapter Ten
Lola
The line is alreadythree drunks deep by the time I make my way to the bar. Alcohol is the last thing I should have right now, but my liver is the least of my worries. I need something eighty-proof to get me through the night.
After a few unproductive moments of waiting my turn, I take matters into my own hands. I pay little attention to the dirty looks being shot my way as I push through the crowd and squeeze into a small pocket toward the front.
A bartender who looks like he just stepped off the pages of an underwear ad pauses in front of me. “What can I get for you?”
I don’t hesitate. “A shot ofAñejotequila.”
If I’m going to play a king’s game, I might as well drink like one.
He lifts an eyebrow. “You got an ID hidden in the dress somewhere?”
My smile is anything but sweet. Reaching into my bra, I pull out the fake ID Avery and I bought our first week on campus and hand it to him.
I’d like to tell him where he can shove it, but I’ve already landed myself on Santi’s radar enough as it is.
He barely even looks at it before tossing it back and turning to face the wall of liquor bottles behind him. While I wait, I scan the perimeter, looking for Avery and the rest of my friends in the sea of faces shoved in every available corner.
Nothing.
Damn it.
I have no idea why it was so imperative we come here tonight. The Foxhole isn’t anything special. It’s just your typical nightclub—thirty-five hundred square feet of chrome acting as reflectors for the magenta and purple stage lights.
And in case one inch of space missed the cotton candy colored memo, the disco ball hanging in the center of the dance floor is there to drive the point home.
Jesus, where’d that guy go to pour my drink—Mexico?I’m leaning over the bar, trying to see where he could’ve gone, when I feel a hand grab my ass from behind.
“What the hell?” I spin around, nearly tumbling into another pretentious polo shirt stretched across a broad chest.Ay Dios mío… Did Rutgers issue one to every damn idiot with an acceptance letter and a dick?Grabbing hold of the bar, I steady myself while staring into a pair of bloodshot green eyes.
“Sorry, baby,” he slurs. “If you’re gonna flash the goods, don’t be shocked when someone tries a sample.”
I fight to rein in my temper.If he only knew…Instead of smirking, he should be counting his blessings that we’re in New Jersey. Twenty-five hundred miles south and every one of those perfect white teeth would be scattered across the floor.
Along with that hand.
And other favored appendages.
Luckily, both our nights are saved when the bartender clears his throat behind me. “Francesca?”
I twist back around. “Huh?”
He flips my ID between his fingers and holds it up between us. “Francesca Romano…” Glancing down at it, he cocks an eyebrow. “From Louisville, Kentucky?”
I cringe. The guy who sold us the fake IDs promised efficacy, not accuracy.
I keep my mouth shut and pay for my drink, deciding to slip the guy an extra twenty just to be safe. By the time I turn back around, the idiot who grabbed my ass is nowhere to be found. Instinctively, I sling an accusing glare to my right, only to find RJ scrolling through his phone, still sitting at the same high-top table he’s been brooding over since following me through the door.
I let out a relieved breath. Despite my thoughts to the contrary, I have no desire to be the cause of another man’s death.
Glancing up, he catches my eye, his bored expression turning to granite. Although stuffed in a designer suit, his oversized frame looks out of place sitting in the middle of a trendy dance club. He doesn’t look like he’s here to have a good time. He looks like he’s here to shoot up the place.
Which, to be fair, isn’t out of the realm of possibility.
RJ’s last name may be Harcourt, but he’s a Carrera to his core. And just like Santi, he’s deadliest when he’s silent.
