November 11—Two Years Earlier
WHEN DADDY’S MONEY rained, it poured. And when you’ve been cut off, it sucks. Katie McLaughlin glances toward the bartender, green eyes meeting brown, and shakes her head, red curls bouncing. She pushes off the counter, her hand reaching out and snagging the leather elbow of her roommate. “Hey.” She leans in, close enough to smell Dior and smoke. “Spot me twenty.”
“I’m out.” The blonde shrugs. “Unbutton your blouse. Let ’em work.” She moves away, bouncing through bodies, her hand tugged forward by a Mohawk with sunglasses. Neon lights dance off bodies, and she is lost in the crowd as soon as the bass beats out the next song.
“You look like you need a drink,” the voice yells, and she can still barely hear it over the music. She turns, the swell of bodies behind her jostling her forward into the proximity of the voice, one who holds out a bottle of Michelob ULTRA. “This is what you were drinking, right?” He smiles. Nice smile. Shaved head, short enough to bring the word military to mind. A tall body that stretches his polo tight, biceps big enough to impress. Midthirties. A little old but he works it. She reaches out, accepts the cool bottle with a smile, and notes the Breitling on his wrist.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I saw you nursing one earlier.” He nods toward the bar. “Pretty girls shouldn’t drink alone.”
She lifts up the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”
“To company,” he says solemnly.
“And strangers,” she adds, clinking bottles with him and turning up the beer, letting it rush down her throat, the energy and fight of the club pushing them closer, a hard jostle from behind causing a spurt of alcohol to run out of her mouth. She laughs awkwardly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the stranger shooting a hard look at her bumping offender, his arm moving protectively around her, the touch of his fingers sending a jolt of arousal through her buzzed mind.
“I’m Katie.” She switches beer hands and holds out a palm, shaking his as she blushes, the smear of beer still wet across her lips.
“Benjamin.” He has to say the name twice, the crowd noise scrambling the syllables in her brain.
“Benjamin,” she repeats with a shake of her head. “I’ll never remember that in the morning.”
He laughs. “No.” He shakes his head with a wide smile. God, he has pretty teeth. “You probably won’t.”
It was 12:02 a.m. Nine hours later she would wake up in a hospital.