Sinner's Grace

Meany Cutie

*What's he doing here?*

He said we'd see each other again, but I didn't believe him. Yet here he is, standing in front of me, looking so effortlessly fine that it's almost unfair.

My hands feel clammy, my nerves betraying me. He's making me nervous, and I hate that he knows it. I stand rooted to the spot, watching as he takes a slow drag of his cigarette. He exhales, the smoke curling out of his nostrils like something out of a movie. The smell wafts over, and I cough into my fist.

"My bad." He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and presses it out on the ashtray sitting on the counter.

"We cool?" he asks, raising an eyebrow as his piercing gray eyes meet mine.

I'm too stunned to respond. My brain seems to short-circuit at the sight of him. His casual demeanor, the way he leans against the counter like he owns the room—it's mesmerizing.

"You really don't have to keep on checking me out, you know," he says with that trademark smirk.

I look away, heat rushing to my face. Great. Now he knows I was staring.

I turn toward the bartender, who's suddenly paying attention now that Mr. Dangerous and Gorgeous is standing next to me.

"Tequila for me. Take the lady's order," the stranger says, his voice smooth and commanding.

The bartender nods and looks at me expectantly.

"Do you have any liquid that's... um... not alcohol?" I ask, feeling awkward under his scrutiny.

The bartender raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "I can give you water," he says dryly.

"Get her a cocktail—with juice in it," the stranger cuts in. The bartender nods again and turns to make the order.

I glance at him, unsure. *What's a cocktail?* I almost ask, but I bite my tongue. I don't want to embarrass myself any further. Thanks to my sheltered upbringing, I'm clueless, and there's no way I'm admitting that to him.

"So, what are you doing in a club?" he asks, his eyes traveling slowly from my head to my toes.

Something flickers in his gaze—something intense that I can't quite place. His scrutiny makes my skin prickle, and I feel exposed, hyper-aware of the revealing dress Nadia forced me to wear. Great. He probably thinks I look like a hooker.

"What do you care? It's none of your business anyway. Thanks for saving me, by the way," I say quickly, trying to deflect.

"Alright." He shrugs, still watching me like I'm the most interesting thing in the room. "Are you going to sit down, or are you just going to stand there?"

I steal a glance at him. His smirk is still there, his posture relaxed but commanding.

*Why is he looking at me like that? Do I look bad or...?*

"No, thank you. I'll stand," I say, crossing my arms.

The bartender returns, placing a bottle of tequila on the counter along with three colorful cocktails. One is a vibrant orange, while the other two are deep purple. Each glass has a slice of lemon perched on the rim.

The drinks look pretty.

"It's not bitter, Snowflake," he says, gesturing to the drinks.

I roll my eyes and turn to the bartender. "How much?" I ask.

"Don't worry about it. I've got it," the stranger says, already pulling out his wallet.

"Please don't. I can pay for myself," I insist, even though I have no idea how much these cost.

"It's fine, Little Saint," he replies casually, handing cash to the bartender.

"You don't have to be stubborn, you know," he adds, his smirk softening into something almost charming. "You helped me out the other day by letting me borrow your car, and I didn't even say thank you. Consider this my way of making it up to you."

I open my mouth to argue but stop when I see the look on his face. He's so confident, so effortlessly breathtaking that I feel my words dissolve.

"You can join my table if you want," he offers, picking up his tequila and glass.

I hesitate. What about Alina and Nadia? On second thought, they're drunk. They wouldn't care, and they probably wouldn't notice if I wandered off.

But no. I can't. This man is a stranger—and a dangerous one at that. I can't forget the way he slammed that diner owner's head on the counter.

"I'm fine. Thanks for the... cock... whatever," I say, shrugging as nonchalantly as I can manage.

He chuckles softly, nodding before walking off to a shadowy corner of the club.

I pick up my drinks and head back to the table where the girls are. Just as I suspected, they're both wasted.

"Sup, Ivy? Having fun?" Alina slurs, her words barely coherent as she downs another drink.

"Yeah," I mutter, setting the cocktails on the table. I take a sip of one, surprised by the fruity taste. It's sweet and refreshing, with just a hint of something I can't quite place.

"Hey, babe," a male voice says.

We all turn to see a tall guy with dark hair and a denim jacket leaning down to kiss Nadia on the cheek.

"Hey, baby," Nadia giggles, running her fingers through his hair. He whispers something to her, and she giggles again.

"Bye, ladies," she says, grabbing his hand and leaving with him without a second thought.

This place is boring. I wish I were home, reading or doing literally anything else. And the thought of my parents coming home to find us gone makes me want to leave even more.

*Ivy, don't think about it. Just try to have fun.*

Alina stands up, swaying slightly. "I'll be back, sis. I wanna dance," she says before disappearing into the crowd.

Now I'm alone. Terribly bored and regretting every decision that brought me here.

I look around the club, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings. The idea of being approached by another drunk, aggressive man makes my skin crawl. I've already downed one cocktail and am halfway through my second glass.

"You shouldn't get used to that. It's like poison," a familiar voice says.

I look up, and there he is. His gray eyes lock with mine, and I'm caught in his intense gaze before I can even think to look away. He smirks, his confidence radiating as he sits down in Nadia's chair. He places a half-empty bottle of tequila and an empty glass on the table before pouring himself a drink.

"You look tipsy," he says, taking his time to rake his eyes over me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice sharper than intended.

"Your friends abandoned you to f**k some random boy. I'm here to make sure you don't fall into the wrong hands," he replies flatly.

The way he drops the F-word so casually makes me wince.

"Can you not curse in my presence? I don't like it," I say firmly.

"I noticed," he replies, smirking as he lifts his glass of tequila and takes a sip.

"I don't need saving, by the way."

"Hmm-mm. Of course, you don't," he says with a teasing lilt in his voice, his smirk widening.

His gaze travels over me again, slower this time, and I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

"I didn't think you were the type who likes to party," he says, leaning back in his chair, his eyes still on me.

"I don't."

"Then what are you doing here, dressed like that?"

The judgment in his tone stings. My hands slide under the table, and I begin to toy nervously with my fingers. I know how I look tonight. I know I look like someone I'm not. He doesn't have to point it out.

He nods, as if coming to some internal conclusion, and downs his drink in one gulp.

"I don't even know you," I mutter, trying to deflect.

"I think it's better that way," he replies smoothly, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smirk.

I nod silently and pick up my drink. Pulling the straw out, I tilt my head back and empty the glass in one go. Warmth spreads through me, and I know I'm tipsy now—maybe more than tipsy.

My head feels light, and I lean forward, my gaze drifting over the strong, imposing figure in front of me. He's watching me, his eyes glinting like I'm the most interesting thing in the room.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my words slightly slurred.

"To party and get laid," he replies flatly.

"To get laid, huh?" I repeat, twirling a strand of my hair around my finger.

"Yeah. Why?"

I giggle. *Great. When did I start giggling?*

"Every girl would want to have s*x with you," I whisper, biting my bottom lip as I sip on my third cocktail in what I can only describe as a very uncharacteristically seductive way.

*This isn't good. I'm drunk, and I can't seem to stop myself.*

"You're hot," I whisper again, reaching out to place my hand on his.

His eyes darken as they lock on mine, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. He doesn't look away, his intense gaze pinning me in place. The weight of it makes me withdraw my hand, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.

"You're drunk," he says matter-of-factly.

"I'm not..." I giggle, shaking my head. "You like to play?" I whisper, tucking my hair behind my ear.

"You want to play?" His voice drops an octave, rich and deep. "I bite hard."

*Oh, God. Am I a horny drunk? What the hell is this?*

"How hard do you bite?" I whisper back, twirling another strand of hair as I take another sip of my drink.

"Really hard," he replies, his voice low and dangerous.

"Ooh. I'd like that. What's your name?" I ask, my voice soft and curious.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he looks at me with something darker in his eyes—something that makes my stomach flutter in a way I don't want to admit. He empties his glass of tequila in one smooth motion, then stands abruptly.

Grabbing my arm, he pulls me to my feet with surprising ease.

"Why don't you want me? Am I ugly?" I whine, stumbling slightly as he drags me toward the exit.

He doesn't answer, his jaw tight and his expression unreadable.

"You're too mean and hot," I laugh maniacally, my voice echoing in the cold night air.

"Enough," he groans, his frustration evident.

"Why do you have tattoos? Why do you curse like that?" I babble.

He stops walking and gently presses me against a car, his hands on either side of me.

"Meany cutie," I giggle, poking his cheek.

"Stop talking," he says, his voice firm and low.

"Why? Do you hate me now? You've been staring at my body back there. I'm pretty sure you like what you see," I whisper, grabbing his jacket.

He takes my hands and gently pulls them away from his body, leaning in close to whisper in my ear. His breath is warm, and he smells like leather and something distinctly masculine.

"You don't want to do this. You'll regret it the minute you're sober," he says, his voice a mix of warning and restraint. "Now stay here and don't move."

"Promise," I say with a giggle, clapping a hand over my mouth. "I won't move my ground off the feet—I mean, my feet off the sheet. Whatever that means."

I watch as he turns to leave, my gaze trailing after him.

"Where are you going? Are you leaving me?" I call out, but he ignores me, disappearing into the shadows.

Left alone, I hum the first song that comes to mind, twirling my hair absently as the night's events blur into a hazy, surreal mess.

"What's up, beautiful," a guy says, his voice slick and overconfident as he slowly approaches me. The club's dim lighting hides most of his features, but his smirk is unmistakable. He rubs his palms together and licks his lips like he's rehearsing a bad pick-up line.

"You look like Jack, that nanny's mad dog back in Georgia," I giggle, barely able to keep my balance.

"That mad dog wants to lick you all over, sweetness," he says, leaning closer as his tongue flicks over his lips again. He reaches out to touch me.

Before I can react, a hand grips his hair from behind and slams his head against the car. The sound of the impact is sharp, and the guy groans, clutching his bleeding nose.

"You fuckin' i***t," my gray-eyed stranger growls, his voice rough and deadly.

The guy stumbles back, his hands covering his face. "I'm sorry, man!"

"Well, f**k off," the stranger barks, his tone as sharp as a blade. Without hesitation, the other man scurries away into the night.

I blink, my thoughts scrambled. *Wow. Look at that. He saved me. Again.*

"I leave you for one minute, and you're already attracting trouble," the stranger says, his scowl cutting through my daze. He shoves a bottle of water into my hands. "Drink this."

"Why are you being mean?" I pout, clutching the bottle.

"Get in the car," he orders, already opening the passenger's door of a sleek black Mercedes with wing doors. The sight of the luxury car momentarily distracts me. *Is he really that rich?*

"Can you be—"

He doesn't let me finish, gently but firmly pushing me into the car before shutting the door.

"I should've let you order the bottle of water yourself," he mutters under his breath as he climbs into the driver's seat. He starts the engine and smoothly pulls out of the parking lot, his movements fluid and controlled.

"How rich are you?" I ask, still holding the bottle of water but too distracted to open it.

He doesn't answer, his focus fixed on the road. His left hand steers the wheel while his right runs through his already tousled hair. *Why does that look so annoyingly hot?*

"Meany," I whine, tossing the unopened bottle out of the open window.

"And what did you do that for?" he snaps, his frustration clear.

"You don't care about me anymore. You don't even give me attention," I whine like a petulant child.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters.

I gasp, placing a hand over my chest. "You can't say the Lord's name in vain!"

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "f**k me," he mutters under his breath.

"Say that again," I whisper, a mischievous grin spreading across my face as I slowly climb onto his lap.

"s**t," he groans, his hands immediately moving to lift me off. He places me back into the passenger's seat, strapping me in firmly before glaring at me like I'm a misbehaving child.

"Where do you live?" he asks, his tone sharp and clipped.

"I don't even remember," I say, giggling as if it's the funniest thing in the world. "Just keep driving, babe."

*Babe? Did I just say 'babe'?*

***

I yawn and stretch, the ache in my body reminding me of how exhausted I feel. It's morning, and the soft sunlight filtering through the windows makes my head pound. My mouth feels dry, my muscles sore.

I groan as my phone rings incessantly, the sound drilling into my skull. With my eyes still closed, I pat the bed until I find it. I answer the call and press the phone to my ear.

"Ivy," the voice on the other end says.

"Who's this?"

"Jesus! You didn't save my number? It's Nadia," she snaps.

"Oh. Hey, hi," I mumble, my voice raspier than usual.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at home," I reply, groaning as I rub my temple.

"Home? Which home?"

*What kind of question is that?* "I'm in my room, Nadia."

"For goodness' sake, what are you talking about? I'm in your room, and we're worried. Where are you?"

Her words jolt me awake. I blink, my surroundings coming into focus. Stainless white walls greet me, and I glance to my right to see a fancy glass-door closet. My heart drops. This isn't my room.

I sit up abruptly, scanning the space. The dresser, nightstand, and curtains—none of it is mine. Panic sets in as I throw the blanket off and hop out of bed. My clothes are gone, replaced by an oversized black T-shirt and gray sweatpants.

"These aren't my clothes," I whisper, the words catching in my throat. My mind races, and one person comes to mind.

*Him.*

The door creaks open, and there he is, leaning casually against the frame, shirtless. His gray eyes lock onto mine, his gaze unrelenting.

My eyes wander down his torso before I can stop myself. His body is like something sculpted by the gods, and I suddenly can't breathe.

*Did he... take advantage of me?*

*No. Please, no. Tell me that didn't happen.*

"What did you do to me?" I whisper, my voice trembling as my heart pounds in my chest.