She shimmers under the flashing strobe lights like the sun flashing across a summer pond. Her long, blonde hair flips back and forth with her head as she dances. Not really with someone, but surrounded by men in tan linen jackets, tight, white t-shirts, and loafers on their feet.
Like I said. Predictable.
She is Lyssa Baylor.
She is so rich, her little dog has a trust fund.
She is so privileged, her daddy didn’t give her a car for her sixteenth birthday, he gave her a yacht.
She is so popular, she didn’t even enter by the front door.
And she is so well taken care of there’s a limo driving around the block, ready to pick her up in the back alley the moment she decides to leave.
I think I hate her immediately.
But she sees me coming. Her eyes find mine, then flit away as if she’s not interested.
She is though. That’s why I’m wearing this stupid smart-casual outfit. I know how to catch the eye of any woman on the planet. And I’m not bragging, it’s just true. Her family has more money than they can spend in a hundred lifetimes and I… well, I just have these looks.
Six foot two, hundred and ninety-seven pounds of muscle, brown hair light enough to go blonde in the summer, and green eyes that force you to look at my face—then notice my perfectly square jaw with just the right amount of stubble.
The double-take gets its name from how women react the first time they see me.
I don’t stop at the red velvet rope leading up to the VIP area. I greased that bouncer’s palm earlier today too. So I slide easily into Lyssa’s world without fuss, or comment, or care.
“Drink?” a waitress asks immediately. She smiles at me, eyes locked on mine.
Told you. My emerald peepers get that job done.
“No, thanks,” I say, charming her even further with my smile. “I’m not staying.”
“No?” she says, batting her eyes at me. “That’s a shame.”
I place a hand on her shoulder and squeeze it a little, aware that this is against personal-space protocol, but not caring, either. “Maybe I’ll see you around next weekend,” I say, winking at her before I move on through the crowd.
“Sure,” she calls back. “I’m here every Saturday!”
“I’m sure you are,” I mumble, already making my way over towards Lyssa.
I pass by a waitress carrying a tray of champagne flutes, grab one, then wink at her too and place a twenty on the tray. “Thanks,” I say.
She giggles and says, “No problem,” as she continues on like nothing happened.
The little fast-acting pill is already in my fingertips and a moment later I’ve dropped it in the glass. It bubbles at the bottom, but I tested this out earlier today. And this particular gem will be thoroughly dissolved by the time I push my way through the crowd and reach Lyssa.
She scans the crowd, looking for her next target the same way I was scanning for mine when I walked in this club.
When she sees me, she stops looking and smiles. I smile back, then look away. Because that’s how you play this game.
Just because I hate this scene doesn’t mean I don’t know the rules.
When I look back at Lyssa a few moments later, some guy just off to her left is leaning in to her ear, whispering something. Her face goes serious, then she smiles and nods her head at him, flashing her bright, white teeth.
Little quickie in the bathroom, Lyssa? I imagine him asking her.
Sure, be right there, she answers.
Not really. But it’s probably close enough.
She leaves the dance floor, walks over to a booth, grabs her purse, and pulls out a wad of cash.
Oh, what do we have here? Little deal going down?
You disappoint me, Lyssa. That was not casual or even remotely sneaky.
Wild Thing, they call her. Her father, her fiancé, hell, even her friends call her that.
And she sure does look the part. Dark eyeshadow smokes up her blue eyes and her hair is a mess of unruly long, blonde waves. The kind of hair that perpetually looks like she just got done fucking someone. And her skin is glistening with just the right amount of sweat to make you think of sex on a hot summer night.
She hands the money to the guy, who has followed her over to the table, and smiles at him, nodding her head towards the bathrooms. I read her lips as she says, “Twenty minutes, OK?”
He nods. I can’t see what he says because his back is to me. But I don’t need to. I know his answer.
She, like me, gets whatever she wants when it comes to sex.
That’s how I’m gonna trap her tonight.
That’s how I’m gonna get her good and drugged and in my van.
In five minutes she’s gonna want sex with me.