In Bed With My Step-uncle

ROSE'S POV

"Why am I even doing this again?" I shout over the earsplitting music, leaning closer to my best friend so that she can hear me.

The smoke-filled air sticks to my skin, the flashing lights makes it hard to focus on anything for too long. The laughter seem to last forever. The speaker is unbearably loud, I can barely hear myself think, let alone speak. This place feels like a far cry from the quiet, prayer-filled nights I was raised with. I bend my head down but the fear of being recognize rings endlessly in my ears.

There's no part of me that wants to continue sitting here, but something keeps me, maybe...it's the strangeness of the night... or the appealing nature of him, maybe it’s the thrill of doing something different. Whatever it is, it’s hard to shake the feeling that I don’t belong here. I should leave...and let I stay.

"You haven't even done anything." Monique yells, playfully slapping the ass of a guy walking by in a leather shorts—probably one of the entertainers.

"That's indecent, Monique!" I eye her accusingly and cringe my nose in disgust at the acrid smell of cigarettes drifting from the guys sitting beside us.

"Oh sorry, I forgot you are a religious scholar." Her voice is taunting. "But come on, it's your birthday today. You have to go all out. Live a little, Rose."

My fingers wrap around the tips of my shoulder length chestnut hair. "Uhm... Why do people act crazily on their birthdays?"

''Urghh it's just a day to let go and be happy. Experience life" She stands up, adjusting her miniskirt as she heads over to the bar to get more drinks—drinks she won't be paying for. Monique was never one for subtlety, but tonight, she was practically throwing subtlety out the window.

I rest my chin on my palms and my eyes drift back to him at the VIP section, he's been here for over a month since I regrettably escorted Monique to this place. He lounges alone, his muscular arm drapes over the edge of the couch and long fingers brush through wavy golden blonde hair.

The jeans that hangs sinfully low on his waist reveals the magnificent body beneath, the bodycon t-shirt and boots he wears scream filthy rich...I should look away and stop staring but his face... He has the face of a greek god. Utter perfection.

In my mind, I'm not just staring at him but I'm imagining him seductively striding over to me, he's magnetic presence drawing me in.

"Stop being a chicken." A voice whispers into my ear, pulling me from my lust-induced daydream.

I jerk in surprise as I turn around to see Monique grinning at me. "My goodness, you startled me!" I place my hands on my chest to steady myself. I take a bottle of whiskey from her outstretched hands with a weak smile on my face.

She settles back onto the stool beside me, still watching me with a mischievous gleam in he eyes. "Go over and talk to him, he's the reason we traveled two cities to get here."

"No." I shake my head, looking away. Taking a long sip of the whiskey, the alcohol burns its way down my throat. This is one of the very few times I've ever drunk in my twenty-two years of existence. I remove the bottle from my mouth, holding it between my thighs, and look back at Monique. "Even if I walked over, What am I going to say?" I inhale deeply then mimic Monique's flirtatious tone. "Hey daddy, do you mind taking my honor?"

"Rose...No." She says in-between laughter. "That's not how I sound. You never know, he may like you too. I know you're the cautious one but maybe...just maybe—." She smiles, sipping her whiskey. "I don't want you to feel pressured into doing something crazy, okay? You can still be you and have fun. " Monique says with a grin. "You’re never going to learn how to live if you keep hiding behind all your rules. And just to be clear, I'm not saying you should make out with him or anything, just go over and talk to him—because we both know you won't even let him touch you... Hell, you didn't even sleep with your fiance of three years..."

"Monique!" My fist clench involuntarily, my jaw tightening. The mention of Desmond, my ex-fiance stings.

"I'm so sorry." She says softly, squeezing my thighs in attempt at comfort.

We don't talk about my ex—she knows better than to bring him up. The mention of him is like reopening a fresh wound. We were supposed to last forever but then I found out about his affair. His betrayal cut deeper than a knife and it made me question everything I thought I knew about love.

The blurred images of Desmond and his secretary lying on his office desk flashes through my mind—a mocking reminder that my attraction towards the man in the VIP section is wrong.

"I'm sorry Rose. But you need this. You need to break free, even if it scares you. You’re never going to be happy living in the past. But what are you really scared of?"

I tune her out, my gaze returning back to him. He's still sitting there appearing disconnected from the present, except his eyes which concentrates on the bar, is he waiting for something to happen? I can't place it, but there's an aura about him that makes me yearn for his attention. He drinks like he couldn't care less about anyone's opinion, and for a moment, I wondered what it would feel like—to be the girl who doesn't care about her mother's approval, or the family's legacy or society's expectations.

I know I shouldn't be feeling this way about an older man in his early—I'm not even sure of his age. A complete stranger. It's immoral, dirty and completely opposite of everything I've been taught. So why is he the one I can’t stop thinking about? I hate myself for these thoughts, for the way my body reacts to him despite everything I’ve been raised to believe. I'm better than this—but I can't stop it.

A drunk clubber bumps into me, jostling me out of my reverie. I push the guy away. "Please, move. Don't smoke here."

I look down at the dress—its too short, too revealing. The lace hugs my body in all the wrong place. It looks like someone else's choice not mine. "What am I even wearing? Why did I agree to this?" The woman sitting in this club feels like someone else, someone I don't recognize.

"He's looking here. He's staring right at you." Monique squeals, barely containing her excitement.

I follow her gaze and freeze. He's looking at me. "Holy Mary!"

"Did you just swear?" Monique's eyes widen. "Don't adjust," she adds, slapping my hands as they instinctively reach for the bodice of my dress.

"My boobs are practically hanging out." I protest weakly.

"That's the style." She retorts. "You already ruined it by wearing a bra and panties."

I look back in his VIP lounge but it's empty. My heart sinks. "He's gone." I whisper, frowning.

Monique scans the room, then points at a figure moving back to the VIP lounge. Her voice is full of urgency as she jumps off her seat. "Over there. Go now." She nudges me. "The man is not talking to anyone. He may be waiting for you."

He's unlike other guys. A man with his impressive physique and stunning face should be surrounded by a dozen attractive ladies. But he's always alone—observing, waiting. It's weird, but Monique may be right, he could be waiting for me.

I stand, my eyes carefully checking the club, while covering my face with my hands. "No one here recognizes me, right? What if someone here knows me?"

"Relax." Monique says nudging me forward. "If anyone did, we wouldn't have come here for your birthday, would we? Now go"

My heart beats audibly as I take my first step, the second. I stare at my palm, confused on what I'm doing. Every part of me screams to sit back down, and let Monique have her fun alone, while I remain in my safe, predictable world. But a quiet voice whispers that this may be the one moment I will regret not taking. Maybe, just maybe, this once, I could step out of my little cage—I could let go.

I take a deep breath again and before I know it, I step forward. And for the first time in my life, I'm doing something for myself.