Page 29 of Make Me Hunt
-October 26th-
I spent the morning at the diner—nothing new, unfortunately. I need 404 to help me with my plan. Since he’s still in play, I intend to find him. Maybe I can dig something up at The Breach.
But first, I need to go home and get ready, since I managed to convince myself that going back to the diner again might, just maybe, get me something useful.
I know the odds are shit, but sitting around in the house all day won’t get me anything, so at least I'll give it a shot.
However useless. I just end up wasting my day, frustration piling up like a reminder of everything that’s gone wrong with my life.
I take another glance at the dress thrown over the chair. The damn thing is stunning, and that somehow forces me to aim for the same stunning look. I actually put in extra effort to fix my hair, do my makeup, and finish it off with a touch of red lipstick. I don’t usually do lipstick, even less so red, but this feels like a special occasion. I’m just not sure in what way.
I try not to overthink it. I’d rather not spiral and freak out. I’m not good in situations like this. I’m starting to think I’d rather steal that van all over again than to go to this party.
By the time I’m really ready, it’s almost nine p.m. I know the party started at eight, but no one shows up before nine anyway. And Ares didn’t give me a specific time to be there, so if I’m late, that’s on him.
I take a cab there since I plan on drinking something tonight. Let’s just say I have a large appetite. Pretty sure it’s my subconscious warning me; I’ll need an extra boost to deal with Ares.
The club’s already packed by the time I get there. Who the fuck knew this many people could drop a grand just to be here?
Dozens of champagne trays circle the room, the waiters already exhausted by the anxious crowd.
I don’t pay them too much attention, though, because I know where I must be. I make my way toward Ares’s table. I can barely see him through the mass of people, but the closer I get, the harder my heart beats threatening to explode in my chest. His dark hair is slicked back, its length barely noticeable, blending into the 1920s picture, his square jaw even more prominent in the dim lights, and a smile to die for that threatens to melt my clothes by the end of the night.
He’s wearing a full gangster suit to fit the Gatsby theme—and his personality—classic stylish black pants and a white shirt. Go figure. But that’s not what grabs me. It’s the damn suspenders. Because I suddenly realize; suspenders are not outdated or out of fashion. They are the newest hottest fucking shit. And that, paired with the sleeve garters that wrap tightly around his muscular arms, hugging his biceps in a grip that suddenly has me in a chokehold, has just officially become my new kink. I totally get the obsession with Thomas Shelby now. But seeing Ares like this feels just like unlocking a new level in video games.
Ares 2.0- Unlocked.
I try not to blush, or to make one of those silly faces as I walk toward him. Something just happened to me in the twenty seconds it took me to break through the crowd and get closer to him. My breath is hitched. My mind’s a blur, and I can’t help but curse myself for being so weak and falling for an image, not the man.
And suddenly, I want to be weak tonight. I’ve been strong for too long. It’s time to feel something—anything—other than pain. Even if it’s only going to be temporary.
But as I get closer, I have a better view of his table, and suddenly, I spot a hand running up his neck. A woman’s hand.
The fantasy I’ve created shatters instantly.
Fuck, I’m such a fool.
I want to turn back and walk out right now. But I know he’s already seen me. Walking away now would be pure cowardice. It’d only give him satisfaction. And I’m not handing that to him.
I try to keep the smile on my face, because I felt it there, and now I also feel it slipping, even though I’m fighting not to let it. I can’t betray any weakness. Even if I feel I betrayed myself.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I could literally punch myself right now, just to snap back to reality and remind myself why I’m really here.
The image of the woman next to him becomes clearer. A flawless blonde. She’s absolutely stunning. Curves in all the right places, a perfect tan, piercing green eyes, and the more I stare, the more I’m convinced her surgeon must be a fucking magician—because she doesn’t look like she’s had any intervention, even if everything on her face is too perfect to be real.
I’m really trying not to be jealous, but the fucking bastard had his fingers inside me less than a week ago. He literally sent me a chopped-off dick just so I wouldn't so much as look at another man.
Fucking hypocrite. I should’ve seen that coming.
The dress I’m wearing doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore. And I’m starting to think this is a lesson. He wants to remind me where I belong—with the staff.
And it takes him all of five seconds to confirm it.
“You’re late,” he grunts, leaning over the table to grab his whiskey.
“I wasn’t given a time,” I mutter. He never said one, but I know he’ll give me shit for it anyway, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
