Chapter 1

Sophie Huntsberger

I drag myself heavily through the crowded club once more, everything moving and tipping like I’m at sea, disorientated and foggy, although I’m less drunk than I was. My phone is still glued to my ear, even though I seem to have lost Arrick and hear nothing but silence. Pulling my cell down to look at the blank screen, I realize my battery has died, and I sigh in complete deflation. Fed up with how my life is turning out lately, nothing seems to go right anymore.

Taking a long deep breath to try to center myself into sobriety, my body sagging, drying my face halfheartedly with the back of my hand now that my tears have once again subsided, and my heart has resorted to numb emptiness. I don’t even care if my makeup is smeared or cried off. Arrick has seen me worse so many times.

I let my cell drop in my hand beside my body and hold it loosely, too disconnected to feel anything but heavy fatigue from stupidly sobbing, swaying from being under the influence, and bumping into things clumsily. I’m empty and done, completely over my night and not caring that it isn’t even late enough to be bailing.

“Hey, sexy … wanna dance?” Some husky male voice assaults my senses as I fight my way through the heaving, dancing crowd, which is more like a sea of tar, shrugging by without a response and hoping he leaves me alone. He taps my shoulder as though I haven’t heard him, and the rise of hairs and goosebumps runs across my skin in automatic response. That internal rearing ache in my stomach that happens anytime a guy touches me. I long ago identified it as repulsion. I shrug it off and keep going, eyes forward, not reacting in any way, body simmering with that restless, cranky energy that seems to plague me of late.

My steps are labored and off balance, and I know that even if I take off my heels, I won’t be able to keep walking around before face-planting the floor. Everything is surreal and yet shittily familiar. Everything aches. My legs are like rubber, my feet are burning and sore in my new Jimmy Choos, and now I’m irritated and nauseous beyond belief. It’s fair to say my mood has seen better days, and I cannot be assed with this shit anymore.

A hot iron-gripped hand catches my upper arm, startling me and halting my progression through sweaty bodies, biting into my naked flesh and pulling me back ungracefully so that I almost go over my heels. My heart jumps at the action.

“Hey, I was asking you a question!” He yells right into my ear to be heard above the thrum of noise as he catches up and puts himself right against my ass, heat hitting me, accompanied by that familiar rising panic from deep within. The inner psycho is bristling up to take on another sleazy asshole who thinks he has a right to touch me. I inwardly recoil at the unwanted contact.

Annoyed at the nerve of the creep and outraged at my near trip, I flash an angry glare his way over my shoulder and yank myself free. I respond aggressively as rage spikes inside me like a hot fiery spear. That inner fury, which always bubbles below the surface drunk and has been ingrained since childhood, sparks up to take on the world. Shoving him hard in the chest with the flat of my palm, putting every ounce of strength into it, and almost knocking myself off balance too. I want him to go away and leave me alone, shaking my hand to remove the sensation of his hot clammy body when I manage to gain the space I need.

He disappears into the crowd with the force of my assault, and I move fast, knowing better than to stick around for him to come back, trying to get out of sight before he gets back to his original spot. My heart races a little as adrenaline flows, and my sense tells me to duck and weave faster to the safety of the dark back wall of the club.

Men in this club are known for being aggressive and perverted at the best of times, and I’ve been groped on more than one occasion to know it’s true. One weekend had seen too close a call with one hot-tempered asshole who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Arrick had shown up just in time and broken his nose when he had refused to back down. Arry, my pro boxing hero.

“Leave me alone!” I yell back as an afterthought, almost coherently, to the general direction he’s fallen back; my slurring voice non-existent under the thumping house music and intent on just finding a quiet place to get off my tired legs to hide. I’m exhausted.

I wish Arry were here already helping me out to his car, so I can lie down and sleep. The thought of him coming for me is all that is keeping me sane right now; alcohol and tears are never a good mix. I’m disheveled, out of place, and vulnerable. I’m not sure if I should even tell him why I’m upset this time, why I have been crying.

Arrick hates my friends, not that I can’t see why, as they’re all pretty pathetic and just the crowd I fell into when I came here.