My Fiance's Uncle's Property

Chapter Two

Eveline.

Meridian is the kind of place that didn't advertise itself.

No sign above the door, no velvet rope, no man in a suit deciding who was interesting enough to enter. Just a heavy glass door on Carver Street that you either know about or you don't, and if you don't, you walk past it every day of your life and never know what you are missing.

I know about it because Julian mentioned it once — offhandedly, the way he mentions most things that matter, buried inside something else.

“There's this secret club on carver, the kind of place people go when they want to be free, but don't want to be found. Only insiders know about it”. He said.

I filed it away the way I filed everything: quietly, without announcing that I'd done it.

I pay the cab driver. Walking into the club, I head for the bar, sitting across from the bartender.

It's a club, but you can tell that it's serving its purpose: “a place that people go to when they want to be free, and don't want to be found."

The bar runs the full length of one wall, bottles lit from underneath, so the glass glowed like stained color. The music is present but not demanding. The lighting, making everyone look like they are keeping a secret, which, I'm suspecting, most of them are.

“I need something that will get me drunk whilst keeping me sober,” I say to the bartender.

“Coming right up”

He gets to work, picking up multiple bottles and pouring bits into what seems to be a long stainless steel cup, adds ice and begins to shake them together. He pours it into a Martini cup, and hands it to me.

I juggle it down my throat. It burns, but just enough for me to be able to swallow.

“Make another one,” I gesture to him, moving the cup back to him.

“You must really want to get drunk, huh?” A male voice interrupts from behind me.

He proceeds to sit next to me. He sets a glass of something dark on the counter. He doesn't look at me.

I look at him, the way I look at most things: quickly, systematically, without appearing to. As a psychology student, I try to study everything, and read everyone.

He's tall, lean, in the way that implied a life of discipline rather than effort. Dark jacket. Sharp jaw— the kind that photographs well and looks even better in person. His hair is slightly pushed back, like he'd run a hand through it recently and hadn't thought about it since. And his eyes— when he reached for his glass and I caught them briefly in the amber light— are grey. A deep, quiet grey, the color of early morning before the city remembers to be loud. He's not young. He's not old either. He looks like he's in his late 30s.

“What did you say?” I finally respond.

“I said, You really want to get drunk, huh?” He says. “Gulping a margarita in one go, and still asking for more.”

“What's it to you?”

“It's your first time drinking, isn't it?” he says, smiling in a mischievous manner, as if mocking me, but still interested.

I don't respond, he begins to scan my body with his eyes. Gosh! Can't I just be alone? Who's this dude?

He scans to where my left hand is, on the counter. He sees the ring on my finger, and gives me a confused, then realization look.

“I'm wearing it to keep men like you away.”

I blurt out, in my defense.

He smiles, and takes a sip of his drink. He goes quiet, as if trying to process what I just said, and still studying me at the same time.

Did he buy it? I hope he did.

“Why?” He says

Why? Why what?

“Why are you here?” He continues, “Everyone comes here for a reason, 90% is to hide away and go wild without judgements. You! What's your reason?”

“I…um…I just…” I stutter. “What's your reason?” I ask.

“I just came back into town, and I missed this place," he says. “Seeing that you're hesitant to tell me, and trying to get yourself drunk, I think I know why you're here.”

He moves his chair closer. Moves my legs in between his. His knees brushing through my thighs.

What's he doing!?

I don't complain. I don't fight it. In fact, I hate to admit that I kinda like it.

“You want to keep men away, but not men like me,” he finally speaks. Looking me dead in the eyes. His dark piercing grey eyes digging into me. Hard.

I take a gulp, not knowing how to respond.

“You don't know me,” he says, a smile curling between his cheeks. “You don't know what ‘men like ME’ can actually do to you.”

“What if I want to know?” I say, my voice still. My heart beating so fast, I'm almost shitting my pants.

Thinking about it, maybe this is what I need. I want to be free tonight. I want to be wild. I don't know this dude, but he looks like he can help me with that. So why not just go with the flow? I'm not fighting this feeling.

“Hmm," he says as he scans through my face, as if trying to read my emotion. I'm not folding. “Careful what you wish for pumpkin”.

His deep voice. I can feel my p***y throb for some reason. I've not felt like this before.

I want to stop this. Maybe I should go home. It's getting intense. What if I can't keep up?

“Um…”, I gulp.

“Backing out already?” he says.

Backing out? I'm not backing out… I just…

“No!” I gulp, my voice shaky now.

“Your expression says otherwise,” he teases.

“I'm not backing out, in fact, I want to see what you think you can do to me” I fight back, taking another sip at my drink.

He tilts his head down, is he…?

Smiling?!

“Then come down to my room with me”

“Room? Where?”

“Down the hall, there's a secret hotel”

“I'm not going to tell you my name” I tried to keep eye contact.

“I don't intend to ask, I'm not telling you mine either”, he says, curling his cheeks into that mischievous smile. Again.

I don't want to know who he is. And if I want to go wild without judgement, anonymity is key.

***

The morning light shining through the room forces me awake. I blink my eyes, as I try to rise. I blink my eyes again, and then I realise. I'm not home?

A sudden struck of headache hits me, I hold on to my head trying to remember how I got here, I tilt my head downwards, only to find that, I am naked. Naked?

Oh s**t!

I look around the room. Hotel room. Expensive. The kind with floor-to-ceiling windows and a city view that tells you whoever booked this isn't worried about the bill.

I reach for the sheets and pull them up. My dress is folded neatly on the chair across the room. My heels beside it. My clutch on the nightstand.

Realization is hitting me at this point.

He's still asleep beside me. One arm behind his head, jaw relaxed, chest rising and falling like a man with a clean conscience. He looks different in daylight. Sharper. More real. I want to believe he is sleeping for sure.

I need to leave.

I reach for my phone on the night stand. Missed calls. From, everyone.

I exhale. Time to go. I reach for my dress on the chair across the room, my leg steps on something. I look at it. A lanyard. A conference badge— the kind from medical events, with the small institutional logo at the corner.

The owner, “DR. LUCIAN VALE. NEUROSURGERY. VALE MEDICAL INSTITUTE.”

Vale?!

The air suddenly feels cold.