Page 6 of Rogue’s Path (Sweet Chaos #1)

Dylan

This upscale bar in the middle of Urbium wasn’t quite what I expected when reading Dahlia’s list. The only fun things in this sleek place are the pink drinks in front of us.

We had a choice of Shirley Temples or strawberry martinis.

Most people took the martinis, but there’s no way I want to end up flat on my face at the end of the night.

Someone needs to make sure that this group doesn’t go too wild.

Cordelia, the woman in the sequined fifties dress, is sitting next to me. I should make small talk. It’s not like I’m terrible at it, but what do I even say to someone like her? Because what I want to do is ask all the intrusive questions that have been popping into my mind.

Like, why all the costumes? Though, to be fair, that style looks phenomenal on her figure.

Do you want to draw attention to yourself or away from you to your outfit?

Hmmm. She’d make an interesting character. A trad wife surrounded by a group of… compared to her most of us probably look like prostitutes…maybe more like ladies on the prowl. That sounds the same as prostitutes. My skirt isn’t that short.

How would I even write this one?

Maybe Cordelia was the madam…

Nope, I’ve gone a little loopy. “So what do you do?” Please say you aren’t married with nine million kids. I might not be able to control my reaction. Though she seems like she’d be a great mother.

“Bake cakes. Well, it’s more than that. I decorate special event cakes and cupcakes. And occasionally cake pops, since I don’t like wasting the excess cake.”

Well, that sounds like a yummy job. How is she not 600lbs?

I’d be the size of a house surrounded by sweets all day.

Cordelia isn’t skin and bones like Ottilie, the notebook girl.

She’s average, maybe closer to me. Work means I sit all day long, never quite getting the exercise I need to have the ‘perfect’ figure.

My aunt-mother would say I got the secretary spread, but I couldn’t care in the least about those last ten pounds. “That sounds like fun.”

“It is.” She takes a sip of her martini. “It’s sweet art mixed with chemistry. And my workplace always smells amazing.”

Mine usually does too. Except when I forget to shower and eat because I’m so deep in a book nothing else exists. Then…it’s a good thing there’s no one else around to smell me.

Dahlia stands up, drawing everyone’s attention. “Many of you know I made a list of wild things to try. This place seems like the perfect place to Get Someone’s Number. So that’s the challenge. Mingle, meet people, and get them to give you their number.”

“That sounds too easy. Especially for him.” Savie points her needle at Knight. “We should make it challenging. The one with the most numbers in an hour gets to wear the crown at our next stop.”

Say no.

“That sounds like fun!” Winnie, the traitor, says.

The introverts at the table are about ready to cry. This is going to go over so well. I sit back and wait as most of the women go off trying to play along. The bar isn’t stuffed to the gills, but there are plenty of people to go around that they aren’t clustered around individual tables.

“Are you going to try to get a number?” Cordelia whispers. There’s a fair bit of horror in her eyes.

Why not? “Yeah. I’m just strategizing.” That’s the excuse I’ll go with.

“My mother would die of embarrassment if she found out that I walked up to a man and asked for his number.” A slow grin spreads across Cordelia’s face.

“That sounds like a good reason to get up and say hello to a stranger.” Cordelia probably has wonderful parents. Mine do everything just the way they should. It makes me want to rebel and I’ve been grown up for over a decade.

“Doesn’t it?” She sets her glass to the side and stands up. “Maybe I should try to win this thing.”

Not sure I want to win the game, but I’m down to give it a try. “Let’s do it!”

We walk away, leaving just a few people at the table, including Mindy, Dahlia, Daria, Knight, and Fiona.

All around the large bar, women in sparkly dresses are chatting up strangers.

The Sequined Suspects—I’d be laughed at for that title.

Shiny Spies—Totally messed up.

Gruesome Glitter Slayers—What’s with all this alliteration?

Focus on the task at hand. Who is going to give you their number? And what line should you use? Those are pertinent questions. Coming up with trash titles for books you’ll never write isn’t.

Maybe I should pick the lone nerdy guy at the far end of the smoked glass bar? He’s liable to give me his number, but might also get hurt in the process. I need a player. Or at least guys that won’t be devastated by someone smiling and flirting, and then walking away.

Men strong enough to… Talking about strong and powerful, why did four bodybuilders turned CEOs just randomly pick this place on a Saturday night?

There’s no way those suits are off the rack.

They chat as their eyes seemingly lackadaisically roam the room.

But something about them screams focused and in control.

They’d make the perfect characters for a military mystery. Four heads of mercenary companies meet to plan a coup and end up trying to figure out who kidnapped a senator’s daughter. No. No. No. That would end up becoming a romantic suspense, not a mystery.

Maybe with a little tweaking, I could make them into something. But what I won’t do is hurt anyone asking for their number. Rejections from them wouldn’t surprise me either. Perfect.

Confidence. I add a slight sway to my hips, and I move towards them.

There’s not a single sign from the four of them that they’ve noticed me, but they’d have to be blind not to.

Are they? No, your mind is playing tricks on you.

The fourth one stops pretending and meets my gaze. This guy’s sharp eyes don’t miss a thing. Was I far off in my imagination? Is he a military contractor?

Maybe he’s a third-world dictator. That man could take power by sheer force of will. Most women would fall at his feet if he smiled at them.

I might if I don’t stop all these whimsical thoughts.

He’s definitely going to be in my next book. Hero or villain to be determined later.

“Hi.” I try cheerful and bubbly, none of which am I.

“Hello,” the three ignoring me say almost in unison.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sexy just tips the corner of his lips up in a sultry smile.

Life isn’t fair. But I’ll enjoy the view as I spew out my spiel and hope for the best. “One of my best friends is getting married—” Again, but they don’t need to know that.

“—and this is her pre-bachelorette party. She dared all of us to get some guys to give us their number. It’s silly and all.

But would you mind giving me your numbers, I promise to lose them tomorrow morning after the hangover I’m going to have wears off. ”

One of them laughs. The other smirks. The third doesn’t react at all.

“What if I didn’t want you to lose mine?” Tall, Dark, and Sexy asks.

Oh.

OH.

Oh. “I. Um. Don’t live around here.”

“A plane can take me just about anywhere nowadays.”

OH! Can I really say no to a smile like that? “I don’t normally look like this.”

“Even better. Hand me your phone.”

Um. This is crazy. Insane. I slide my phone out of my purse and unlock it. What am I doing?

“Good Girl.”

What? He’s not allowed to say things like that. We aren’t in a steamy romance novel. Murderery books are my style. This guy probably does that too.

Somehow, my phone ends up in his hands.

I’m not drunk enough to get that crazy. How drunk would I have to be to make this feel sane and rational?

“When I invite you out for lunch tomorrow, you can call me Taylor.”

This does not compute. Taylor just broke my brain. “You don’t even know my name.”

“You can tell me at lunch.” He reaches across and sets my phone back in my palm, brushing my fingers with his.

A woman who was in control of all her faculties would say something. But since he decimated mine, I turn and flee without uttering a single one.

Cowards live to fight another day. Or run from things that are completely overwhelming.

Living is good.

Awkwardly, I flop and trip into my chair, reaching for my drink.

This is not how I planned the night to go.

Is he watching me?

There’s no way I’m turning to find out. That whole eyes meeting across the bar thing would be so cringy and embarrassing.

Cordelia precisely floats into the seat next to me, crossing her feet at the ankles. How long did she have to practice that move?

Why didn’t my mom teach me that? Fine, I can get out almost any stain on my clothes and my hospital corners would make a military man jealous. None of that looks as elegant as Cordelia just did. “How was it? Did you get a number?” Why did I ask? Now she’s going to end up asking me.

“It was…freeing.” Her face lights up. “Just knowing my mother would have a stroke made it magical. Then having four guys give me their numbers made it even better. Dahlia, this was the best idea ever.” Cordelia lifts her glass, and the table erupts.

The best idea…wouldn’t be how I described it.