The One Night Stand

7

The three drunk heads dragged one another out of the restaurant, swaying dangerously as they clutched balloons and the boxes they had brought along. One of those boxes held the cake—perfectly packed, untouched. Balancing themselves was hard enough, let alone the things in their hands, and Ashley, the only one without anything to carry, dramatically placed a hand over her eyes like a pirate searching for enemy ships in the middle of the ocean.

"I could have sworn I saw a bunch of luxury cars right over there!" She pointed ahead with exaggerated enthusiasm.

"Let's just go home. It's getting late, and I don't wanna do this," Sara muttered, rubbing her stomach slightly. It wasn't that she hated stupid ideas like this, but something about tonight felt off—an ominous feeling creeping under her skin.

Ashley didn't listen. Of course, she didn't. Instead, she grabbed Sara's arm—the same arm holding the towering two-foot cake—and yanked her forward.

"Okay! But let me put this down somewhere first!" Sara protested, struggling to keep the cake from toppling over.

Ashley finally noticed the box in her hand and nodded. "Oh, sure." She grabbed it from Sara and carried it as they stumbled forward.

A few paces ahead, they reached a small park-like space with a couple of benches. Ashley instantly placed the cake box down on one of them, then hurriedly rummaged through her bag, which was slung around her neck. A moment later, she pulled out a handful of lipsticks and shoved them at her friends.

"Come on!" she grinned mischievously, already turning on her heels and marching toward the street.

The other two followed, though Jenny seemed like she was sleepwalking—her head bobbing slightly, eyes barely open.

Just a few steps away, it was as if they'd stumbled into a different world. A heaven of sleek, lavish cars stretched before them, the brand names practically slapping them in the face. The metallic shine of the polished exteriors reflected the neon lights from the nearby club, making their drunken eyes squint against the overwhelming grandeur.

"Wow," Sara breathed, momentarily taken aback.

"I know, right?" Ashley said, puffing up with pride as if she personally owned all of them. "I'll get you a boyfriend from here. I got Liam from here too."

Her voice cracked slightly at the mention of his name, but she shook it off and strutted toward a White Mercedes like she was about to claim it as her own.

Without hesitation, she propped her foot onto the tire, balancing herself gracefully (or at least, she thought it was graceful). Then, in one swift motion, she planted a loud, dramatic kiss on the windshield before smearing lipstick all over the glass.

Not stopping there, she carefully began writing Sara's number across the windshield in bold, messy strokes.

Despite being drunk, Ashley's coordination was oddly impressive. She remembered Sara's number perfectly, scrawling it repeatedly like an advertisement on a public restroom wall.

"Okay! Done!" She clapped her hands together like a proud artist finishing a masterpiece. "Now it's your turn."

She turned to Sara and Jenny with a wicked grin.

"Pick a car you like and write on it. Both of you, hurry!"

Sara bit her lip, scanning the parking lot. Her vision swam slightly, the lights blurring together in a dizzying haze. This is stupid, she thought.

"I don't need a husband, Ashley. I'm just doing this for fun, okay?" Sara insisted, trying to maintain some dignity in this ridiculous situation.

Ashley didn't bother responding. She had already moved on, nudging Jenny, who looked like she was asleep while standing upright.

Sara's gaze drifted over the sea of luxury cars, their polished exteriors gleaming under the streetlights. But in the midst of all that extravagance, her eyes locked onto one—a sleek, deep-black car sitting further away, its presence almost ominous in the dim glow of the lot.

"Hmm," she muttered under her breath. Something about it caught her attention, but a lingering hesitation gnawed at her.

For a moment, she wavered. Should she?

Then, with a tipsy shrug, she shoved the reluctance into the backseat of her mind and sauntered forward, pulling the lid off the lipstick with a soft pop. Leaning over the cool, pristine surface of the car, she pressed the tip of the lipstick against the windshield and began scrawling her number in messy, drunken strokes.

She was just two numbers short of finishing when—

Her wrist was yanked.

Hard.

So hard that for a split second, it felt like her stomach had dropped to the floor.

A sharp gasp left her lips as she stumbled, barely catching her breath before her back slammed against the cold, unyielding surface of the car. A searing pain jolted up her wrist where fingers—strong, unrelenting—dug into her skin like a steel vice.

Her drunken haze vanished instantly, replaced by a jarring, electric awareness. Her heart pounded violently in her chest as her wide, stunned eyes finally met the man who had dared to seize her.

Black eyes.

Dark and depthless, swallowing the light around them.

His thick brows twitched, his chiseled jaw clenched so tight that the sharp angles of his face became razor-like. Every part of him radiated anger. No—rage. A smoldering fury that crackled in the air between them.

Sara's breath hitched as the scent of something potent—rich, dark, intoxicating—invaded her senses, sinking deep into her lungs. Her fingers trembled against the glossy car, her knees weak beneath her.

She needed to say something. Anything.

Maybe an apology. Maybe she should wipe the lipstick off. Maybe she should just run.

But her mind went blank.

Completely, utterly blank.

All she could register was the sheer force of his presence—the overwhelming power pressing down on her, suffocating, paralyzing. His grip on her wrist was unforgiving, his gaze unreadable, and for the first time that night, she wanted to cry.

This man wasn't just angry. He was dangerous.

His jaw was tight, sharp enough to cut glass, lips curled in something that wasn't quite anger but far worse—contempt.

"Filthy."

(continued)