“Exactly,” he said, giving her a double thumb’s up and making an exaggerated smile as he walked backwards away from her. “See you later, Ivy!”
She laughed again. “Okay, Lucas. See you later.”
She went back to her desk and decided that maybe she’d been wrong about Lucas. He wasn’t just pretending to be cool earlier—he really was a nice guy.
Maybe it was Cullen Sharpe that was the one pretending. He was afraid to be a normal person—he had to control every situation.
But she didn’t need Cullen Sharpe’s approval, she didn’t want to give into his demands, and she would do her very best to forget him.
The bar was only a couple of blocks from Biomatrix, and Ivy joined a group of about fifteen temps that walked over there directly after work.
It was interesting, she thought, how this quiet and seemingly fearful, insecure bunch of temp workers turned into laughing, joking, confident people the minute they left the office.
Lucas walked beside her as they made their way to The Wheel, a somewhat upscale bar that was already getting busy with the suit and tie crowd showing up for Happy Hour.
It was a party atmosphere from the get-go, and Ivy was only too happy to comply with the peer pressure and have a shot with the others.
“Here’s to hitting our fucking targets!” Lucas shouted, as he raised his glass in the air.
Ivy laughed and raised her glass, as the other fourteen or fifteen people in their group also toasted, shouting and laughing. And then everyone did shots, and Ivy felt the burning sweetness as the alcohol hit her system.
Instantly, much of the stress of the day seemed to fade.
“I want more,” she told Lucas. “Let’s do another!”
“Hell yeah,” he said. “I like your attitude, Spellman.”
There were calls for another round and another. Then the beer started flowing.
Ivy had never been much of a drinker, even in college when such things were considered part of the normal course of student activities. She’d been to perhaps five or six parties her entire four years, and she’d been lightly buzzed once or twice at most.
The truth was, she’d always gotten a little scared the moment she’d begun feeling the effects of the alcohol. That sensation of almost losing control, of feeling her inhibitions slip away, had always made her too unsettled and so she’d opted for more serene activities.
But tonight, she had no such reservations. Every sip of hard liquor and beer was another step closer to forgetting about him—putting him out of her mind and convincing herself that she didn’t care about what had happened between them.
Lucas was only too happy to oblige her interest in getting hammered, since he was doing the same.
So were most of the other temps, who’d all had similarly stressful and humiliating experiences, being worked hard and treated like crap at Biomatrix. Nobody was looking forward to more days like the one they’d just had—but the pay was too good and no one wanted to be fired, either.
At some point, the music started blasting, and people began dancing.
Ivy joined in, which was completely unlike her.
It was all in good fun and she was enjoying herself immensely. She continued to remind herself of how much fun she was having every time she thought about Cullen Sharpe and wondered what he’d think if he saw her right now.
You don’t care what he’d think. Remember?
Another drink and I’ll remember less and less.
“You’re not a bad dancer!” Lucas shouted over the music, as Ivy twirled, her arms in the air.
“Thanks,” she said, shaking her hips to the beat.
She noticed that there were about five men over by the bar, their ties loose, beers in hand, watching her like hawks…Or perhaps vultures.
Probably just your imagination, she told herself. But it felt nice to be watched, if only to soothe her sore ego. Beer in hand, she let go, dancing along with the other temps and some of the random patrons. She was spinning a little bit, dizzy from the booze and the dancing and the release of everything that she’d been through today.
I’m drunk. Not buzzed. Officially drunk.
Her eyes had been closed and now she felt someone pressing up against her from behind, grinding their hips against her. She spun around to find a total stranger staring back at her.
She recognized him, though. He’d been standing with that group of men over by the bar watching her.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
She didn’t answer him. He wasn’t unattractive—about her height but bulky, like a jock or college athlete. And he had the cocky self-assuredness that she associated with that kind of guy. He was dressed in light green slacks, a white shirt rolled up to the elbows and a darker green tie, loosened, his collar popped.
“I’m not really in the mood,” she told him.
“Not in the mood for what, sweetie?” he said, trying to press closer to her once more.