Twisted Little Thing Read online

  I keep my eyes on her long enough for her to notice. It’s just a mere moment, not even two seconds of eye contact.

  She frowns and instantly turns away.

  She sees it, too. I’m out of place, and she sees nothing but an intruder from another world when she looks at me. At least, that’s what I think is going through that beautiful head of hers.

  She walks away from the bar counter, taking the beer with her. I let a few moments pass before I nonchalantly stroll in the same direction.

  My environment is soaked in smoke, the smell of beer and sweat and the glare of flaring lights breaching the darkness like glowing daggers. The music is so loud that it vibrates deep inside my chest, and I feel the urge to dance. It’s been so long since I’ve mingled in a place like this, and I hate myself for it right now. How could I ever think that I could change into a soulless robot like the ones I work with?

  Sheila took more of me with her than I was aware of. Losing her almost made me forget who I am.

  And now I’m chasing a girl through a club who looks just like her. A girl who dances like a maniac, who loses herself in the music, a girl whose blasé manner has had me mesmerized from the moment I saw her.

  What does she look like when she’s drunk with pleasure? What happens if she’s brought right to the edge of climax?

  What does she look like when she orgasms?

  Fuck. I need to know.

  My cock twitches at the thought of taming her, making her bend to my commands. She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m sure she’s going to love it.

  I lose sight of her in the mass of people around us and now have to actively search for her. A good song comes on, and I’m sure I’ll find her dancing somewhere if I just keep close to the dancing area.

  I turn out to be right. There she is, shaking her slim body to the rhythm of the music. Her movements are so bizarre and mad that people move out of her way. She’s the exact opposite of the lame fairies who swayed around on the rooftop.

  I’m the only one who tries to get closer instead of further away from her, and of course, I violently get bumped into as soon as I enter her perimeter.

  She stumbles and turns around, looking up to me. Her eyes are huge and widen even more when she sees me. Does she recognize me? It’s hard to tell in the dark. The way she looks at me could mean anything ranging from shock and surprise. She’s endearing to me either way.

  The heavy black color lining her eyes has smeared, but I couldn’t care less. If anything, this gives me an idea of what she’d look like after sex. After getting laid the way she should be.

  Her full lips are forming the word ‘sorry,’ but I can’t hear her say it.

  Before I can engage her in some kind of conversation, she darts away once again. This time, she’s heading for the door that leads outside.

  Again, I’m right behind her.

  CHAPTER III

  Nicky

  He emerges from the club just a few moments after me and now stands close to the door, looking left and right as if he was searching for someone.

  Did he follow me?

  His search stops when he sees me leaning against the wall just a few feet away from him. He smiles and approaches me.

  Did he come here to ask for a proper apology after I bumpe into him? Really? I look up at him in confusion as he comes to a halt in front of me, carrying a suit jacket on his right arm.

  "I am really sorry, I didn't mean to–"

  "It's okay," he interrupts me. "Real dancing should come with crashes."

  All right. What does he want from me then? Instead of asking, I just shrug and try to return his smile, but I feel that it must come across as a bad effort. It is not sincere, after all. He smells so fucking good – and I don't like what his voice does to me. It's so deep, strong and... pleasant.

  "I know, it's a lame opener, but do you come here often?" He asks.

  I frown at him. "That really is a lame opener..."

  He laughs jovially. "Told you, I’m aware of that."

  "You obviously aren’t."

  A hint of a frown flickers across his handsome face, but it’s gone after a short moment.

  "So, do you come here often?" He repeats his question, stressing his words in a way that demands an answer.

  "Yes. But I assume you don’t?"

  "Correct," he says, moving closer and leaning against the wall next to me. "I don't. In fact, I have never been here before."

  He is so close that I can feel the warmth of his body. And his smell is intoxicating. Fuck, he smells good.

  "Doesn't seem like it would be your crowd," I comment, nodding toward his attire.

  "What do you think ‘my crowd’ looks like?" he asks then, the expression on his face defiant and challenging. I pause for a moment, raising my eyebrows as I blatantly run my eyes up and down his profile, checking him out.

  "Meal at a fancy restaurant?" I say. "Followed by cocktails on the rooftop bar of some prestigious hotel. Or – if you're in for a 'crazy' night – dancing at one of the hottest clubs in town after you've had to place yourself on the waiting list months beforehand. Possibly drinking champagne. Guess that depends on what level of corporate smug you belong to."

  He raises his right eyebrow, obviously offended by my description, but not willing to let it show too much.

  "Are you always this prejudiced?"

  "No," I reply. "But I am rarely wrong when it comes to sizing up people."

  "Still, tolerance and an open mind don’t seem to be your strong points," he says. "I honestly expected more."

  "Why?" I ask. "Tell me, what did you expect?"

  His eyes are still fixated on me, his body dead still. Why is he still here? His intense gaze sends shivers down my spine – the kind that would usually draw me closer. I am still trying to fight whatever it is, but he attracts me. And what scares me most is that I think he knows that.

  "The way you dance," he says, his eyes still fixed on me. "It's enticing."

  I reciprocate his look and blush. He is intimidating. I want to look away, but I can't. No one has ever called me or anything I do ‘enticing’. What is wrong with this guy? What's his end game?

  "In fact," he adds, his voice now almost a whisper. "You are the most beautiful person I have seen in a long time."

  "Oh, come on!" I object. "I’m sure as hell not fishing for compliments, but… I am drenched in sweat, my hair is all over the place, and I am not even sure that my make-up is not running down my face in ugly black streaks right now."

  "It's not, don't worry," he says, shaking his head. "I’d love to see that, though."

  What?

  I’m blushing. How brash. Who does he think he is?

  "And again, you disappoint me," he adds matter-of-factly.

  "I disappoint you? How?" I ask.

  "Your definition of beauty," he explains. "It is so superficial. Why do you think I am talking about your body, your hair – your make-up even?"

  I look up at him, dumbfounded.

  "Of course, you are a beauty in that shallow sense," he continues. "You see yourself in a mirror every day. You know that you are beautiful. Your pale complexion complements your dark hair the same way it does Snow White. Your lips are red, even without lipstick, and your long, wavy hair may be a mess right now, but it still decorates your slim frame in a stunning way that anyone would describe as pretty."

  He pauses but keeps his eyes on me. I don't know if he is waiting for some kind of reply, or just soaking in my reaction. I am not saying anything or deliberately showing any signs that I heard what he has been saying.

  But now that he has stopped talking, I notice that my breathing has changed drastically. My mouth is half-open and I am panting. Why is he saying these things? Is he trying to win some kind of bet? Pick up a trashy hipster girl at an underground club, just to show his buddies that he can do it?

  "I'm sorry," he says. "You don't seem to be used to hearing these kinds of things."

  Again, I don't reply.


  "They're true," he adds. "But still, it's not what I was talking about when I called you beautiful. Not at all."

  "No?" I finally ask. My voice is low and hoarse. I have to clear my throat before I dare to continue speaking. "What did you mean then?"

  Instead of giving me an answer, he just looks at me. Observing. His eyes are still fixed on mine, but now they are flickering, searching for something as if he has a question he doesn't dare ask.

  "You're cold," he notices.

  I am about to protest, but now that he mentions it, I notice I have been shivering. The heat from the club has left my body and the sweat has dried. I am freezing, actually.

  "Um, a little," I admit.

  "Care to accompany me to a warm place where we could have a drink?" He asks. "And continue our conversation."

  "A warm place?" I ask, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.

  "A bar," he says. "I'm sure you know there's one right across the street? A shisha bar. It's nice and quiet there – and warm."

  I glance over to the door of the club, unsure what to do. He’s too full of himself – and I don't trust his compliments. And I have to wonder why he is still talking to me, even though I have been anything but charming.

  "I wouldn't mind going back there," he says, noticing my look. "It's a cool place – but too loud to talk. And I would like to talk to you."

  I look up at him. "Why?"

  "Because I want to."

  I sigh. "Is this some kind of joke? Are you trying to win a bet or something?"

  Now he frowns at me.

  "Why are you so suspicious?" He wants to know. "Has no one ever paid you a compliment before? That can't be it. Or are you mad, because I am keeping you from dancing?"

  "I... I don't–"

  "Look," he says, now sounding impatient. "I don't want to mess with you or ruin your evening. Let's make a deal. I'll go over to the bar and order myself a shisha and a drink. I've had enough dancing for tonight. I don't want to cut your evening short, though. You go, dance as long as you wish until you feel you've had enough, as well. And if you're feeling like having a little nightcap before going home – you know where to find me."

  He distances himself then from the wall and straightens up, looking down on me with a stern but friendly face. "I won't wait forever, though."

  And then he turns and walks away. I continue watching as he crosses the street and heads for the bar.

  I know the place well. I have been there a few times before.

  But – what the hell? Is he really that confident that I will follow him? He didn't even give me his name or his phone number. I could just go back downstairs into the club and dance until my head falls off before stumbling home and never seeing him again. I could do just that.

  And I might.

  My eyes follow him as he walks. He doesn't turn around once. His confidence annoys me.

  I shake my head and turn around, heading for the club's entrance. And dance. Just as I had planned to do when I first got here.

  The club is a lot emptier than it was just a short while before. It is not even that late, but people are leaving left and right. Great, now there is more room for me.

  The song that is playing is not especially great or catchy, but I start dancing to it anyway.

  I try to, that is. My mind is elsewhere, even though I want to fight it. I cannot get him out of my head.

  What kind of weird game is he playing with me? And why does it work so well?

  It scares me, actually. Because I feel like this is not up to me. As if someone cast a spell on me, causing me to notice him in the first place, to be drawn to him even though he appears to stand for everything I despise.

  And why did he come up to me and talk to me? Since when has it become this easy to charm me the way he just did?

  Of course, I have heard compliments before, compliments about my appearance even.

  But never like this. But never have compliments affected me the way his words did.

  I feel like a giddy, stupid school girl, one who got brain-fucked by a charming womanizer who is only trying to get one thing out of her.

  But even if that's true – would that be so bad?

  It's been a while since I have had sex. And he's hot, that's for sure. I have never been opposed to one-night stands and have actually had quite a few. It's just a matter of timing, my mood, the available guy – just a few variables that need to fall into place.

  He is interesting, and he could be fun.

  "Oh, fuck this," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.

  I turn around and head for the door.

  CHAPTER IV

  Nicky

  He is sitting back in a hidden corner of the bar, visibly enjoying a shisha by himself. It doesn’t look like he is waiting for me – or waiting for anyone for that matter.

  The bar is cozy and decorated like a hippie’s living room. The small tables are very low and surrounded by a bunch of colorful cushions instead of chairs. I love the smell of this place and am looking forward to having a little smoke, even though it’s just a shisha and not a cigarette. There is music playing in the background and the place is still fairly crowded even at this hour. But it is almost dauntingly quiet, a complete contrast to the club I just left.

  He still looks out of place with his business suit, but he fits in a little more than he did at the basement club. In this environment, he could just as well be your average office worker enjoying a trendy smoke after work.

  When I approach his table, he does not turn to look at me until the very last moment, once I am standing so close that it is impossible for him to ignore me.

  He looks up at me then. I expect to see a triumphant smile, one that would make me angry and cause me to regret my decision to come here. But instead, he just displays a subtle smirk and beckons me to sit down next to him.

  "All right, you won," I say, as I slip down onto the cushions next to him.

  He shakes his head. "I didn't know this was a competition."

  I frown at him.

  "So," he adds. "What did I win then?"

  "My company," I reply, trying to sound defiant.

  "Fair enough," he says. "Can I buy you a drink?"

  "Thanks, but I can buy my own drink," I say, a bit surprised at myself. Usually, I would have no problem with a guy buying me a drink. But everything seems different with this one. I feel the constant urge to challenge him. No matter what his intent is with me, I don't want to make it too easy for him.

  He rolls his eyes. "Don't you think you have insulted me enough already? Your intention may be admirable, but since I believe that you're just doing this to spite me, I will insist on buying you a drink."

  "Fine," I say. "I'll have another beer, then."

  "No," he says. "You won't. I have a better idea. And since I am paying, I will decide."

  I raise my eyebrows, trying to demonstrate that his insistence does not impress me in the slightest.

  However, it does impress me.

  He orders something with a colorful name and then offers me to take a puff of the shisha. I decide not to put up a fight and gladly accept it.

  "What taste is this? Apple?" I ask as the comfortable smoke shrouds us in.

  He nods. "Yes, with a hint of mint."

  His reply makes me feel like a little school girl who got one of her answers on a test right. And I smile accordingly.

  "What do you want me to call you?" he asks.

  I take another puff of the shisha and cast him a puzzled look.

  "Do you want to know my real name or my nickname?"

  "That's up to you," he says. "My name is Evan. And that is my real name. I understand that many people are hesitant to share such information when they have just met someone."

  "They do?" I ask. "What's the point in that?"

  He shrugs. "You never know what they may want from you – or what you may want from them."

  I subtly nod in silence.

  "If you are certain
that you're not going to see the other person again, why waste an opportunity to be someone else for a night?" He continues. "I have done it, and it has been done to me. It can make things interesting – but it only adds to the appeal of short-lived beauty. It may deny there ever being an opportunity for something more long-lasting to evolve."

  I look at him, pondering.

  "So, you're telling me that Evan is your real name," I say. "Based on what you're saying, this would mean that you intend to see me again after tonight – or at least that is what you want me to believe."

  He smiles as I take a little pause before I continue: "Why should I believe you?"

  He nods in understanding and reaches over to his jacket that is lying next to him.

  "Because I can prove it," he says, producing his wallet. He extracts his ID card and holds it up to my face.

  "Evan Beckhart," I read out loud.

  He looks at me expectantly as he puts the card and his wallet away.

  The waiter interrupts us for a moment when he brings my drink. It seems to be the same beverage that Evan is having and looks just as colorful as the name would suggest.

  "Thank you," I say, both to Evan and the waiter.

  "It's a soft cocktail with citrus fruit," Evan explains. "Low in alcohol, but it goes very well with the apple aroma of the shisha."

  I raise my glass to him in a toast and thank him again before I take a sip.

  "Uh, delicate," I comment. "I have never ordered something like this here."

  "You should," he says. "You know, there are many things to drink other than beer."

  "Not really, if you can't afford most of it," I object.

  He ignores my remark and takes a puff of the shisha, granting us a moment of silence before he repeats his question.

  "So, what should I call you?"

  "I haven't decided yet," I reply blatantly.

  He seems to like that answer. His smile widens. And it looks freaking handsome.

  "So, Evan," I start. "If I remember correctly, you were right in the middle of sweeping me off my feet with your irresistibly charming words when we were standing outside of the club."

  He chuckles and shakes his head like a little boy who got caught doing something silly.