Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
I bet those red briefs I caught a glimpse of in the dressing room were a fluke. It probably was laundry day, and those were from his . . . I dunno . . . Halloween costume drawer.
Bet he has on navy-blue boxer briefs.
Bet I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.
Except, I’m dying to know.
Mark follows me through the door and into the club as we make our way along a dark hallway to a ticket counter. Dance music pounds, and a host with a white feather boa around his neck and silver skyscraper boots on his feet flashes a smile. “Hey there, hotties. There’s a twenty-dollar cover charge tonight,” he says to me.
“We just need to see DJ Drake about an event,” Mark says, coming up right by my side, and taking over.
Okay. That’s how he’s doing this.
But really, we should pay the fee even for a quick meeting.
The man with the boa gives Mark an aren’t-you-cute-you-preppy-straight-guy smile. “It’s still twenty dollars to get past me, hottie,” he says sweetly, but firmly.
I grab my wallet, and reach for my card. But before it’s even open, Mark slaps two twenties on the counter and says thanks.
“Drake is on his break for ten, so he’s in the green room.” The host points polished silver fingers behind him. “Go that way, then past the main dance floor, and turn down the hallway, and it’s at the end.”
With a crisp nod, Mark’s off, stalking down the corridor. Like he can’t wait to get this over with.
“You didn’t have to pay for me,” I say as the music grows louder and we turn into the main dance area.
I expect an eye roll. A zinger. Instead, his gaze lands square on me. “I know.”
And he leaves it at that. Just an I know. Like he’s fucking Han Solo.
And it’s just like when Harrison Ford said it to Carrie Fisher. It was ultra-hot then, and it’s ultra-hot now as I follow Mark Banks into a gay dance club in South Beach.
My world is officially topsy turvy. I’ve been to this club before. I’ve even partied with Drake. But I’m not in charge this time, it seems, as Mark Banks leads me through throngs of men, weaving past bodies, and muscles, the smell of sweat and cologne and the promise of sex potent under the dark purple lights of the dance floor.
We reach the green room and find Drake slouched on a leather couch, flicking aimlessly on his phone. A sleeve of tattoos covers his right arm, a dragon tail intertwined through the mouth of a skull.
The second his gray eyes land on mine, he pops up from the couch. “St. James! How’s it hanging? How the fuck are you? When are you going to Ibiza again to party with me and my man?”
I give him a quick hug. “The answers are to the left, great, and not soon enough. How’s Axel?”
“The best,” he says, with a dopey grin befitting the newlywed. Then Drake slides his gaze to my confusing companion. “I’m Drake.”
He extends a hand to Mark, and they shake.
“Mark. Brother of the bride.” He’s all business.
“Tell me what you need, Mark,” Drake says, catching on fast.
“We need you on Saturday at noon. Daytime wedding. No Macarena. No chicken dance. No ‘Hello’ from Adele, since it’s not a love song. Nor is ‘Stay With Me’ by Sam Smith, no matter how much the ladies love him. Or the dudes. I don’t want to hear the conga, or do the conga. Also, no Coldplay whatsoever.”
Before I can even say who would play Coldplay at a wedding, Mark adds, “Brett’s DJ played it at his wedding at Tavern on the Green and it killed the mood.”
No, Mark. Tavern on the Green killed the mood.
But I don’t correct him, because he continues his wedding song diatribe that’s inexplicably turning me on. “‘You Send Me’ by Sam Cooke for the couple’s first dance. So, if you can do all that and show up an hour early, and stay till six, I’ll pay your regular rate, plus a twenty-five percent premium if you agree now.”
Drake blinks, dollar signs in his eyes. “Someone knows what he wants.”
You’re telling me.
“Will that work for you?” Mark asks, and he is not a three-martini lunch guy. He doesn’t schmooze. He just fucking throws down. And it’s getting me hot under the collar.
Or hotter.
“Yes,” my DJ friend says. “Anything for a friend of St. James.”
Mark and Drake finish the details, exchange numbers, and then I say goodbye, telling him to send my love to Axel. We head back down the hallway, the music thumping louder with each step.
Bodies come into view on the dance floor. Hips swiveling. Arms tangled, legs intertwined, and pelvises grinding. My eyes gobble it up, the press of skin, the lips colliding, the preludes to fucking.