Page 152 of Boss of the Year

Louis had never led me wrong before. I doubted Celeste would either.

“Bottoms up, Celeste,” I said before taking a gulp.

The alcohol hit my empty stomach like a pool of fire. Aside from a piece of the onion tart, I’d barely eaten since leaving London, surviving mostly on coffee and a few baguettes. Now, the combination of absinthe and whatever else was in my drink made the club’s lights seem brighter, the music more seductive, and the crowd a lot less scary.

“Celeste!”

We turned to find a woman with purple hair and floral tattoos covering her arms approaching us. She kissed Celeste on both cheeks before turning to me with frank interest.

“This is my friend, Marie,” Celeste said.

“Ah,la cheffe Américaine!” The woman offered me dual kisses as well as a swell of jasmine-scented perfume. “Celeste has told us all about you. Full of heartbreak, I hear. Finish this drink, and we will get you another to wash away whatever bastard put those shadows in your eyes, okay?”

I smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

Celeste kissed my cheek. “Time for my show. You are okay?”

I nodded. The absinthe was rising to my head, an effect that was both heady and relaxing. “I’m fine here.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Sylvie called as Celeste wove her way toward the backstage area.

I sat at the bar with Sylvie, who attracted others in the club like bees to honey. Her friends were a mix of artists, students, and night creatures who seemed to exist solely to have a good time.

“Where are you from in America?” asked a friendly man with blue-tinted hair and kind eyes.

“New York,” I said, then corrected myself. “Well, the Bronx.”

“Ah, the Bronx!” Sylvie exclaimed. “Very tough, very real, yes? I see this movie, theBronx Tale. Also, theGoodfellas, but this is Brooklyn, no?”

I smiled at the mention of the famous film that portrayed my neighborhood as a dark place riddled with mafia warfare. “It’s not really like that so much anymore. Different neighborhoods have different vibes. My sister still lives there.”

“You have sisters?” asked the blue-haired man, whose name was Riad. “How many? Are they as beautiful as you?”

“Four, and much prettier. Plus, I also have a brother, and some would say the same about him.” Words came easier now, helped along by the alcohol and the genuine interest on their faces. “They’re all very different; they’re all stronger than me.”

“I doubt that,” Riad said seriously. “You don’t look like someone who breaks easily.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the way he was looking at me—like I was interesting, attractive, worth knowing—but I leaned closer. “Want to find out?”

His eyes widened, then crinkled with amusement. “Are you flirting with me,Américaine?”

My heart gave a thump—whether in fear or anticipation, I wasn’t sure. “Maybe. Is it working?”

Lord, Joni would be so proud. She would also slide right into this place like she was slipping on a new pair of ballet slippers.

Before he could answer, a bass line broke through the crowd as the lights darkened, and a spotlight opened on the stage at the front. We all turned to see Celeste taking center stage while the band behind her played the opening bars of a familiar song: “Dancing on My Own.”

On the stage, Celeste turned to me and winked.

I knew then that the song was for me. A song about a wallflower, about the girl always on the outskirts, waiting for someone to see her, want her, choose her.

Her voice warbled as she started a crescendo that I felt in my soul.

I’m giving it my all, but I’m not the girl you’re taking home…

I slipped off the barstool and let myself get swallowed by the crowd, the bass vibrating through my ribs, through my bones. My limbs moved without thinking, just feeling.

I keep dancing on my own.