Ruthless Monarch

“Next song. I want to finish my drink.” She nods with a smile, and then she is off, like her normal, crazy self.

A laugh bubbles up as I see her making her way into the throngs of people. Arms in the air, swaying her hips.

“Why don’t you join her . . .?”

I pivot to face the new voice, and when our eyes lock, I freeze in place, my breath stuck in my chest.

It’s him. The man from before.

And he is talking to me.

Although it’s dark in the club, I can make out the outline of his features better now.

If I thought he was beautiful from across the room, that image holds no candle to what he looks like up close.

He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. Hopefully, he’s not someone who knows my family. That would be a shame. A dangerous shame at that. But the way he looks at me, I doubt it. He just must have one of those faces.

A completely gorgeous one.

Even this close, I still can’t make out his eye color. If I had to guess, I would say blue or hazel. Either way, they are as I noted before, mesmerizing.

It’s as though he can hear my thoughts, his lip tipping up into what I can only describe as a wicked smirk.

“I wasn’t in the mood,” I answer.

“Her loss is my gain.” Confidence oozes in his voice, but where it might be a turn-off for some, when he speaks, my body grows warm.

It’s not often I’m able to indulge in mindless flirting. Between school and my father trying to pawn me off on every successful politician’s son or even worse, politician, I don’t often have fun.

I pivot on my heels. Now, no longer looking over my shoulder, I can see his full build.

This man is out of my league.

I reach for my glass and down the last sip.

“Would you like another one?”

Should I?

The more I drink, the worse tomorrow will be.

But now that I’m thinking of tomorrow, liquid courage might be exactly what I need.

“You know what? Yeah, please,” I answer, and the man next to me signals the bartender, who is quick to oblige us.

The music switches to a louder and more upbeat song. I can only imagine Jules is probably completely lost to me in the beat.

“Your friend is having fun,” the stranger says as he reaches for my drink on the bar and hands it to me.

“Yes. She is good at that,” I say.

“At what?”

“Having fun.”

“And you?” He quirks a dark, thick eyebrow. I move my jaw back and forth.

“Not so much,” I admit. “What should we drink to?”

He holds up his glass for a toast. Even his square fingernails are perfect. My stomach dips.

“You pick, Somber Girl.”

“To crazy friends dragging you to a club just to ditch you.” I shrug.

“To strangers at a bar playing hero,” he answers.

“Are you the hero?” I ask playfully, the alcohol making my head fuzzy and freeing me of my normal inhibitions.

“Not often.”

“Then what are you?”

More importantly—who are you?

He leans in close, very close, his mouth hovering next to my ear . . .

My body becomes hyperaware of our proximity as butterflies erupt in my stomach. This is not good. I shouldn’t feel his hands on me before he even touched me.

“I’m the—” he starts to say, but then a hand is wrapped around my bicep. I’m yanked backward, my head swinging around to find a dancing Jules. “You promised the next song!” she screams, flinging her arms in the air.

I turn back to the stranger, about to apologize, about to ask him to join me, but when I do, he’s gone.

Again.

And like before, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing.

The next day I wake with a slight headache.

Nothing too awful, but bad enough that I grab two painkillers, so glad that I keep them and a bottle of water on my bedside table, and gulp them down.

Once I have taken it, I reach for my phone to check the time.

It’s already 11:00 a.m.

Wow, I must have drunk more than I thought.

In the beginning, I didn’t plan to stay out too long, but after being dragged onto the dance floor by Jules, I drank more.

Now, I’m late waking up and have too much to do to catch up before my father beckons to me.

I inhale deeply and check to see if there are any phone calls. Unfortunately, there is.

Governor asshole: Be here at 5 p.m.

Shit.

I lost an hour.

Walking into the living room, I find a passed-out Julia on the couch. Her mouth is open, and I swear she’s probably drooling all over my pillow.

“Wake up, lazy,” I say as I take a seat on the opposite couch.

“What time is it?” She groans, lifting her hand and swiping at her half-closed lids.

“Eleven.”

“And you wake me up. Jeez, Viv, stuck up much?” Regardless of her words, I know she is not angry with me. This is just Julia. Overly dramatic to the extreme. She wears her heart on her sleeve and lets you know all about it too. That’s why we get along so well. Not only is she the family I never had, but she’s the complete opposite of me. She pushes me to try to enjoy life. Even if that’s hard for me. If it wasn’t for her, I’d never have any glimmers of peace. “If you are going to wake me, are you at least going to feed me?”