𝐢𝐯.
𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞
──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

Only once we're situated in Derek's booth with drinks in hand, Julia on my left with Derek to my right, does the "business" talk commence, as he called it.

"Your manager reached out to mine with a—deal, of sorts."

I nod.

"I'm aware. I wouldn't be here if you weren't interested, though. Am I right?" Though I sound confident, I'm seconds away from tucking my tail between my legs and bolting to the nearest exit.

His eyes narrow as if a tad confused. "Right. So, how's this going to work?"

"Well—I haven't gotten that far yet," I pause as I gather my thoughts. "But this exchange would be mutually beneficial."

Jesus, I sound like I'm delivering a dreadful pitch instead of genuinely trying to convince this man, assuming he needs any convincing at all.

"Mutual, how?" He presses, his voice a velvet whisper that sent a shiver down my spine.

"You'd gain an ally, a friend who's just as hurt as you are." At this, his full lips pull slightly to the side, brows drawn together.

"Who says I'm hurt?"

I open my mouth and then shut it. He waits for my response, eyes boring into mine. All I can think about is how insanely attractive he is—and how unfair it is that I have to look at him while we talk.

"What exactly did my manager propose to you?"

He swirls his glass, holding it between his fingertips. His palm covers the top as the sound of ice faintly clinking against crystal meets my ears. How I'm able to hear it over the Future song vibrating through the air is a miracle in itself. I'm definitely hyper-aware of everything right now.

"I think Wilson forgot to tell you something. Either that or he just didn't feel like telling you."

Julia and I glance at one another. There's regret in her eyes.  A wave of sheer panic crashes through me.

She did say I owed Wilson a favor, but... what kind of favor? Not sexual—he would never.

The look on my face must give me away.

Derek's smirk turns undeniably wicked as he leans closer, closer, until his breath caresses the shell of my ear.

Lips brush against cartilage, and my throat tightens.

"As much as I'd love to have you all to myself in a far less social setting, with even less clothing involved," His feather light fingers trace the hem of my dress, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. "Business is business, and I don't fuck business. No matter how sweet the deal is."

Then, as be leans back into the booth with calculated slowness, he has the audacity to smirk at me, savoring the shock written across my face.

And as if he hadn't just viscerally scrambled my brain entirely, he continues speaking. "In exchange for our mutually beneficial fake relationship, you'll be in three of my music videos, and I'll be featured in several D.D. photoshoots."

I swallow, trying to rid the mental image he planted in my head.

Business is business.

"But that sounds like it'd help me out more than you."

"True, but the publicity we'd get from us being 'together' would fuel talk of my upcoming album. That in itself is beneficial. And whether people talk shit or not, I don't care. Any press is good press."

I beg to differ, but to each their own, I guess.

"I saw an opportunity and jumped. Just as you did." He lifts a brow in silent question, asking if I actually did jump. Bold of him—but I wouldn't expect anything less, given who he is.

"Unlike what you may think, I'm one of the few who doesn't care who you are. So no, I didn't jump. I would've done this even if you weren't some big, hotshot musician."

He examines my features, searching for any hint of deception or flaw in my expression. Trying to find a single trace of a lie.

Derek, apparently reassured by my composed demeanor, lifts his glass to his lips.

He downs a mouthful of amber liquid. His adam's apple bobs underneath tattooed skin as he swallows.

Derek clicks his tongue, presumably relishing the burn it provides. "Well, seeing as I'm in charge of the music videos, photoshoots, and so on, you're in charge of this fake relationship." Once I nod in agreement, I find myself at a loss of what to do or say next, and fall into silence.

Derek breaks the quiet with a question.

"So, what's the game plan?"

Game plan?

I chew on the inside of my lip and take a drink from my own glass. Then another. Because I have no fucking clue how to proceed.. or what to do next.

I absorb our surroundings.

We're at a club, tucked away in a booth instead of doing what most people do when they go out. Sitting, while hundreds of presumably famous strangers buzz with life just feet away, more than just alcohol coursing through their systems.

Then, I'm on my feet, extending my free hand to him.

"We dance." I lift a brow in challenge, lip tugging up, watching him carefully.

His gaze flicks to my upturned palm, studying it. Like he's able to calculate the risk of my proposition by the lines held within it.

When he finally raises his eyes back to mine, glinting mischievously. Relief floods through me as he takes my hand in his. An electric current pulses from where his skin touches my own, goosebumps traveling up my arm.

Standing at his full height, the man towers over me in all his shadowed, mysterious glory. How tall is he, anyway? I'm sure Julia would know.

I turn to face her, worry painting itself across my face.

Before I can get a word out, she stands and rushes to my side, then whispers, "Don't worry about me; I'll see you on the floor, yeah?" She departs, sending me a wink over her shoulder as she leaves the booth.

I mouth, "text me," to which she nods, turning fully from us.

Leaving me alone. With him.

Not just any him.

A man that any woman or man would be on their knees for. Whether to worship the ground he walks on or worship him in—other ways, it didn't make much of a difference.

They'd all jump at the chance to be with him (as he so graciously pointed out minutes ago). To be in his presence.

Whereas I know next to nothing about him. Other than a handful of his songs.

"Before we dance, I need a shot. Or two."

He smirks. The action alone sends a shiver down my spine. "I couldn't agree more."

With my hand in his, he leads us toward the bar, drawing the attention of onlookers who gawk as we pass. Some greet him, to which he responds with a smile and a greeting in return. Who knew he could be so personable.

Prior to tonight, "nice" wasn't the first word that came to mind when I thought of Derek Crimson. He embodies the persona of a bad boy—dangerous, toxic, and solitary.

So you can imagine my surprise at his friendliness. Even if this is just my initial impression. I could be mistaken, but I dare say we're off to a promising start.

But maybe it is all just a persona.

I watch carefully as he orders us two shots of fireball, each. I would've protested, but since he's buying, I kept my mouth shut. Free booze is free booze.

Just then, he notices my lingering gaze. I don't have time to look away, blatantly caught staring at him. He gives that half-smirk again. One he's used a lot so far tonight; one that he's obviously had time to hone to perfection.

Dazzling and charming, yet dark and holds ominous... promise.

One of sexual promise or of good conversation, I'm still unsure of, blinking back at him. He's probably the hardest person I've ever tried to read.

"What?" He asks.

I purse my lips, trying to hide my own developing grin. I shrug. "You're—not what I pictured you as."

He raises an intrigued brow. "What, disappointed that I don't use face-tune?"

Smiling, I bat my lashes and I resist the urge to roll my eyes, acknowledging his comment with the action alone.

We maintain our gaze for a few seconds amidst the pulsing rhythm of the music as I search for the right words to say.

Finally, I speak over the thumping bass.

"You're just not as bad as everyone says you are." I blurt. Definitely not the words I had in mind.

"You've only known me for a few minutes. I'm sure your view of me will change soon enough." He replies with a smooth, almost feline tone, tinged with a hint of forbidden promise.

Playful, and nowhere near tame.

Heat creeps up my neck. "That's not—, that came out wrong. I mean, you're—nicer than I thought you'd be." I stop myself from saying anything else that'll further embarrass me.

He doesn't look offended in the slightest while he peers down at me and leans against the bar, expression unreadable. Four shot glasses slide across the wooden surface.

"A common misconception about me. But I'm only nice when I want to be." We both grip a glass. I raise mine in the space between us.

"Aren't we all?"

He repeats my question as a statement and clinks his glass against my own.

We both knock the shots back, alcohol burning on its way down and I shamelessly down several mouthfuls of my first drink as a chaser. Derek, on the other hand, places his empty glass on the bar as if he'd only had water, ready for the second.

"God I hate fireball," I mutter under my breath.

Even though my body recoils from the first, there's no way I'm going to look like a pussy right now, especially in front of a man who could easily drink me under the table. I asked for shots, so I got them for free.

We clink glasses again, (hopefully) downing our last round.

This time, I don't chase. Instead, I muster the best poker face I possibly can, and try my best to act as unbothered as he is.

Warmth hits my stomach within seconds, spreading throughout my body like wildfire as each tensed muscle loosens. Relaxing under the alcohol's soothing touch. I chance a look at Derek who's looking into the crowd. In front of me in a physical sense, but his mind's clearly elsewhere.

Elsewhere, as in twenty feet away from us.

I follow his line of sight and the fireball I'd just forced down my throat threatens to make its way back up.

There, gliding ethereally between dancing bodies is Melody fucking Wright.

Long, wavy, auburn hair billows effortlessly down to her lower back like deep, liquid copper. It sways back and forth seamlessly while she side-steps a group of girls, making her way through the crowd as she follows my ex.

My heart aches like it's never ached before.

As if deciding that taking Ryan from me wasn't enough, she's about to take my heart too. Here and now. And spoon mouthfuls of it into Ryan's mouth for good measure.

Alright, enough morbid shit.

I look back at Derek in time to see his jaw tick.

He seems more hurt than he'd let on just a moment ago.

Liar.

Without thinking, I discard my almost empty Kinky Lemonade and take his arm into mine. He jerks his head in my direction, clearly startled, yet visibly eases upon recognizing me as the cause of his interruption.

"Ready for that dance?" I say over the music. Even if dancing is the last thing I want to fucking do right now.

Derek offers a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. As if seeing her in person affects him more than he'd like it to. Had instantaneously drained him.

This time I take the lead.

With his hand in mine I lead us directly towards where the two disappeared. Derek's grip tightens around my hand, and I turn to glance at him. By the look on his devastatingly handsome face, he's warning me.

A snarl slowly creeps across his features. And with all those tattoos he has? It makes him appear even more menacing, more lethal. Any trace of that nice Derek at the bar is gone now.

I don't know him at all. Derek was right...

But he doesn't know me either. To be fair, I don't know the new Elara just yet, either. I guess we're both about to learn something about each other tonight.

He doesn't yank away from me as I offer a promise of my own to him. Smug grin pulling at my lips, I face forward and let my modeling instincts kick in. Walking with confident grace and elegance, I plunge further onto the dancefloor until I spot those long, auburn locks.

Like fucking clockwork, Ryan is the one to look first.

But I don't meet his gaze. As much as I'm dying to see the horror, the shock, guilt of his betrayal, I won't give him the satisfaction. Not yet.

I stop walking. It takes me a second to realize I wasn't the one to stop myself. I'm being pulled backward.

Using our connected hands, Derek twists me around, delicately pushing me into his chest.

A hint of pine and spice, supple leather, and a whisper of smoke envelopes my senses.

He even smells divine.

An instinctive gasp leaves me as one arm snakes across my waist, while the other glides down until it rests impossibly close to my ass. The mesh fabric of my dress feels paper thin under his touch.

We sway in synchrony to the beat, my movements stiff as a board until his hand ventures even lower.

I crane my neck up to glare at him just as he ducks his head down to murmur, "All an act, remember?" in my ear.

I would've outright slapped him if we weren't in this situation.

"Just—watch it," I warn.

"You can express your distaste all you like with your words, but you could at least try to look like you're enjoying my company," I jolt when he takes my earlobe between his teeth. Every muscle in my body instantly tenses.

Did he just—nibble my ear?

"Did you just nibble my ear?"

"You want a show, so I'm giving them one." He says darkly, barely audible over the blaring music.

I'm in too much shock to answer when he pulls away, leaving his face mere inches from my own, studying me.

Searching for something in my eyes. From the urgency in his own, I realize it's... trust that he's looking for. He wants me to put my trust in him.

If anything, I should be the one asking for his trust. I took us right into a lion's den.

He'd warned me. I didn't listen. Now we're stuck. Trapped.

Fuck, why am I doing this again?

It's too late to turn back now.

We both know it. Both accept it at the same time.

All I have to do is raise my head in acknowledgment for Derek to do the same, that rehearsed smirk igniting across his face like wildfire. So unbearably hot that the heat of it licks at my cheeks, staining them with a pinkish hue.

He's good a that. Too good.

It may be fake, but god, if it isn't convincing.

I loosen my muscles as he suggested and leisurely swap my hips in time with the music, dancing with a smoothness I never thought possible.

As both of his hands continue to lower, my own glide across his chest and rest atop his broad shoulders.

The chorus blasts through the club, and I sing along under my breath, too caught within the moment to check myself. I twist around, pressing my ass to his front.

He doesn't miss a beat.

His palms rest on my stomach as I raise my arms above my head until they find either side of his face.

I trace along either curve of his angular jaw, feeling the faint stubble underneath my fingertips. His own trail across the fabric hesitantly—slowly reeling them back to my hips, a safer position.

I'll admit I'm not entirely in control of my actions. Between the whole bottle of wine, Julia and I finished back at my condo, along with the Kinky Lem and the two shots of fireball, I'm buzzed enough to lose myself at the moment.

Which I do.

Shamelessly.

I lean back into him, my shoulders finding solace against his chest. Well aware of his breath against my skin, his body heat melding with mine in perfect harmony.

As my hips begins to grind his hands venture across my stomach. The softness of his touch has me shuddering. Lost in it entirely. Lost in the music, lost to the world around me.

Only a-tuned to him, and the beat pulsating the surrounding space that pounds so hard it feels like the source of it is coming from my heart itself.

They beat in tandem while our bodies melt, and it's then that I realize he's lost, too.

Unaware of space, time, our surroundings... oh fuck.

Our surroundings.

Any trace of thrill thrumming through my body instantly expires.

My eyes snap open and land on the worst possible person in the room. They lock with my ex—who has most likely been staring this entire time.

Anger.

Pure anger is in his eyes. Anger and pain. Like a wounded animal, he stares. Entirely dumbfounded. Devastated.

Derek notes my uneasiness and tightens his grip on me.

Ryan isn't the only one watching. So is Melody, and a few bystanders around us, all holding phones in their hands and—the fuck?

They're recording us.

Or taking photos, or both. Either way, the horror that stirs in my stomach has me in a state of pure panic.

When his arm reaches around my waist again, I whip to face him while he leads us away. I open my mouth to speak, to ask what's next, where we're going, whether we should leave, but words evade me. Thoughts, too.

In less than a minute, we're back at his booth.

He mutters something to one of his guards while grabbing a long, black coat.

He drapes it around my shoulders. It ends just above my ankles, obviously way too big but I don't complain. I'm thankful for any cover I can get right now.

I hug the coat tight to my body, finding myself gazing out at the crowd we left behind.

As if I could see those hazel eyes staring at me from the other side of the room. Judging. Pained at seeing me. A part of me feels regret.

But satisfaction overrides that regret. Seeing the look on his face felt better than I thought it would've. Knowing it hurt him? The cherry on top of the fucking cake.

"We have to go."

"What? Who's we?"

"Everyone saw us out there. Chances are, one of them called the paps. They'll swarm us if we don't leave."

"I came with someone, remember? I have to find her." I raise my brows, his furrow.

"My bodyguards will make sure she gets home safely."

"They're leaving?" I say as they walk away, acting upon their given orders. I flit my gaze back to Derek. "If they're going to swarm us, shouldn't at least one of them stay with us?"

Derek's expression contorts, clearly affronted. "I've been doing this for years on my own without them. They're mainly around for—insurance." He starts toward the elevator, and I follow.

"Insurance?"

"So I'm not the one who has to swing if things go south. Not exactly the best for my image, but I've been through worse." I take his word for it since I'm sure he's had to go through something similar.

Even though I'm not entirely convinced, I force myself to push doubt aside. My pitiful, temporary peace of mind sizzles out when we enter the elevator. Being in a small space with a man who takes up each room he enters feels... suffocating. Not that there's anything inherently wrong with Derek, at least based on our brief forty-five-minute encounter.

It's the fact that he's, well, him. An A-list celebrity. I pale in comparison.

We're a very unlikely pairing.

And this plan? Seeking what, retribution for the actions of people who are no longer ours? Who we no longer have any claim over, just to get under their skin? We'll be lucky if anyone believes it at all.

A surge of bile claws its way up my throat, accompanied by a sinking guilt that anchors itself deep within my stomach at the recollection of Ryan's expression.

It felt good in the moment.

But after the fact? I feel conflicted. Like a shit human being.

I glance at Derek without moving my head. He stands resolute, gaze fixed ahead, jaw rhythmically tightening as it clenches.

Does he feel the same?

What did Melody look like? Was she just as hurt, too?

It's hard to visibly tell without turning to actually see his expression.

I'm about to ask when the elevator chimes twice and then opens. I'll have to put my questions on hold for now.

With a steadying breath, I lead the way and exit first. Derek catches up in three leisurely strides of his long legs, one of the perks of being about six feet.

He strides purposefully toward the door. I follow.

My eyes catch sight of a throng of paparazzi stationed outside, cameras poised like hungry predators awaiting their next prey, and I instantly bristle.

"We're leaving through the front?"

He gives an amused smirk as if the answer is obvious. Of course we are.

"Isn't there a back exit we can take?"

We stop in the middle of the entrance hall.

"Now's not exactly the time for cold feet. Not after that stunt upstairs," Both of us hold our breaths at the mention of our encounter. A dance that had us so enamored with one another, reduced to a dwindling ember. A stunt. Nothing more.

"You're right," I say, giving an affirmative nod.

If I'd known the second my heels met the pavement as blinding flashes invaded my vision, Derek shielding us from probing eyes, and from the onslaught of question after question—that my life would flip entirely on its axis in a matter of months—I never would've walked through that door.