The Pact (Chicago Nights Book 2) by Natalie Wrye

Author:Natalie Wrye [Wrye, Natalie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-09-17T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 16

NAOMI

Saturday night

I think I remember now why I never go to parties.

If I wanted to puncture my eardrums tonight, I’m sure I could have found better ways to do it.

Ros and I never made it to The Drake. Cougar marketing duty called and she wound up working overtime, leaving me waiting for her at a popular club downtown called Soca with a crowd inside that drives me to drink.

Ros would kill me if she saw me now.

In my ‘Saturday best’ of a black halter and hip-hugging jeans, I sidle up again to the sleek black bar, waving at the bartender. Out of all Ros’s clit-whipping plans tonight, the only person I’ve made friends with…is the guy who serves the drinks, and when I make it back to my sequestered corner of the shiny aluminum surface, he’s right there, elbows planted on the bar, a crooked smile on his sympathetic face.

“Get you anything else, love?

It’s not a question. More like a call of concern.

The only drink I’ve ordered tonight is one glass of red wine.

I’m pretty sure I have PTSD from the night I ate the Alchemist floor, and for all the reasons I can’t even voice, I can’t find it in me to leave the tiny square foot of space I’ve been occupying all night.

Even the British bartender who’s been kind enough to feed me limes with my wine looks at me in pity, probably wondering why I’m acting as if glue has my feet stuck to the floor.

I finger my wine glass, tapping its stem. “I think I’m okay, actually. Just going to enjoy this here glass of wine.”

He cocks a brow. “But not the dance floor?”

“Oh, I’m not the biggest dancer.”

Lies. I’m from Little Havana-Latin roots. Dancing is in my blood. But somehow the notion feels silly without a partner.

I don’t tell British Bartender guy that.

But he smirks down at me anyhow. “So who’s the guy, then?”

“What guy?”

“The guy who’s got you down in the mouth. The guy who’s preventing you from—how do you Americans put it?—spanking the planks out there?”

I laugh. “I don’t think any Americans have put it that way since nineteen-ninety-four. But I get your point.” I raise my glass of half-filled wine. “Well, if you really want to know the truth, I’m just trying to make it through this night in one piece. I told my friend that I’d join her here for drinks tonight, and… Here’s me.” I point at my chest. “And here’s my drink. So, mission accomplished.”

“And the mission didn’t include any fun?”

“I didn’t see it explicitly written out on the itinerary.”

“Look,” the messy-haired bartender leans closer, motioning for my ear as if to tell a secret. I lean in. “You look like a nice girl. Really, you do. And nice girls deserve to have fun, too. So, go out there. Hit the dance floor. Put down that sad glass of wine and show whatever guy who rejected you that you’re capable of having a good time.”

I want to correct him.

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