Page 37 of Raising Love
I closed my eyes, swaying to the beat as tears welled up behind my lids. I mouthed the lyrics, hating the ache in my chest but cherishing the bittersweet memories they brought.
I felt arms wrap around me from behind, the familiar scent of Leo’s cologne reaching me before he spoke.
“Don’t start crying on me now,” he whispered in my ear, pulling me closer.
I let my weight fall into him, turning to bury my face in his chest. His black tee soaked up my tears, likely smudging my makeup, but I didn’t care.
The music thundered around us, drowning out the sound of my quiet sobs as Leo held me steady through the song.
When it ended, I pulled away, wiping at my damp cheeks and trying to collect myself.
“You good now?” Leo asked, crouching slightly so we were eye level.
I nodded and managed a small, “Yeah.”
He studied me for a moment before pointing toward the bar reserved for premium standing area ticket holders. “I’m gonna get you another drink.”
I waved my hand, shaking my head. “I think I’ve had enough.”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “No such thing.”
I laughed despite myself.
The rest of the concert went smoothly—no more tears, just good vibes and even better music. By the end, I felt like a different person, lighter, freer.
When Leo suggested we hit up an after-party at a club, I surprised myself by agreeing.
The event was held at Club Déjà Vu.
Clubs weren’t usually my scene. They were too loud, too crowded, too much. But VIP was a different story.
Up in the private section, the music felt less overwhelming, and the energy was more intimate. With drinks flowing and good music keeping the night alive, I let go even further.
“See? Look at you,” Leo said, his smile wide and his eyes glossy from the liquor. “Already looking better.”
I giggled, shaking my head. “Leo, I’m so drunk right now, I don’t know my up from my down.”
“Perfect,” he replied, grabbing another shot from the table. “And when we’re done here, you get to go home and sleep to your heart’s content. It’s a good night.”
I leaned back in my seat, laughing softly.
“Leo Vanguard,” a voice interrupted.
We turned to see a sharply dressed man approaching our table. His tailored suit screamed money, and his cologne preceded him by a mile.
“I’m Vincenzo Rinaldi, owner of Club Déjà Vu,” the man said, extending a hand to Leo. “Pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Same here,” Leo said, shaking his hand firmly.
“I spotted you as soon as you walked into the club from my office. Couldn't miss you,” Vincenzo said, gesturing toward the club’s main stage. “Would it be too much to ask for you to say a few words on the mic?”
Leo shook his head, pointing to the drinks on the table. “I don’t think I’m in any state to say anything into a mic right now.”
“How about at a price?” Vincenzo countered, flashing a perfect smile. “Five grand. Five words, six max.”
I choked.
Five thousand dollars? U.S. dollars?
