Chapter 3- Green Eyes

-Damian-

I tip my tumbler up and drain the Scotch from it in one long gulp, letting the liquid burn its way down my chest.

Despite having spent the last four years frequenting Outer Heaven, I still didn't understand what in the world possessed Adam Barclay to open this place up. He was not living in New York. He didn't even visit it. Yet, the club made him rich. It made him filthy rich. Bastard.

Somehow, the place that reeked of sweat, puke and, alcohol is the it spot for those who were twenty-one years old and up.

Hell, it's the it spot even to those pretend-adults. The ones with the fake ID. I could spot those from all the way up here in the VIP section. That meant one of two things: either the bouncers are getting sloppy in their job or the fake ID dealers are getting better at theirs.

I'm not judging, I was once twenty years old and eager to have fun, hook up, and get blacked out drunk. Nowadays, I just don't have the time or the energy for it. I'm not old, I'm a 32-year-old man. It wasn't that long ago that I was in their shoes. I observe the dance floor from the balcony. People are dancing and grinding on each other.

I raise my brow at the sight. Scoffing, I shake my head and glance away from the scene. I lock eyes with the waiter in the VIP section. I hold my, now-empty, tumbler up. He comes mere seconds later with another tumbler filled with top-shelf scotch. At least being a VIP member of this place has some perks.

I take the chilled glass between my fingers and spin it on the table top, with rhythmical movements of my right hand fingers.

I glance at my left wrist. The one that's adorned with a Rolex.

The same one that my great-great-grandfather bought in 1933 when his first son was born. It had been passed on through three generations of men. Until I got it as a birthday gift from my father when I turned 21 years old. That makes me the 4th generation of men that gets to wear the family heirloom, and my firstborn son will be the 5th. That is... if I ever fall in love, get married, and have a son.

I glance at the handles of the watch and see that it's almost 11.15p.m. I shake my head in disapproval. I thrive on punctuality, my friends clearly do not. I have been waiting for 30 minutes already. I exhale in frustration.

I cross my legs and hear cursing even over the music. Not that the music is loud in the VIP section anyway.

"Fucking bitch. Blind bat. Unbelievable." The man keeps cursing as he draws closer. I kick the leg of the chair across from me, making it glide away from the table and become an open invitation.

"Your colorful language never fails to amuse me." My mouth tilts up in a smirk as he takes his place in the chair.

Then, almost as an afterthought, "You're late. Again."

"Yeah, no shit, it's colorful. Fucking bitch." Ezra Crawford undoes the button of his suit jacket. Letting the sides fall open. I raise a questioning brow at him.

"Don't give me that fucking look, Damian."

"I'm not giving you a look." I shrug with one shoulder and take a sip of my drink.

I lick my lips free of the stray drop of scotch that lingered there.

"Just for the sake of it- if I was giving you a look-" I muse with a shit-eating grin.

"Don't even start." Ezra butts in, and I raise my hands in mock-surrender.

"I need a fucking drink. Where is the damn waiter?" he mutters to no one in particular as he looks around the VIP section.

"Alright, I'll bite." I finally glance his way just in time to see him light a cigarette and take a long drag from it. "What crawled up your ass and died?"

He scoffs, exhaling smoke from his lungs.

"I was coming up when some bitch, the height of a fucking minion, decided to bump into me." He shakes his head in disbelief as if mulling something over.

"Do you know how much this suit costs?" Ezra snaps, pointing at his suit with his hands. However, before I can even think whether that was a rhetorical question or not, he continues.

"I'll tell you. Too damn much. Much more than her. That's for sure."

"Was it an accident or did she want a piece of the ol' Crawford meat?" His gaze darkens at my tease.

"Don't," he practically growls.

I can't help but chuckle lowly. "C'mon, share the details with your old pal. Is she hot?"

"You know I don't deal with those below the VIP section." It's his turn to grin and wiggle his eyebrows at me, as he nods toward the coquettes scattered around.

I scrunch my nose in disgust and look away from him. How on Earth did I end up being friends with this A-grade asshole?

"Don't act all high and mighty, D. One day, when you're matched up with a woman you clearly despise, you will be looking at the dolls too." It's his turn to grin.

Without looking back at him, I deadpan. "You are not matched up with anyone, and you still look and spend time with the coquettes." I roll my eyes.

His grin widens. "Ah, but I do it because it's fun. Besides, they're a sight for sore eyes." His eyes twinkle with mischief as a coquette finally makes her way toward him and sits on his lap.

My lips tighten, and I lean with my elbow on the railing. I shift my focus to the dance floor. Among the throng of people, there is only one girl who is having genuine fun. And she is dancing alone. Her long, light-brown hair sways with each move of her hips. I keep my gaze firmly locked on her, not paying attention to Ezra at all anymore.

Suddenly, she stills in her spot. With a serious expression on her face, she turns around one way and then the other. She seems to be looking for something or someone.

Does she have a boyfriend? Is she looking for him? Hold up.

Where did that thought come from? No. I do not care if she has a boyfriend or two or ten. I don't know her. I don't need to know her.

Suddenly, she tilts her head toward me and looks straight into my eyes with her big emeralds. I freeze. My throat bobs as I swallow hard, and for a long while, we don't shift our focus away from each other.

Even from this distance, I can clearly see her chest is heaving with every breath she takes. Her plump lips are parted, and her green eyes are wide as she takes me in.

Was she looking for me? Could she feel me watching her? I can't help but look at this beauty with glossy eyes and pink flush dusting her cheeks. I try to look away. To look at Ezra. But it's futile.

A brunette with her hair in a low bun puts a hand on the beauty's shoulder. In turn, her eyes shift away from mine toward the brunette.

The lack of her gaze feels like a physical blow.

No. No. No.

I need her to look at me. I clench my fists. My mind is at war with my body. I know I should look back at Ezra, focus on his conversation about the coquettes... I've been through this. I don't need this. I'm too old for club dancing, hidden looks, and hooking up. I don't need her.

Yet, before I can think better of it, I'm out of my seat and strolling toward the stairs. The same ones that lead to the main floor of the club.

"Whoa, D, man, where are you goin'?" Ezra hollers from behind me. I hesitate, just for a second, before walking further down the stairs. Ignoring Ezra's loud protests and questions.