Page 5

Eve

What is with those playing cards?

The drive home has me wracking my brain for answers to a question that I’m SURE doesn’t matter as much as I think it should. Yet my inner historian knows better than to ignore the symbolism there. For centuries, humanity has used logos, hieroglyphs, and a vast array of symbols to represent various groups, organizations, cults and more. I know that Jason said his adopted father and Maya were part of the same club, so it makes sense that the two of them would share some representation of their shared interest.

But why would Jason keep the card?

Jason had briefly mentioned it was because it was memento, a memory to cling to in the absence of his father. But the way he answered me when I asked about it, the tone in his voice…it was protective. Secretive. As if the answer was hard for him to find.

Or fabricate.

And then there was Maya’s card, a Queen of Spades: appropriate considering her sharp personality, but the nagging feeling in my brain is telling me there’s more to the two of them than just a ‘friendly club relationship.’ My skin is flush with adrenaline as I feel a sense of worry--of dread--wash over me, leaving as quickly as it comes.

Finally arriving home, I am beyond excited to shower and refresh myself. I barely make it through the front door before I toss my phone and keys on the end table next to me. Ripping my dress over my head and throwing it across the living room, I march straight towards the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror stops me in my tracks as I get a good look at myself, at what Jason was forced to endure during our meeting: the flush in my cheeks makes my freckles pop, and my hair could definitely use a brush. Eh. It is what it is. After all, who was I trying to impress? Definitely not the tall, polished, handsome man I just met.

No, definitely not.

Pushing the thoughts of Jason from my mind, I turn around and lean into the bathtub, turning on the shower and waiting for it to warm up. Once steam starts to cloud the bathroom, I step in and revel in the scalding water as it burns off the grime from the day. My eyes close and I let the water hit the back of my neck and shoulders, groaning in satisfaction while I feel my muscles relax. Desperate for the hot water to wash away the grief, to help me feel anything at all.

My mind trails back to my encounter with Jason and the tension I knew we both felt between us. I soap up, scrubbing viciously at my skin: as I rinse off, I allow my mind to wander…right into the arms of Jason Grant.

He stands at his desk, ready to say goodbye: his towering frame has me staring up at him, and without thinking I can feel myself lick my lips. The motion is quick, so quick, but Jason notices and grins slyly. In a few short strides he walks around the corner and sits on the desk in front of me, his lap inches from my face: he reaches forward and takes my chin in his hand, forcing my head up to meet his. His eye contact is piercing, direct, and flooded with lust.

“Eve…”

My lips part slightly and a small exhale escapes me. He moves his thumb up from my chin and traces my lips before easing it inside my mouth. Slowly, sensually, he drags the pad over my tongue. I can’t control myself, and before I can think I press my tongue up against him, closing my lips lightly around his thumb and sucking slightly.

Jason groans, pressing so hard that it forces my mouth to part as he lifts my head even further up. My neck is straining as far back as it can go while he stares at me, my tongue still swirling around his thumb. I’m fighting to try and satiate my desires to have him, any part of him.

His eyes narrow dangerously as he reaches with his free hand and begins to unzip his pants.

“God that mouth…that fucking mouth…”

Jason barely finishes his sentence before his cock springs free, the evidence of his arousal beading at the tip. I squeeze my thighs, desperate for any amount of friction to ease my own need.

I want him so badly I could cry.

As his thumb presses firmly onto my tongue, holding my mouth open, I stare at him intently: my eyes are begging for him, saying what my lips cannot. Leaning in until his nose is brushing mine, his lips inches from my open mouth, he whispers to me. His voice is husky with need, and his eyes are fixated on my lips, on the movements of his thumb against my tongue.

“You’re such a good girl, being so patient…such a good fucking girl.”

Bringing his lips to mine, he uses his tongue to trace my lips so painstakingly slowly, it takes everything I have to not fight against him and try to take what I want. I know there would be no chance of winning a battle for control: tall, strong, he has me at a disadvantage, and it’s all I can do to just sit still and take this sensuous torture.

Keeping his thumb in place and my mouth open for him, Jason slips his tongue inside and takes his time exploring, keeping a slow, deliberate pace. I feel his other hand slide down my arm to my hand, and with one swift motion he places it on his throbbing erection.

I can’t help it anymore: I let out a low, long moan of satisfaction as I gently slide my hand up and down his length. Jason growls into my mouth and slides his thumb out, sealing his own lips against mine and reaching back to grasp the nape of my neck. What started as slow, sensual desire has now erupted into fierce, animalistic lust as he crashes his mouth against mine, his tongue forcing its way as deep inside me as he can go.

I move my lips against his, position his tongue in the middle of my mouth and suck hard, keeping it prisoner as my own tongue swirls around it. Jason’s grip on the back of my neck tightens as his cock jumps in my hand, and for a second, I feel me winning our fight for control. I open my eyes and see that he is already looking at me, his honey-colored eyes tinted with a deadly hint of red, and he smiles wickedly against my mouth…

“OH FUUUUCK!”

The now ice-cold water shakes me from my daydream but does nothing to cool the heat radiating from my skin.

Sweet Jesus, Eve.

I turn off the water, stepping out of the bathtub and grasping a towel from the nearby rack. As I dry off my face, I look down and see goosebumps peppering my body. Somehow, I don’t think these are from the water.

Toweling my hair, I walk to the bedroom and check the clock on the wall. 8:00pm. It’s still early, and the shower has woken me up entirely: I know it’s only a Thursday, but I really don’t want to be stuck at home, especially with how heated I am right now. I’m vibrating with desire for a man I just met, and I need to do something to get my mind off of it.

Wrapping the towel around my waist, I make my way to the living room and grab my phone, popping on social media to see what’s going on in the area. My thumb is still slightly damp, leaving faint streaks along the display as I scroll aimlessly, walking back towards my bedroom. Plopping onto the bed with a sigh, I’m about to give up my search when a bright image of lights and crowds fills my screen, covered with white text that reads HALF PRICED DRINKS ON THURSDAYS. I notice that it’s a sponsored ad for Clover, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea.

Hmmm.

I’m down for drinks, and who knows? Maybe I’ll run into some handsome, single stud who’s willing to show me a good time.

My phone barely makes a sound as I toss it aside onto the bed, my wet feet slapping the hardwood floor as I stand and finish drying off the rest of my body. Tossing the towel on the floor, I peruse through my closet and find myself talking out loud to nobody in particular as I turn down every option I come across.

“Hmmm, red? No, too bright. Plus it’s the wrong color and will clash with my hair. The green? Yeah, but what shoes? I only have flats to match and I’ll be damned if I’m wearing flats to the goddam club. And yellow? Why the FUCK do I own anything in yellow?”

I don’t like anything in my closet right now, and I can’t decide on something to wear. I’m so frustrated I nearly slam my closet door shut, but I stop myself right before my hand leaves the handle. Something in the back catches my eye: something black. Shiny. Reaching in, I grasp the fabric and pull it from the bowels of my closet, and as it hits the light it gleams.

Black satin with a slightly iridescent, oil slick-colored finish. Mid-thigh. Tight. Low Cut.

PERFECT.

Nobody looks bad in black, and considering this is my first night going out after the death of my father, the black feels appropriate.

I rifle through my drawer for a bra and underwear and find a matching hunter green set: throwing it on, I slip the dress over my head, being careful to make sure it’s NOT inside-out this time. Wriggling my hips, the satin fabric slides down my thighs and comes to rest right above my knees.

I glance over at my shoe rack on the other side of my room, where a pair of black alligator pumps are beckoning for me. Sauntering over, I pull them out and one by one, slip my feet inside. They are still relatively new–stiff and unyielding–but I’m not afraid of the pain. On the contrary, I’ve always leaned into it. Pain makes me feel alive, and after all the deadly, torturous displays of cruelty I’ve studied, it makes me wonder just how much pain I can endure.

Grabbing my phone from the bed and my make up bag from my nightstand, I head to the bathroom, brush out my wavy hair and toss on a quick face. Smokey eye, nude lip with a little liner, and a little concealer under my eyes. I quickly learned when I hit 30 a year ago that less really IS more…and besides, most of the crowd at Clover are all in their early 20s and can’t get on my level if they tried.

My phone buzzes with a mail notification. Setting the makeup back in the bag, I look down and see the word “Everlast.” My fingers crack as I hastily open my emails and begin to read.

Hello Ms. O’Hara, this is Maya from Everlast Mortuary. Mr. Grant has secured your urn of choice, and the cremation for your father is scheduled to take place within the next two weeks. We will send you another email with details to follow. Thank you.

“Well, she’s definitely not one to waste words,” I mutter as I head out of the bathroom towards the front door.

I’m glad he could at least get the urn I want: it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if it didn’t work out, but the meaning behind it matters. Ever since my dad passed, I’ve felt myself slipping into a dark, unfathomable space. I have no other family. I have no other reason to pretend to be something I’m not, not anymore.

My father saw a darkness in me, and despite my predilections and fascinations with the most disturbing aspects of human nature, he still loved me regardless. His light is what kept me grounded, molding my darkness into shadows that would dance in the back of my mind while my soul was granted leave to bask in the rays of his empathy and love.

Now that he’s gone, those shadows have grown, saturating every crevice of my brain and engulfing me completely. I feel…dangerous. I feel a sense of anger at his death that I can’t seem to stifle, and I don’t know how to channel it.

Fuck channeling. At least for tonight. Tonight is for getting drunk as fuck and forgetting my pain for a night.

I open the front door, stepping out into the warm night air, and as I look back over my shoulder, I survey my living room one last time: the shards of broken glass from yesterday are still on the floor near the coffee table, the boxes of my dad’s stuff still along the walls. All stress on my mind, yet all problems for tomorrow.

Clover is busy as hell, something that wouldn’t normally surprise me on a Friday or Saturday night, but on a Thursday? The parking lot is packed, and it is only out of sheer luck that I find a spot. It looks like most everyone else shares the same mindset: it’s Thursday night, and we all have to party early so we can make it to work tomorrow.

Hah.

My heels click as I strut past the bouncer and through the doors, the calm and quiet of the night around me soon swallowed up by the pounding bass and screaming crowds. I’m not usually too big of a fan of the club scene, but something in the air has me feeling…predatory.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and feel something transformative happen, shifting my mentality from sadness and self-pity to selfish and seductive. I can feel people walking around me, being careful not to bump into me, and I feel like I OWN the club.

Flashing lights flood my vision as I slowly open my eyes and survey the scene before me: to the left, the dance floor is packed with bodies, and lined with couches and tables full of college co-eds and wannabe small-town social media celebrities. Pitiful. To the right, a posh seating area is scattered around the giant, ornate bar, with dark green lights glowing from behind the liquor bottles.

Between the dance floor and bar is a narrow walkway that leads to the VIP lounge, where two heavy doors are guarded by a burly, tattooed bouncer who I swear could be a pro MMA fighter. The words VIP are in gold script above the entrance, and a keypad behind the bouncer ensures that nobody gets in without a security escort.

I beeline for the bar. I need a drink, and no sooner do I take a seat than I feel eyes burning into me from all angles. I slowly look left, look right, and see a few groups of men around the bar staring at me with as much subtlety as a train wreck.

Well, Eve, you DID come here to find some company for tonight. What’s the harm in entertaining them?

A bartender walks over, and it’s all I can do to not stare in awe. He’s tall. Tall, with beautifully dark skin, perfectly trimmed hair, and a cream-colored suit that looks like it costs as much as the club itself.

If this man’s really a bartender, then I’m the fucking queen of England.

His voice is so deep I can barely hear it over the sound of the club music and screaming crowds, but something in his tone cuts through all the noise. It’s direct, focused, authoritative, and his eye contact draws me in so intensely that I can’t focus on anything else.

“Hello miss, what can I get started for you?”

“I hate to be that person, but I don’t really know,” I reply, crossing my arms on the bar and leaning forward with slow, deliberate intent. “I don’t get out much, and when I drink, it’s usually wine.”

He laughs loudly and shakes his head.

“As refined a woman as you seem to be, I won’t let you get away with drinking wine at my bar tonight.”

Looking me up and down for a second, he seems to be assessing me more than checking me out: something in his face as he scans me over gives me the impression that he can tell everything from a person with just a glance. So I let him look. Leaning back in my seat, I hold my arms up and laugh.

“Take a good look, buddy, and tell me what I’m drinking tonight!”

His gaze meets mine as he studies my face for a moment and snaps his fingers.

“Do you trust me?” he asks with a wicked gleam in his eye. It’s the same gleam you would give a friend, someone you know…but I’ve never met him before. Yet he keeps looking at me as if he knows who I am.

I nod in return, and within seconds he’s turned around, expertly grasping for bottle after bottle, shaking and stirring and moving so fast I can barely make out what he’s adding. He’s like a chemist, and in under a minute he presents me with a cocktail glass filled to the brim with a bright gold, shimmering drink, garnished with a lime curl and cherry.

I look up at him. He looks down at me. For a second neither of us speak, and as we stare at each other the music breaks for a moment. The silence speaks volumes as the DJ promptly puts another song on, and our gaze is broken as I lean forward and take the glass. Putting it to my lips, I take a sip and my eyes roll back into my head.

“Holy fuck,” I exclaim, nodding my head with approval. It’s warm, spicy but with a hint of sweetness, and the sharp aftertaste hanging on my tongue won’t let go. I love this.

Placing my drink on the bar, I turn to face the bartender.

“What do you call this?”

“It’s called ‘Irish Gold,’” he says with a smirk, and turns to put the bottles of liquor back on the wall.

A chuckle escapes my lips.

“What gave it away? Red hair? The freckles? I mean, I know my coloring SCREAMS “Irish,” but damn, did you have to be so on the nose with that drink?” I tease playfully as he turns back to me, adjusting his tie and fixing his jacket.

“Let’s just say I’ve seen a decent assortment of people in my life, and the Irish always have a presence, of sorts.”

“Uh huh,” I muse, taking another sip before setting the glass down with a delicate clink and extending my hand across the bar.

“I’m Eve.”

That twinkle in his eye dulls slightly as his carefree demeanor gives way to a sudden air of authority. His hand meets mine, a fist so large it swallows my hand to the wrist.

“I’m Derek: it’s a pleasure to meet you, Eve.”

Derek releases my hand and smiles at me ever so slightly, his gaze still fixed on me as my brows furrow ever so slightly.

Derek. Where have I heard that name recently…

I sip my drink, deep in thought and Derek cocks his head.

“What’s on your mind, Eve?”

I take another sip.

“Not much. Just got back from a meeting today at Everlast regarding my father’s funeral, and now I have to plan his memorial at the local university. Ya know, the usual.”

The look on Derek’s face doesn’t waver as he keeps eye contact with me. Something in that look…it’s as if he knows something about me. As if he knows ME. I can’t get over the feeling of tightness in my stomach as a brief ‘fight or flight’ response rises in my gut, warning me that this man might not be all he seems.

Still, he’s been a perfect gentleman so far, with no cause for me to feel nervous. I take a short breath and survey his face, matching his intensity as I push my nerves aside and straighten up in my seat.

He finally breaks his gaze from mine and smiles widely as he shuffles with some garnishes and bottles in front of him.

“Everlast? So you talked with Jason Grant, yeah?”

“I did indeed,” I say as I swirl my drink. “Actually, now that I think about it, I remember Maya interrupting our meeting to tell Jason that a ‘Derek’ was reminding him of some event or meeting he scheduled for.”

My eyes track Derek like a snake and its prey, following his movements and reading every little twitch of his face.

“Yeah, he and I go way back. He comes and helps me at work now and then.”

I chuckle to myself. The thought of Jason behind the bar, serving a bunch of thirsty cougars is unbelievable. Still, for a second, I find myself turning in my seat, seeing if I can spot Jason in the club at all.

No luck, and as I pivot back towards the bar a glint of gold catches my eye: Derek’s hands are adorned with a couple substantial rings, and I take a moment to really assess his accessories.

“So Derek, I can’t help but notice how put together you are. Tell me, how does a bartender come to wear a suit that crisp, and rings that cost what I’m SURE are a few thousand dollars? Do you and Jason really make that kind of money slinging drinks?”

Derek reaches over to pick up a few empty glasses from the bar and laughs quietly, almost as if to himself.

“Actually, I own the place. I like to come up here to make myself familiar with our clientele, oversee the club’s affairs, help out the bar, and greet our very special VIP’s when they have appointments with us. Jason helps with the club security from time to time, making sure no…degenerates...bother our guests.”

I finish my drink and nod approvingly.

“Owner, manager, customer service, bartender: seems like you’re quite the ace.”

He turns from me slightly to put the empty glasses in the wash sink nearby, but glances over his shoulder, eyes shadowed as his lip curls into a devilish smile.

“Eve, you have no idea how right you are.”