“I said, there is no need,” I adjust my grip so my thumb lands on a pressure point. “It was not her fault.”
“Of course,” he cringes. “It was not her fault.”
I release my grip and flop back onto my seat. “Wonderful, now if that is all?”
He nods his head and scurries off. Pathetic. But considering no bones were broken, I’m counting this as my one civil conversation that I promised Sydney.
I scan the crowd, trying to find her.
Stevie. That’s what her friend called her.
The visibility in the mask sucks ass, though; everyone and everything is bathed in a red haze. It’s why we don’t wear them full time and especially not while we’re gaming. We can’t see shit. But when Stevie fell in my lap, she was close enough that the mask didn’t matter. The red LED bathed her in its glow, turning her into an angel who had accidentally found her way into hell. An angel whom I wanted to corrupt. I shift in my seat. My cock is still half stiff from the feeling of her tight body flush against mine. Perky tits right at eye level, little ass rubbing across my lap. She turned what was going to be an annoying night into something much more interesting. Something actually worth my time.
“How am I supposed to drink any of this with the mask on?” Parker fiddles with the three champagne flutes in front of him.
“Stick a straw in it.”
“I’m not drinking champagne through a straw. I’m not some sort of heathen.” His accent thickens in disgust.
“Then I guess you’re not drinking ‘cause you’re not taking that mask off.”
There is a moment of silence as Parker laments.
“Okay, how about this. What if I tip my head upside down, tilt the mask up, and you pour the champagne into my mouth.” Jackson and I turn to stare at Parker at the same time, and while he can’t see our expressions, he knows the looks we are giving him. He suggests the same thing every time we go out. “Fine, fine.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
I feel Stevie’s presence before I see her. The little dove has managed to capture my attention more than I would like to admit.
I watch her slide through the crowd, our drinks in one hand and a new tray of champagne in the other. People make way for her without her having to utter a single word. She’s like a goddess, commanding attention with her mere presence. She knows it, too. It’s how she carries herself. The confidence she radiates is sexy. It makes me want to hide her away and put her on display at the same time. I want everyone to be jealous of her on my arm, but I also want to pluck out their eyes for even daring to look at her.
Her long legs eat up the distance in seconds, the short dress riding higher from the large strides. I keep up my slow perusal of her figure. She might not be able to see my eyes raking up her body, but she can feel them. It’s in the way her gaze flickers down to me before settling back on Jackson. She bends down and places both drinks on the table, sliding the martini glass to Jackson.
Her voice washes over me, rich like honey. “One cosmopolitan.”
“Could I have a straw?”
She pauses. “A straw?”
I swear every word out of Jackson’s mouth tonight has confused the poor girl.
“Like a bar straw,” Jackson nods at her. “Do you have some in that little bag?” Her brows furrow as she slides two thin, short straws from the petite fanny pack clipped around her waist.
“Sure, but we don’t normally serve them with cosmos.” She holds them out for him to grab and he plops them into the pink drink before raising it to the bottom of his mask. Lifting the mask a few inches and tilting his chin down, he takes a long–obnoxiously loud–sip.
“Oh.” The word slips out of her plush mouth.
“Show off,” Parker mutters. His full champagne flutes bubble idly in front of him, taunting him.
“Would you like a straw as well? A proper one, not a bar straw.”
I lean forward, resting my elbow on the table and propping my head up to stare at him.
“Yeah, English, why don’t you stick a straw in it.” I wish he could see my face, but my voice is laced with so much sarcasm it doesn’t make a difference.
“Pricks, the lot of you.” He looks up at her, and I thank fuck that he is wearing his mask because I just know he has that lazy, shit-eating grin slapped on his face right now. The one that has girls turning to putty before he even opens his damn mouth–a mouth I want to punch. “A straw would be great, love. Champagne flutes and masks don’t really mesh.”
“No, they don’t,” she holds out a straw, “but I doubt much is easy with those on.”
“You would be correct.” He takes the straw from her hand, fingers deliberately grazing over hers, “but there is still plenty we can do with them on.” She blushes and—yeah, I definitely want to punch him.
Parker sticks the straw in the flute, bringing it to the bottom of his mask. He hesitates, his brain warring between the atrocity he is about to commit and his need to have at least an ounce of alcohol in his body to make it through this awful event. He is my best friend, but I relish his struggle at the moment.
She places the amber drink in front of me. “Your whiskey.” Her syrupy voice drips over me and I struggle to pull myself away. Despite the mask, her cat-like eyes manage to zero in on my own. I don’t know what is going on, but I could sit here and stare into them for the rest of the night. She’s mesmerizing.
“Don’t I get a straw as well?”
She slips out two more bar straws and drops them in. “Of course.”
Bringing the straws to my lips, the subtle scent of the whisky drifts under the mask. My body begins to warm at the rich scent. I take a sip and recognition hits me instantly as the smooth liquid slides over my tongue. The spice heats up my throat, and a slight burn travels through my nose. It all amplifies the intoxicating feeling Stevie’s mere presence has created.
“Mac 12,” I say, appreciation and satisfaction in my voice at her choice. “Oaked.”
“You seemed like a Macallan kind of guy.” She shrugs.
I give her another once-over. At first glance, one might mistake her as just another high-class server. A more dedicated observer would be able to catalogue the glistening gems in her ears, the red soles of her heels, the practiced smile. She knows her shit because she was raised to know the best.
“Anyone with taste is a Macallan person.”
She snorts lightly. “You’re not helping your case.”
“Fine. So, what kind of guy does that make me?”
Her lip quirks up, teasing me.
“A guy who knows what he wants, what he likes,” she leans her hip on the table, “but is patient. He waits until it is the right time to strike.”
Fuck. I want to grip that hip and twist her onto my lap again. But there are still too many eyes on our table. We don’t do these events often, but when we do, we are careful about who we interact with and for how long. Even Sydney only attends events as necessary because of the backlash she receives. Although, she would attend every event with us if we didn’t stop her. She says she doesn’t care—that it’s part of the job—but no one is immune to online bullying, and we can handle ourselves.