Pretty Little Lies, page 5
Three heads of thick, dark curls rise from the car as the driver, and his two passengers exit the vehicle. The boys who step from the back look to be in their late teens and similar enough in appearance, one might be tempted to think they’re twins. They are definitely brothers. They have the same proud nose and confident smiles that curl the corners of their lips. The hint of a cleft lingers on both of their chins.
My attention turns to the driver, and my heart flutters uncomfortably. Nicolo Marchetti straightens his button-down and tosses his keys casually to a slight doorman I hadn’t even noticed behind the two big burly ones.
The younger guys from the back seat must be Nicolo’s brothers. They look enough like carbon copies that I can’t believe I didn’t see it right away.
“Take care of her for me, Dino,” Nicolo says to the slight man I’m assuming is a valet. “And enjoy yourself. Just don’t fuck up her paint job.”
The valet chuckles, striding toward the car as Nicolo and his younger brothers make their way toward the club. My mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty as I watch him silently. He seems so at ease with his world, perfectly comfortable to simply pass up the line while the rest of us common people wait for our turn. Of course, if his family owns the club, that comes as no surprise.
As Nicolo’s long strides carry him to the entrance, one of the doormen opens the door for him. But something makes Nicolo glance right, and our eyes meet. His stride falters as his gaze travels over the group I’m standing with, and a smug smile spreads over his face.
“Well, if it isn’t the new girl,” he sneers.
Anxiety ripples through me as Nicolo’s attention is diverted. He turns to face me, allowing the doorman to wait with the open door in hand so Nicolo can taunt me. Nicolo’s brothers pause with him, their gazes landing on me with open interest.
“God, this place is going to the dogs if we’re letting people like you in now. Wouldn’t you say, Brasco?” Nicolo glances over his shoulder toward the doorman, who’s still standing sentry. The man gives a subtle nod, though he continues to hold his pose, remaining intimidating as he bars the door.
“You know this girl, Nico?” one of his brothers asks with surprise.
“This is the kind of charity case that goes to Rosehill nowadays–and apparently, our club.”
His brothers exchange a glance before eyeing me with curiosity. I wonder if it’s that they’ve never seen a relatively poor person before or if they’re assessing what their brother finds so distasteful about me.
Nicolo–Nico, apparently, to those who matter in his life–eyes me coolly before his gaze flicks to my friends once more. They stand speechless around me, all their attention turned to the Marchetti heir as if he’s some kind of Roman deity.
“So, is this your best attempt to prove you’re worth something, New Girl?” Nicolo asks, eyeing my friends. “Running with the rich crowd to show you can be one of them?” He steps up close to me, and I can smell the woodsy scent of his cologne as he leans in to whisper, “I hate to break it to you, Anya, but nothing you do will ever make you worth anything.”
My stomach knots at the combination of his proximity and the spiteful words he murmurs just for me.
Then he leans back with a smug smile. “Enjoy your evening out, Cinderella. But make sure you’re home by midnight, or you might just turn back into a pumpkin.” He waves his brothers along, and they enter the club without a backward glance, leaving me speechless in their wake.
“Holy shit, Nicolo Marchetti just talked to you?” Whitney says in an awed voice.
“That’s not a good thing,” Paige observes dryly. “He and his father are nothing more than low-life criminals with enough money to buy their way out of facing the law.”
“Yeah, but he actually knows who you are?” Logan asks, his eyes wide with amazement.
“I might have spilled my lunch on him the first day of school,” I confess, my cheeks flushing with the memory. There’s no chance I’m telling them anything about the other reasons I know Nicolo Marchetti–my past with him, or the daughter waiting for me at home that I’ve done my best to make sure he’ll never know about.
Not that he cared to find out.
“Oh, shit.” Paige snickers. “No wonder he doesn’t seem to like you.”
I shrug, trying for nonchalance, though my heart is still racing from the encounter. After it’s apparent that I don’t have much more information on Nicolo Marchetti and our abrupt reintroduction the other day, my friends lose interest and return to their previous conversation. But I bite my lip, remaining preoccupied as I wonder if it’s really smart to be walking into Nicolo’s club when he’s here.
Before I have time to decide, the doorman unhooks the silk rope barring us and gestures us through the door into the club.
Whitney wraps her arm around my shoulders, encouraging me forward when I might have stayed behind. “It’s going to be fun!” she insists as she guides me into the club’s dark interior.
As the dim hallway opens up to the club’s main area, my jaw drops at the sight before me. It’s not so much a barre and a dance floor like I had imagined, but rather an elaborate display of various floors holding multiple kinds of entertainment lit with golden spotlights. The bottom level contains the dance floor, which is already teaming with sweaty bodies rocking and swaying to the club’s throbbing beat.
Along the far wall is a bar, backlit so the alcohol almost looks as though it’s floating on the glass shelves that hold it. A throng of thirsty patrons shuffle against the bar, calling for a bartender’s attention to get a drink.
In the recesses of the club’s alcoves, strippers perform for the men that requested them, some standing on tables or platforms, others providing personal lap dances. It’s an overtly sex-oriented display, and I’m somewhat shocked to see it so openly broadcast for the room.
But that’s not what has me in awe. Stairs punctuate the edges of the room on either side of the alcoves, leading up to separately enclosed areas decorated with fine white couches and modern coffee tables. Though the higher levels housing the VIP customers are a good distance above us, I can still see every detail about their space because, like the shelves holding the liquor at the bar, the VIP sections are made up of glass floors and railings. Sparkling flutes of champagne catch in the club’s lighting, looking like stationary sparklers waiting for someone to consume their bubbly liquid.
And above us all are several massive glass cages that dangle like ornaments containing scantily clad dancers that move about their enclosed spaces. A chill runs down my spine at the thought of what paperwork they must have signed to have agreed to be hoisted stories above the ground in a cube that could shatter and kill them if the single chain suspending them were ever to break.
“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” Logan shouts in my ear.
I glance to look at him and realize his eyes are trained on the dancers above us.
“Terrifying,” I say.
“I’m sure they’re paid well, though,” Whitney observes. “Nothing wrong with a little risk to make your life worth living.”
When I glance at Whitney, she gives me a playful wink. Linking elbows with me, she drags me toward the dance floor. “So, we know you’re a proper ballerina, but can you get down and dirty like the rest of us?” she teases.
In all honesty, I have no clue. I’ve never been on a dance floor like this before. I let my new friends escort me, and once we’ve found a modicum of open space, we all cram in to start moving to the beat. My body’s not used to the motions my friends adopt as their hips sway and their shoulders roll rhythmically. I do my best to imitate them, but I know I must look entirely out of place.
As I dance, I let my eyes wander, trying to make sense of all the activities taking place around me. At one of the tables surrounding the dance floor, a couple makes out with intent, their hands exploring each other openly. I avert my gaze, feeling the need to give them privacy, even though they seem unbothered by their public display.
My eyes track to the VIP section just beyond them. One of the club’s dancers, dressed only in a thong made of fluorescent green fabric, lies back on top of the table, exposing her breasts and allowing one of the men there to tap white powder onto her flat stomach.
I watch him cut the coke right there on her body, and he snorts it before letting one of his companions join in and take a line. It’s all too much. I feel like my senses are on overload, no matter which direction I turn. The heavy, sweat-soaked air, the musty smell of moving bodies, the blaring music that throbs within my chest. The visual stimulation is overwhelming. Even on the dance floor, I’m intensely aware of the way people press together, gyrating in overtly sexual motions as men grip women’s hips and grind into them provocatively.
There’s something extremely liberating about it all, the sight of people drinking and dancing in such a carefree way. Despite my attempt to pace myself, just the atmosphere leaves me feeling intoxicated, and I’m bordering on dizzy.
“Just relax!” Paige shouts over the music, moving her hips to show me what she means.
I smile, doing as she says and trying to follow her lead. But my eyes continue to wander, taking everything in. I feel as though I’ve walked into some level of the underworld, exposing myself to all the depravity of society. And while I don’t know what to do with myself, I can’t entirely say I hate it. It’s simply fascinating.
Motion on the club’s highest floor–almost level with the floating dancers–catches my eye. I look up to find Nicolo Marchetti lounging on a white couch, his arms stretched across the back in a casual display.
Two women in short, form-fitting dresses that show off all their assets lean against him. Across the table from him, Nicolo’s brothers sit, staring out at the mob of bodies on the dance floor. They watch with a youthful interest that’s missing from Nicolo’s gaze. When I turn my attention back to him, I see his bored expression and the way his eyes comb lazily across the club.
One of the girls slides her hand up higher on his thigh as she crosses her leg and tips her hip, exposing her thigh. Both girls are breathtakingly beautiful, models, if I had to guess. Their long locks are coiffed to perfection, and their makeup is so artfully done, they almost look more like a painting than a human being. The girl sitting on the far side of Nicolo combs her fingers into his thick curls and the startling memory of how soft his hair is triggers in my brain.
Blushing profusely, I jerk my gaze away. I shouldn’t be remembering details about our night together after all these years. Then again, I haven’t slept with anyone since my first time with Nicolo. I’ve had too many other pressing things in my life to bother with romance. And after getting pregnant the first time, I’m not interested in casual sex. Not with my dream of being a ballerina at stake. I’m fortunate to have found my way through one unexpected pregnancy. I wouldn’t dare risk another.
Forcing myself to remain present with my friends on the dance floor, I keep my gaze locked on their faces. I won’t look at Nicolo again tonight. This is my chance to have fun, even if I feel like I’m worlds away from reality.
“Nicolo Marchetti is staring at you,” Tori says after several minutes of uninterrupted dancing. She leans close, shouting so I can hear her.
It takes all my discipline to stop myself from looking up to see. Instead, I shrug as I continue to sway to the beat. “Let him look if that’s what he wants. So long as he doesn’t come down here and bother me, I intend to ignore him. I’m here to have fun with you guys!”
But my stomach twists uncomfortably, and I feel his gaze burning into the back of my neck long after I’m sure he’s looked away.
6
NICOLO
“You think Dad will shell out enough cash to buy each of us a new car for our birthdays?” Lucca asks, his tone bordering on whiny.
“Yeah, right. Nicolo only got his Maserati because he’s twenty-one now. We probably have to wait for our twenty-first birthdays,” Cassio says, rolling his eyes.
“It’s probably not even that. It’s probably just because he’s Dad’s firstborn and, therefore, the favorite,” Lucca pouts.
“Maybe it’s because I don’t sound like a whiny baby whenever I don’t get my way,” I suggest dryly, leveling them with a stern gaze that makes them both shut their mouths and slouch in their seats. Usually, I try to be more gentle with my brothers. As my father has hammered into our brains from an early age, family is the only thing I can trust intrinsically. When I take over the family business, Cassio and Lucca will likely be my best support and allies. But tonight, I don’t have the patience to let them act their age.
Their whining is getting on my nerves. I’ve already been short-tempered for the majority of this week. It seems like I can’t go anywhere without Anya’s unexpected appearances constantly keeping her on my brain. She’s like a splinter, constantly aggravating me.
And now, after I was trying to take some time away from my father’s ever-growing pressure to learn the family business, all I get to hear about is how unfairly my younger brothers feel like they’re being treated. We’re all relatively close in age, with Cassio just two years behind me and Lucca nine months younger than Cassio. Only my sister seems capable of avoiding my last nerve, but I would never bring her to the club. She’s better than this place. Not to mention she’s still a sophomore in high school and too young for this kind of scene.
“You do have a gorgeous new car, Nico,” the blonde model under my right arm purrs as she slides her manicured nails up my thigh along the inner seam of my slacks. “Maybe you can take me for a ride in it later?” she suggests. From her tone, I wonder if she actually means for me to drive her around or if she means I should ride her in the back seat.
“Mmm, you could take us both for a ride,” the raven-haired girl leaning into my left side offers, her fingers combing into my hair and grazing my scalp. “I’m very good at sharing.”
Their heavy-handed suggestions bore me, and I grip the raven-haired model’s wrist to remove her hand from my hair. Once again, my eyes stray to Anya, who’s dancing in the midst of the mob below me. Though she looks vaguely uncomfortable surrounded by all the drunken bumping and grinding, she still has a natural sway to the beat, her impressive dancer’s ass moving to the rhythm in a shy but somehow tantalizing way.
She’s dancing with the group of girls she stood with outside our club and seems to be trying to mirror their more aggressive hip movements. She stands out like a sore thumb in her simple floral summer dress, clearly an old hand-me-down she probably got from her mother or older sister or something. That pattern is far outdated. Her friends, in contrast, wear high-end nightclub fashion, glittering, sequined dresses so tight they might as well be painted on. But for some reason, I find them about as interesting as the models fawning over me.
Letting my eyes travel around the room, I search for some kind of diversion that might catch my interest, but when I find my gaze wandering back to Anya time and again, I grow impatient. Rising abruptly from my seat, I stalk toward the back room, where my father usually attends to any business he cares to deal with at the club. My unexpected departure makes the two clingy models topple into each other before they catch themselves on the seat.
“Where are you going?” Lucca asks.
“To find some stress relief.” At the door to the back room, I turn to find the two young models staring expectantly at me. “The fuck are you making me wait for?” I demand. “Get in here.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder to make it clear exactly where I want them to be.
The girls jump up from their seats, straightening their dresses as they traipse flirtatiously past me.
“You two stay out here,” I say to Cassio and Lucca.
“Oh, man,” they whine in stereo.
I jerk my chin toward our open bottle of champagne. “You can finish that one without me, but don’t order another. I don’t want either of you drinking too much and throwing up in my car.”
“It’s not like we’re babies,” Lucca gripes as Cassio snickers.
I don’t bother responding. Instead, I step back into the private room and close the door, turning the lock so we won’t be disturbed. The girls watch me, waiting to see what I’ll do next.
“Undress,” I command them as I stride toward the couch at the center of the room.
They obey immediately, unzipping and sliding out of the skimpy sheaths of fabric until they stand before me in their lacy underwear and heels. Though their bodies are near perfection, I note that neither has calves or thighs to compare with Anya’s. The observation irks me.
Reaching into my pocket, I withdraw an eight-ball of cocaine and pour its contents onto the coffee table before me. The models’ lips curl up into wicked smiles.
“Have at it, girls,” I say, waving casually as I take a seat.
Dropping to their knees, each girl cuts a line and bends over, exposing her bare ass as she snorts the powder straight off the table. Usually, this is what I like. Getting girls coked up and making them do things to each other, then to me.
As the blonde model leans back, her face taking on an expression of ecstasy, I jerk my chin toward the dark-haired girl.
“Now take off her bra and panties,” I command, waving toward the blonde.
The dark-haired model rises to do as I say, pulling the blonde to her feet so she can unclasp the girl’s bra and slide her G-string out from between her ass cheeks.
“Turn around and bend over,” I tell the blonde, my eyes intent on her full breasts and trim waist.
She does as I say, turning so her ass is facing me, spreading her legs, and bending at the hips until her pussy is on full display. She makes a point of looking at me over her shoulder, her eyes intense with pent-up anticipation. My cock twitches inside my slacks but doesn’t come to full mast like it usually would, which has me gritting my teeth irritably. If that klutzy bitch has killed my hard-on, I swear to god...
