‘Who said it would be a one-night stand?’ she asks, looking injured.
‘When it’s alcohol-fuelled, it usually is, Lucy. Take his number. Go out on a proper date.’
‘I’ll do that, too,’ she says, delighted that she seems to have found the solution to my problem. ‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’
I eye her suspiciously, nibbling on the inside of my mouth. Then I glance past her to Mark. He catches my look and speaks up before I have a chance to warn him. ‘I’ll make sure she gets home safely.’
‘Via your place?’ I ask sardonically, eyebrow raised.
‘Maybe.’ He smiles and tugs Lucy back a little. ‘She’ll be fine, I promise.’
I give Lucy a quick peck on the cheek and unbend my body, tucking my purse under my arm. ‘Make sure she is,’ I warn. ‘I know where you work.’
He laughs. ‘Hey, speak to the blond guy on the door. He’ll call you a cab.’
‘Yes.’ Lucy nods enthusiastically. ‘And text me the moment you’re home.’
‘I will.’ I leave Mark and Lucy laughing, keen to break free of the club, and when I’ve made it to the edge of the dance floor, I’m certain I’ve evaded a certain . . . no one. But just as I think that, I glimpse to my left . . . and fall straight into panic.
Oh God, it gets worse.
Brent’s head is craning around a few people who are blocking his path. He’s here too? And he’s spotted me. Fucking hell. I dip and weave through the crowds, my feet moving urgently to get me out of here. I can’t promise I won’t slap his face if he asks me out again. I can’t promise I won’t—
My wrist is seized, and I swing around violently, coming face to face with . . .
Becker?
A funny sensation comes over me, and I roll my shoulders back to shake off the prickles that have just jumped on to my skin.
He’s breathing heavily, his angel eyes hard. ‘Don’t go home with him,’ he says urgently, and then he’s gone, disappearing among a sea of people, just as Brent breaks free of the crowds on the other side of me. I release the air in my lungs, my breastbone rolling in waves of shock, confusion and fear. He delayed me. I could have got out of here before Brent made it to me, so why didn’t he just let me? I look past Brent’s smiling face, searching for Becker.
And my ability to breathe is stolen from me the moment I find him.
His eyes are not on me any more, because they’re directed at the woman in his arms. What is he doing? And why is he doing it to me? What fucked-up game is he playing?
‘Eleanor?’
I shoot my dry eyes to Brent. He’s frowning at me. My head is spinning, but as I stare blankly at him, clarity seems to descend.
Don’t go home with him.
Becker could have escorted me out. He could have taken me away from Brent, and both of us know I wouldn’t have stopped him. But he didn’t, and the reason why is suddenly so obvious. He wants me to reject Brent. He wants me to reject him after he told me to. Why? I should slap myself for asking such a stupid question. Because then I’ve bowed to him. I’ve done as I’m told, and though everything unreasonable within me is yelling at me not to, I still do. ‘I’m leaving.’ I back away, ignoring Brent’s perplexed expression.
‘Stay. Have a drink.’ He motions to the bar.
‘No.’ I give my simple refusal with no further explanation. It’s just a no. What more would I say? That I want to slap him for taking me for a fool? That I want to slap Becker harder, and I might do exactly that if I remain in this club? That I’ll spend all my time glaring at Becker, working myself up until I talk myself into doing something stupid? Like taking whatever Brent’s obviously willing to give. Not because I want it, but because Becker doesn’t want me to have it. Because my arsehole boss told me not to go home with him, which means I might do exactly that in a fit of revenge.
No. It’s just a no.
I turn and make my way to the exit, and Brent doesn’t stop me. My frame of mind must be obvious. I don’t try to cover up my despondency; I don’t have the energy.
The doors to the lift open and I step inside, turning slowly