CHAPTER 3: “A Night I’ll Pretend Wasn’t Mine”
Amara’s POV
I didn’t plan to end up here.
Not with mascara smudged under my eyes, not with betrayal thrumming behind my ribs like a war drum. I didn’t plan to feel this hollow or this stupid. But plans were for people whose best friend didn’t screw their boyfriend in their bed.
And tonight—I wasn’t one of those people.
The cab's tires hissed against the wet pavement. I didn’t wait for the driver to fully stop before pushing the door open.
“Here’s fine,” I muttered, tossing a crumpled bill into the front seat.
The bright lights of the club flickered like a dare. The Grooving Getaway. What a stupid name. But what better place to forget the two people who broke me than somewhere that already sounded like it wanted to run away?
The music pounded before I even stepped inside. I pushed through the doors, the scent of liquor and perfume wrapping around me like static. People danced like nothing hurt. Lucky them.
I headed straight for the bar.
“Miss?” The bartender was young, clean-cut. Too fresh-faced for the weight in my chest.
“Whatever gets me drunk fastest,” I said without flinching as I flopped down onto one of the chairs.
He blinked. “Uh… Okay. Bold choice. Coming right up.”
A moment later, a drink hit the counter. I didn’t care what it was. I downed it, felt it burn down my throat, and slammed the glass back.
“Another,” I said flatly.
He obeyed.
I didn’t keep count. Three. Four. Maybe six. Everything started tilting at the edges, which was perfect. Exactly what I needed—just enough blur to erase them.
Except it wasn’t working.
The image of Brittany’s hand sliding down Derek’s chest was still imprinted in my skull like a brand.
The sound of her laugh in my kitchen.
His moan—God, his moan.
I gripped the bar until my knuckles turned white.
“Miss, I—uh—I don’t think I should keep serving—”
“Is it your money?” I snapped, spinning toward him with my face darkening with anger. “No? Then pour the damn drink.”
He froze.
“Someone’s got sharp claws tonight,” a voice said behind me.
I turned. There was a man—no, a goddamn work of art—leaning on the bar a few feet away. His voice was smooth, like sin dressed in silk.
He didn’t even look at me directly, just swirled his glass, lips curled in lazy amusement.
“You talking to me?” I asked, my brows pulling together in puzzlement..
“Didn’t realize there was anyone else growling at bartenders tonight.” He finally glanced over, and I swear to God, my heart skipped something.
He was beautiful.
Jet-black hair fell over one eye, catching the lights above the bar like he’d stepped out of a music video. His shirt was barely buttoned, revealing just enough skin to make me wonder what the rest looked like. His jawline was unfair. His mouth—Christ, his mouth.
“Sweetie?” he said when he caught me staring. “My eyes are up here.”
“I wasn’t just looking at your chest,” I said defensively, blinking too slow to lie.
“Oh? You’re multifaceted.” He smirked and shook his head.
God, even his smirk was hot.
“I’m Amelia,” I blurted and immediately bit the insides of my cheeks. What the fuck am I doing right now?
He raised an eyebrow. “Nice to meet you, Amara. I’m—” he paused, like it was a secret. “Let’s go with Damian.”
Damian.
Even his fake name sounded edible.
“You always give fake names to drunk girls at clubs?” I asked, tipping my glass again with a slight chuckle.
He leaned in, voice dipping into something that stroked my skin like velvet. “Only the ones I plan to dance with.”
I felt my stomach flip. “You don’t even know if I can dance.”
“Then show me.”
I paused, then grabbed his hand.
The music changed—some low, thumping beat that crawled under your skin and stayed there. I let him pull me into the chaos of the dance floor. Lights strobed. Bodies pressed. I didn’t care.
I turned, back against his chest, and let my hips roll. His hands found my waist, gripping just tight enough to make me feel like I belonged there.
I wasn’t Amara, the betrayed girl anymore.
I was just a woman dancing with a beautiful stranger in the middle of a club that didn’t care about names or heartbreaks.
He leaned closer. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”
“Not really my scene,” I replied, still moving. “But my ex and my best friend thought the inside of my apartment was a good place to play house. So here I am.”
His hands stilled.
I turned to face him, forcing a smile. “Bet you regret asking now.”
He shook his head slowly. “Nope. I’m glad they’re idiots. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
His eyes were darker now, locked on my lips. I didn’t flinch when he reached up and brushed my hair off my face.
“They don’t deserve you,” he said, low and serious.
I didn’t say anything. Just reached up and traced the line of his shirt collar.
He leaned in, lips brushing mine—then stopped.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” I whispered.
He kissed me like a secret. Not rushed. Not forced. Just… deep. Slow. Like he had all the time in the world and nothing to prove. My fingers tangled in his hair. His hand gripped my lower back like he’d known me longer than five minutes.
When we broke apart, we were both breathless.
“I don’t normally do this,” I said, sounding too much like a cliché.
He laughed. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“So… let’s break all your rules tonight.”
His forehead rested against mine. We stood like that, breathing the same air, the club fading around us.
“I don’t want to remember tonight,” I whispered.
His thumb brushed my cheek. “Then don’t.”
“Can we go somewhere else?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”
I let him take my hand.
I didn’t ask where we were going.
I didn’t ask for his real name.
And he didn’t ask for mine again.