CHAPTER 3

 
 
This is definitely my scene, Hunter
thought as the loud beat of music rushed through his bloodstream,
pumping him up with adrenaline. And he wasn’t the only one that
felt this way. Everyone around him was gyrating to the nonstop
music, their bodies rubbing up and down each other to the sound of
the beat, crushing, pushing, swaying, moving until they didn’t look
like individual dancers out to enjoy themselves, but one gigantic
mass, melting together on the dance floor.
The atmosphere was high, as if they were all
addicted to this infinite drug. As the music increased in tempo, so
did their energy level. The air itself was a mixture of sweat and
perfume, intoxicating and overpowering his olfactory sense. But,
man oh man, did he love it. He felt so alive, so happy, so
carefree.
Looking around him, all he saw was a sea of
blurry faces, each consumed in their own world of passion. He tried
to keep to the centre of the dance floor, where all the action took
place, but as more people clamored into the throng, the others got
pushed to the side. Himself included.
As he took a side step to avoid another wave
of bodies hitting him, he collided with something soft. Turning to
see what he’d damaged, he found the sexiest girl he’d ever laid
eyes on. She looked up at him and at that very moment, as if they
sang the same tune, she gave him a seductive smile. He, in turn,
smiled at her.
Liking what she saw, the girl moved towards
him. Her hands immediately went to capture his neck, and as the
music changed from Lady Gaga’s “Applause” to J.Lo’s “Papi,” she was
butt-swinging around him, arms and legs assaulting him at every
turn, and man was he turned on.
The mysterious girl suddenly leaned into his
lips, nipping and sucking at him like there was no tomorrow, until
he was puffed out of energy, his lungs starved for oxygen. There
was no electricity shooting through his body, just a lapping,
distasteful kiss, the amount of saliva flooding the floor of his
mouth almost drowning him alive.
How can someone so hot be such a bad
kisser? Hunter thought as his libido got crushed. Pushing the
girl away gently, he went in search of water for his parched
throat. How ironic when just mere moments before he was almost
drowned in her saliva. The girl looked slightly wounded for a
second but then was off galloping to her next victim like the
trollop she likely was. Hunter felt sorry for the poor sod who
would experience the same predicament he just did.
Paving his way to the bar was an incredible
mission that required more than strength and stamina. Standing at
almost 1.9 meters tall, he still had to squeeze past those
high-craze, energetic animals, like raging bulls, their heads
bumping into him at every turn. The more he tried squeezing between
them, the more he was pushed back, like a rag doll tossed
about.
Summoning his energy, he willed himself
forward, pushing among those sweaty bodies until he was safely on
the other side of the dance floor. By then he realized he needed
more than just the standard drink to get his energy up and pumping
again. Again, he cursed himself for not eating beforehand. Dancing
really was a strenuous exercise in itself.
When Hunter reached the bar, he eyed the
bartender, slamming his hand down on the counter and shouting for a
pint of Speight’s, but the bartender was blind to his request, as
he was currently in an argument with a couple of women. Inching
closer, he heard them speak.
“She’s thirty,” one of the women said to the
bartender.
“Thank you, Whitney, for clarifying,” the
other one said, smiling. And turning to the bartender, she shouted,
“I’m thirty. My friend just confirmed that fact.”
“No,” the bartender said, looking a bit
flustered.
Who in their right mind wouldn’t be
flustered when faced with two gorgeous women demanding his
attention like that? Somehow, for that split second, he envied the
bartender.
“Can’t you see? I’m not a twenty-year-old
kid,” the woman whined.
Obviously, this must have had something to
do with fake IDs. Kids these days wanted to drink alcohol way
before their time. Even though he considered himself a kid still,
he was way over twenty-one and looked well over twenty-five, so
there was no need for a fake ID there.
“Don’t show me that face,” the girl yelled
at the bartender. “You want to see my ID? Fine, I’ll show you my
ID.”
The scene playing out before him was
starting to become humorous, and Hunter couldn’t help but continue
to tune in as the drama unfolded before him. It wasn’t every day he
got to see a beautiful young girl, looking not a minute older than
nineteen, claiming to be thirty just so she could get a sip of
alcohol into that gorgeous body of hers.
Hunter chuckled and shook his head. He could
only recall one other time when his life was this amusing. It
happened about a week ago, when a girl gave him a bouquet of roses
the day before Valentine’s Day and then ran off after yanking his
towel, exposing his naked state.
He could still remember standing there, butt
naked and all, gazing at her as she scrambled away in fright,
oblivious to the sound of whatshername, the girl he’d just had sex
with, screaming loudly, making threatening remarks about wanting to
kill that girl if she were to see her again.
He could still remember the exact image of
her black hair fluttering about in the breeze, tossing, turning,
and gliding through the hands of the wind. He so damn wanted to be
the wind that day, to feel those strands through his fingers, to
see if they were really soft to the touch. He was mesmerized by
that beautiful girl, at the nerve she imparted upon him when she
dared tear off his towel and at the fading image of her escape. At
that moment he was tempted to follow her.
Dear Lord, he would have definitely followed
her if he weren’t butt naked. He would have run after her and made
love to her right there against the next available tree. But
goddamn if it weren’t for his neighbor Macy, always hanging about
on her front porch, looking to catch a glimpse of him with his next
woman, then he would have been off after her already.
Hearing ruffling, his eyes danced back to
the scene in front of him. He watched as the girl rummaged through
her bag but could not produce anything.
“Miss, I can’t serve you alcohol if you
don’t have ID with you,” the bartender rephrased.
“I have it in here somewhere,” she grumbled
while she continued searching for her card, her shoulders slumping
in disappointment. Then she turned to the other girl he assumed to
be her friend, who was dressed all in black, like a goth, complete
with coke bottle glasses.
“Go get Elise. I think I left my wallet in
her bag,” she instructed.
The friend looked reluctant to leave for a
minute, but then she was off to the other side of the club,
disappearing into the crowd. Now the girl was all alone, but she
still continued to stare at the bartender like she was on death
row.
At this point, Hunter couldn’t help himself.
Being a Casanova, he just needed to ruffle her feathers a bit and
rescue her from her moment of distress. This girl definitely needed
some lifting up, and he made sure he was the first one to offer her
that service.
Hunter couldn’t help but marvel at her long
hair that shone brightly under the many colorful disco lights. She
was of petite frame, perching on the stool, her legs dangling like
a little kid’s. Definitely my cup of tea, Hunter
thought.
Not wanting to prolong the wait any longer,
Hunter inched himself closer to her, his stool now very near. And
while she was so consumed with her conversation with the bartender,
he took action.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered into her
ear.
As if heaven had opened up, she turned her
head and God help him, but his mouth almost hung open for a full
minute. It was that exact same girl who had made that confession to
him just last week, the same girl he couldn’t get out of his
head.
No way could he have mistaken her. Those
same pupils shone a molten black. Those same cheeks, just like that
day, were scarlet in color, but this time it wasn’t from the
embarrassment over his lack of dress, but instead, they were puffed
out in anger due to the argument with the bartender.
This beauty sure was a sight to behold. She
was hot and heavy and, hopefully by tonight, ready for him—once
he’d worked his seductive charm on her, of course.
“You!” she said, her cheeks blazing under
the rainbow-colored lights.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the
sweetheart who confessed to me last week,” he drawled out
seductively. “Did you enjoy the view before you ran off like the
devil was on your tail?”
 

 
This is definitely not my scene,
Clarice thought as a raging headache settled in nicely at the back
of her skull. The music drummed so loud in her ears that she
thought if she frequented here often enough, she was sure to have
an auditory deficit by the time she reached forty.
She was so not looking forward to midnight,
but here she was, in a nightclub, with midnight itself clearly
approaching faster than Lighting McQueen. And then she would
officially turn thirty. Yay! And to top it all off, the argument
with the bartender over her desire—no need—for one
alcoholic drink wasn’t helping either.
Oh, heaven help her! Was it too much to ask?
She wasn’t asking to conquer the world. It was one drink, one
small, bloody drink. Dear Mother and Father, please forgive me
for swearing like this, but this is just too damn much. She was
on the verge of bursting into tears again. It was her goddamn
birthday, for Christ sake, so just let her have that one sip, a
lick, at least to know what it’s like to taste alcohol before
bloody midnight rolls around and she officially ended up being a
spinster forever.
A spinster who had never tasted alcohol on
her tongue? What would the dental team at her practice say if they
found out? She could imagine them gossiping and writing on their
weblog already. Clarice Mason, highly trained gum specialist,
sourly turned thirty without a lick of alcohol to her name. Oh the
shame.
No. She could not bear it. This MUST call
for desperate measures.
“Look, please, you’ve got to believe me,”
Clarice pleaded. When the bartender looked unmoved, she resorted to
using reasoning. “I’m working now. I’m not a little kid anymore.
I’m a periodontist.” Still nothing. “I bloody worked as a dentist
for two full years before applying to study in the gum field.”
She’d started shouting now. The bartender didn’t even blink an eye
at her reasoning. At that moment she felt like yanking all his
teeth out, gum disease or not, and jabbing them right into his
eyeballs, wanting to hear him whine in pain. Oh, she wished she
were a witch like her friend Whitney. Then everyone would be
freakin’ scared of her and she wouldn’t have to resort to begging
for a small drink.
“Have you any idea how long both degrees
took me? A full eight years, plus my three years out practicing,
that equates to eleven!” By this stage, she was on full rampage,
slamming her little fist onto the bar to intimidate him, so mad at
her current situation that she could feel her cheeks growing red.
As each word was spoken, her voice notched up an octave. “So if you
think I’m under twenty-five, you must be a bloody idiot.”
In return, the bartender just continued to
blink lazily, staring at her oddly, like she was a psychotic
patient just out of a mental hospital, rambling on about her
profession.
“How do you think I got into this freakin’
nightclub in the first place?” She rambled on. “I’m well over
twenty-five, I assure you.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but I really need to
confirm with your ID,” the bartender repeated indifferently.
“Are you a broken record? I told you my
friend is going to find my wallet.” She fumed in frustration. “It
must be in her bag or something.”
“Well, I’m happy to wait.” The bartender
smiled at her.
“Well, I’m not happy to wait. I’ve
only got five minutes left until midnight. Now are you going to
serve me that drink or not?” she challenged.
“No!” the bartender said simply, not backing
down.
Her shoulders sagged in defeat. Dear
Lord, you will have me become a spinster without allowing me to
drink alcohol, is that right? You want me to die a spinster? Well,
I’m happy to oblige with that request, but why must you deprive me
of alcohol too? I want to experience drinking before I turn thirty.
So please, if you would just grant me this wish, then I would be
happy to die a happy spinster. And just like that, her strength
was back in her shoulders and she lifted herself, sitting much
straighter.
What was she giving up for? There were still
a full five minutes left before midnight. So she put on her best
intimidating stare, the one she normally used when her patients
refused to listen to her oral hygiene advice, the one that meant
business, wishing and praying at the same time that Whitney and
Elise would come back with her wallet in hand so she could get a
swig of that drink.
Just then, she heard someone whisper
something into her ear, and like electricity shot up her spine, she
startled and turned her head to the direction of that voice. And
God did answer her prayer because right there in front of her was
that Casanova she had delivered the flowers to on the day before
Valentine’s.
Her eyes took in his azure irises. There was
that same wicked gleam as that fateful day. She redirected her
gawking stare away from his penetrating gaze, her heart thumping to
the rhythm of the loud music. Big mistake! It landed on his lips
instead, and heaven help her, but he flashed that devilish grin
again, the one that made her legs turn to jelly. If not for her
sitting on the barstool, she would otherwise be on the floor by
now.
But tonight, though, that smile held an
extra special meaning, as if he were happy to see her again after
that embarrassing stunt she had pulled, yanking off his towel.
Tonight it was fully displayed, for her viewing only, his perfectly
straight white teeth, probably a product of orthodontic work, many
years of wearing braces, and bleaching—yes, bleaching to reach that
level of whiteness on his enamel. Suddenly, that image of his
semi-naked body danced right before her eyes, clouding her cheeks
in a beautiful pink blush. So surprised she was seeing him right
there in front of her, her face just mere inches away from his own,
all she could utter at that moment was, “You!”
Why was it every time this Casanova was
around, all she could do was stutter? It wasn’t like she was born
with an impediment or something. In fact, she was quite the
talkative person. Once she learned how to speak English, her
cousins and friends couldn’t shut her up. So why now? Why all of a
sudden couldn’t she string a simple sentence together?
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the
sweetheart who confessed to me last week.” He spoke seductively,
close to her ear. “Did you enjoy the view before you ran off like
the devil was on your tail?”
What could she say? How to respond? She was
tongue-tied. Then a thought struck her. “Buy me a drink.”
“What?” he asked, flabbergasted. She was
sure he wasn’t expecting her to reply like that. But what had she
to lose by demanding this request?
“Buy me a drink,” she repeated.
No way was she giving this up. This man
looked like he was over twenty-five. He could buy a drink for
her.
“Sure, sweetheart,” he said, smiling.
And as simple as cheese melting on toasted
bread, Hunter ordered her a shot of whatever it was in that small
cup, or glass, or something that looked like a portion cup in her
dental practice. Clarice immediately started to question whether
that brown murky liquid was actually alcohol at all.
She picked up the small portion cup in her
hand and turned it about, eyeing it at close quarters.
“Are you sure that’s alcohol? It sure looks
murky,” Clarice asked Hunter.
Hunter simply smiled, then replied, “It’s
spirit, sweetheart. Drink up.”
“Why is it not purple like in the Bunsen
burner?” Clarice queried.
“It’s definitely spirit, sweetheart. Now
drink it up.” He confirmed and then urged again.
Looking at her cellphone, she had but thirty
seconds left before midnight hit. Not thinking any further, but
with one mission to accomplish before Cinderella had to leave her
glass slipper behind, she chunked the whole contents down in one
go… and, my oh my, did she regret it, because at that very moment,
her eyes watered, her breath caught, her face bloomed red, and all
she wanted to do was one thing—spit that disgusting liquid right
back out. But twenty seconds, dear heaven, twenty seconds to go
before midnight struck. She could hold it in. Yes, she could.
Hunter, who was on the other side of the
scene, observed her face blowing up like a puffer fish, her cheeks
bowed out and her eyes bulging, as if she were holding the drink
inside her mouth. Surprised, he suggested, “Drink it up. Don’t hold
it like that.”
All Clarice could do was shake her head
vigorously. Her eyes stung furiously as jets of tears streamed down
her cheeks, the alcohol in her oral cavity burning her alive. The
foul liquid continued to kill her taste buds one by one, her mouth
becoming numb.
Feeling sick to her core, she couldn’t
contain the liquid anymore. Thirty or not, spinster or not, she
didn’t want to die just yet. If she didn’t do something fast to rid
herself off this foul burning liquid in her mouth, she would surely
meet her maker.
So out it went. She spit out the entire
shot, in the process spraying a stream in Hunter’s direction, who
now sat facing her with a mixture of spirit and saliva all over his
face and shirt.
And for the second time that night, Hunter’s
libido deflated once more.