TOXIC AND ADICTIVE

3

I said nothing, simply waiting for the elevator doors to open and let us in. When they finally did, I had to force myself not to burst out laughing. Once they closed behind us, Santa and I broke into hysterics.

“But for f**k’s sake, who is Bop?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea. Going by the party info on Insta, his name came up multiple times. Either he owns the club or he’s hosting the event.”

“Girl, you’re crazy,” I giggled.

“I went all in,” she replied.

“And if it hadn’t worked, I’d have handed them two hundred bucks that they could’ve fished out from between my nice tits.”

We burst out laughing again, though this time our laughter was swallowed by the pounding beats of the club, which wasn’t just any music: it was Sean Paul. I loved his tracks; they were perfect for setting the vibe. No one seemed to notice any new arrivals at that time. The place was much bigger than I expected, and the décor matched my hopes; chic, glamorous, dripping in luxury. I was into it.

There were a lot of young people-either new money or old money, I figured, but either way, tonight if I played it right, I’d walk home with at least one orgasm and a hefty deposit in my account. All I had to do was find the right prey and get noticed.

“Try to spot a table with only girls,” Santa whispered, striding ahead with an air of confidence, as if she knew exactly where to go. She was right: you can’t host a party like this without women like us to help people unwind. We weren’t on the guest list no passes for bourgeoisie, but someday we’d climb that ladder. I’d only been in the game for five years, but I was on the rise.

Before long, we found the holy grail: a table with three girls only. I could tell by the sharp, calculating way they scanned the crowd. They had that predatory look, and I knew it well from nights like that. After we sat down:

“I’m heading to the bar to get us a bottle,” Santa announced. “At the rate I see things, if we don’t drop at least ten grand on a bottle, they’ll look down on us.” As I pushed through the crowd toward the bar, Santa texted me: “a ten‑grand bottle, babe 😉” as if she’d read my mind.

“Ash!” I exclaimed—literally bumping into something and smashing my forehead. Surprise? Shock? Hard to say which caused my phone to tumble out of my hand and land at someone’s feet. “No, no, no—please don’t break!” I whispered, scooping it up at someone’s feet. Someone’s feet? I looked down and saw impeccably clean feet pristine, honestly. They’d make a fortune posting pics on a foot-fetish site. Slowly, I lifted my eyes to see the long, tattooed legs. Who shows up to a place like this in shorts and sandals? The legs seemed endless.

Then a fully tattooed, veined hand with rings on the knuckles reached down and grabbed my phone, jerking me out of my trance and forcing me to stand. He was tall. Really tall, so tall I had to tip my head to see his face. And God, he was stunning pure artistry. His eyes were pitch-black, matching the ink that covered every visible inch of his skin. His brows were sharp straight lines, his cheekbones pronounced just enough to be perfect, his lips full but not overly so. If it wasn’t for plastic surgery, God must have taken his time sculpting him. His beauty was almost diabolical. It bewitched me. All I wanted was to drink in his face. What else could I look at?

When our eyes met, I blushed, though I’m not usually shy; the job I do doesn’t leave room for that. So why was I reacting this way? After a moment, I saw the corner of his mouth curve into a slight, wicked smile.

“Here’s your phone—it’s not broken.” His voice was deep and controlled. He didn’t shout above the music, but I heard him clearly despite the chaos. I tore my gaze away from his mouth and his lips, and the way his tongue moved around them, obsessed me.

“Oh, thanks,” I said, relieved I hadn’t stuttered. I wouldn’t say no to a night with him; honestly, I’d pay for it if I had to. I took my phone from his hand.

“You’re welcome. Have a good evening.”