The Mafia Vampire's Mistress

Chapter 8: A Celebration to Remember, Pt. 3

Layla

The other girls return, their arrival at our booth breaking the spell the stranger across from us cast on me and stopping the wild fantasies that had begun to form dead in their tracks. Jesamen’s presence alone was enough to dump a bucket of ice water over my imaginations- a man who looked like him would have no interest in a woman like me, not while she was present.

I was the kind of woman who was shocked when a cute, nice boy showed interest in her, while Jesamen expected to be desired everywhere she went. We were practically a different species when it came to our dating expectations. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from trying to sneak glances towards his booth, couldn’t stop myself from imagining what it would feel like to have a man like that interested in me.

Amy’s friends leave us, heading to the bar to close their tabs and head home. As if she was waiting for them to go, our waitress reappears suddenly, this time with another bottle and sparkler in hand. We all look at each other, confused. A second bottle was outrageously expensive according to the menu prices, something none of us would have ordered on our meager salaries.

“Complimentary bottle for the birthday girl, courtesy of Mr. Alden in booth six!” she says in response to our bewildered expressions.

“The club owner sent us a bottle?” Jesamen’s question and her responding gaze is almost accusatory and shockingly harsh when it lands on me, easing only slightly when she sees that I remain as completely confused as the rest of the girls at our table.

“Maybe…maybe he’s just trying to make up for us watching him kick that other group out of the booth earlier?” Sabyna hesitantly offers as explanation and I find myself nodding enthusiastically, though I’m unsure who I’m trying to convince more, myself or Jesamen.

I sneak a glance at booth six around the waitress as she mixes our next round of drinks. The man who cleared out the previous group is seated closest to us, his arms draped casually over the back of the seat. His lips are moving but it does not seem like he is shouting, which is puzzling given the volume of the pounding music has not changed. Another man is seated directly across from the first, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and appears to be listening intently to whatever is being said.

Seated in the center of the booth between the two could only be Mr. Alden, the club owner with the face of sin and an undeniable aurora of power and authority oozing from every pore of his body. As handsome and intriguing as I might have found the other men on any other night, they simply could not hold a candle to him.

Dark blonde hair was pushed back almost absentmindedly, revealing thick brows pulled tight into a scowl and perfectly almond shaped eyes. A regal nose sat over full lips, a sharp jawline ended in a strong chin. Blood red tattoos peek out from under the collar of his shirt and my mouth waters at the sight, my mind begging to see the patches of skin where the graceful lines of ink lead.

It strikes me as odd that he should send us a complimentary bottle then ignore us completely. Was it really because of my birthday? Was it because of the scene we witnessed earlier, as Sabyna said? Or does he just have so much money that the gesture is next to meaningless for him? After all, the cost of a single bottle is nothing when compared to the hundreds his club must purchase on a regular basis for the club.

He was dressed in the same black suit that seemed to be the uniform of any man who worked here- but that was where the similarities ended. Where the rest seemed to have worn a suit of passible quality and fit, the cut of his suit was flawless. It was molded perfectly to his figure, free of wrinkles or imperfections, and spoke to an easy life of leisure and privilege.

I would have bet every dollar I had that he bought that suit and this club just as he had bought everything in life- with family money, earned off the backs of people like me who could only dream of leading the life he had served to him on a silver platter.

I wanted to despise him the moment I laid eyes on him. I wanted to hate the way his eyes moved about the room as if bored and begging for someone to do something interesting or noteworthy enough to catch his eye, expecting people to bend over backwards to please him, yet finding everyone around him beneath his attention or notice.

Except apparently- me.

The moment his casual scan of the room passed by me, I let out a quiet sigh of relief…only to quickly swallow it back in as his eyes shot back to my booth, his hypnotic stare putting me even further under his spell than when I had first laid eyes on him. A cocky smirk pulled slowly at the corners of his lips.

Not even a word has been shared between us and already he knew he had me. Just when I thought I could not despise him any more for it, he lifts his hand, curling one finger slowly, sensually, beckoning me towards him.

“Oh my god, ladies! Seems I’ve caught our generous club owner’s eye. Better go thank him for our bottle,” Jesamen squeals above the music, crawling from her seat next to me and past the other girls, adjusting her top as she stands, dragging the fabric down so low that it was an unexplainable phenomenon how her n*****s did not immediately pop out.

A flush of embarrassment covers my cheeks, and I quickly try to hide it by leaning forward to pour myself another drink, letting my long, dark curls fall forward to hide my face.

No one else had noticed me staring at him, and thankfully, I had not moved a muscle when I thought he was calling for me instead of Jesamen, so it did not take long to shake my embarrassment and return to the fun and easy conversation at our booth.

I was just finishing my new drink when suddenly the space in our booth seemed to grow smaller, darker, filled by the hulking form of one of the men from booth six. His skin is covered in old scars and intricate tattoos made from a red ink that bares a striking resemblance to the ones I had noticed earlier gracing Mr. Alden’s neck.

His hair is stylishly shaggy, his face clean shaven. I realize that he was the one who winked at me earlier when removing the previous occupants from booth six. Something about seeing the scars and tattoos marking his skin up close gives his features a dangerous edge that is softened from a distance.

“You’ve kept Sebastian Alden waiting.”

His voice is deep, his tone stern, his words easily cutting through the sounds of the club and thumping music.

“…I’m sorry?” I say, only because there is nothing else I can think to say, still looking around at the other girls, wondering if I’ve missed something.

My relief at seeing them just as confused as me is short lived when the man steps forward, scarred and tattooed hand outstretched, impatience clear on his face.

“I am certain he has already thought of a way for you to make it up to him. But for your sake, I wouldn’t make him wait any longer.”

Lucy gazes at him intently, as if she may know him but can’t quite place from where. Her hand reaches for him unconsciously, tracing a finger softly along the red lines of his other hand. His responding shutter is almost imperceptible, covered quickly by a roguish grin that seems to stun Lucy even more than his presence already has.

“Careful, gorgeous. I don’t let just anyone touch me.”

The two seem unable, or at the very least, unwilling, to turn away from each other, Lucy bearing a look of confused yearning, while the man appears to be trying to mask his own shock and desire. He was sent here by Sebastian to get me, but that does not seem to stop him from wanting to bask in Lucy’s intense stare for as long as he can.

A brief flash of pain and regret fills his eyes before he tears his gaze away from her heart shaped face, turning to see that his outstretched hand remains empty. Unlike his herculean attempts to hide his feelings, Lucy’s stare is open and honest- she makes no attempt to hide her own devastation . She looks broken, rejected, lost.

“Come on, now, little lady,” he reaches over the table and grabs my hand gently but firmly, pulling me from the booth and my stunned friends.

My heart is racing now, and a sinking feeling has grown in my gut. I feel like I’m in Middle School, a petulant child being walked to the principal’s office for a stern dressing down and punishment. My eyes dart around the small VIP section to see if there is anyone who can intervene, landing on a roped off section I had not been able to see clearly from my seat.

It seems a line has formed of individuals eager to speak with Mr. Alden, manned by a serious looking bodyguard and a thick velvet rope- and it seems Mr. Alden wants me to skip the line entirely. Standing halfway in the line, shock and anger carved clearly into her beautiful features, is Jesamen. I give her a small shrug by way of apology, hoping it is enough to tell her this was not my idea and I am just as confused as her.

By the vivid red color that covers her face, it is clear the gesture only serves to enrage her more. A few more steps and all thoughts of Jesamen, Chris, my birthday party and abandoned friends are obliterated from my mind entirely. I have arrived in front of Sebastian Alden, and somehow, he has become even more earth shatteringly beautiful up close.