C13 Dresses, booze, and stupid men

Date = 5 November

Same day, different venue.

Place = San Francisco (Inferno)

POV - Melaena

A neon sign lights up above us.

INFERNO.

Red light bleeds over the windshield, turning everything a little sinful by default.

I circle the building to the back, tires crunching over gravel as we head for the third entrance — the one that doesn’t exist to the public. Inferno has rules. Lots of them. The front door is for anyone with an ID and patience. The side door is for VIPs with egos and special disks.

And then there’s this one — family and friends only.

The closed-circle disk clicks, the gate slides open, and we descend into the underground parking like we’re being swallowed by the club itself. From here, a narrow staircase leads straight to the VIP section on the second floor — the only place I’m allowed to exist without someone checking my birthdate like it matters.

I park.

Lucinda just stares.

“I’ve … never been here,” she says, eyes wide, voice hushed like we’ve entered a cult. She pushes her glasses up, fires off a text, and tucks her phone away again.

I realize — suddenly and uncomfortably — that I know basically nothing about her. Age. Family. Why she texts so much. Who she texts. We share classes, maybe notes … and that’s about it.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

She looks at me sideways, clearly weighing whether I’ve lost my mind.

“I just — because you’re on your phone a lot,” I rush. “Sorry. None of my business. I’m used to oversharing with Kiara. I talk too much.”

She presses her lips together, eyes dropping to the concrete.

“It’s my brother,” she says quietly. “He still thinks I’m twelve.”

I snort. “Congratulations. If there’s an Olympic event for overbearing brothers, mine would podium every time.”

That earns a ghost of a smile.

“Hey, Frank.” At the door, the human equivalent of a brick wall grins when he sees me.

“Welcome, Miss Mel.”

Lucinda nods politely like she’s been trained for authority figures. Interesting.

“You only have one brother?” I ask as we climb.

“Yeah. It’s just me, him, and Dad. Mom died a long time ago.” Something dark flickers behind her eyes — fast, sharp. Familiar. Seems we have more in common than just egotistical siblings.

“Mel, what are you doing here?” Talking of which, one of mine just appeared.

Enrique.

But before I can answer, I’m swept off my feet and swinging through the air into a warm hug.

“Doofus.”

“Love you too,” he grunts.

At least it seems as if he’s done sulking. He sets me down and kisses my cheek, and just like that, my spine turns to jelly. Bastard knows exactly how to disarm me.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” He turns on the charm for Lucinda, offering his hand.

She doesn’t react. Except for her pupils blown wide, eyes darkening to something almost eerie. My stomach tightens.

“This is Lucinda. We study together.”

“Pleasure,” Enrique says smoothly. He’s just being polite. She’s not his type. He’s into slutty models, not nerdy students.

“You are not here for the company, so I guess you need some food? It’s the only reason my sister ever comes to my club.”

“I’m not old enough to drink anywhere else.”

He pushes a strand of light gold hair behind his ear. His hairstyle changes continuously depending on what’s needed for his modeling slash acting job — right now it’s in a simple Joe Black style that makes him look like Brad Pitt’s younger, hotter brother.

But it’s his unique eyes that make him sizzle. The Heterochromia — one eye is bright blue, while the other one is more of a hazel brown. Combine this with thick eyebrows and long lashes, and you have the inexplicability of a storybook stare.

“I thought university students work their asses off!” Jackson’s voice springs up from behind me. He seems chirpy — else he wouldn’t have concocted such a long sentence with so many words.

He looks like he just stepped off the cover of GQ, instead of just being released from the hospital.

He hugs me, nods once at Lucinda — acknowledgment complete. That’s all she’s gonna get.

“Even nerds need to eat!”

As identical twins, they are not much different, except for their eyes — Jackson’s are both blue. But there is a huge difference in personality.

“Hey, guys, are we still having that IEM? Otherwise, I need to go get some sleep. I’m fucked up tired.” Ilkay shouts from the bar. Then he notices me, and those gray eyes turn soft.

“Hi, Sis.”

“Dude, you’re doing university all wrong,” Enrique teases, “It’s party first, study later.”

“What’s an IEM?” The boys have these codes they use, and they never let Kiara and me in on the secret — not even Axel. But then again, that man is as closed off as a snapping turtle in its shell. And at times, just as grumpy.

“An important emergency meeting you’re not invited to.” Logan lifts me off the ground because apparently, gravity doesn’t apply to siblings.

He’s taller than the other brothers — slightly broader too — his hair a darker shade of blond and his eyes the same steel color as Ilkay’s.

“Why?” I pout.

“Well, because you have tits and not a penis,” Jackson barks, while eyeing me with those devil eyes.

However, my brothers are not the only ones who have the ability to rile someone up. I’ve learned that the last thing any male sibling wants to know about is his sister’s feminine body parts. Oh, they love to see it on every other female, just not one they’re related to.

So I retaliate by shoving my breasts up like a lunatic.

“And they’re pretty nice tits, thank you very much!”

Instant regret. Instant outrage. They look like they just drank sour breast milk from a menstrual cup. Classic.

“Fuck,” one swears. Victory tastes sweet.

“I agree,” a voice murmurs in my ear.

Every hair on my body stands at attention.

Damion!

Fudge-buckets!

I spin, hands still on my chest, and scrape straight into him.

Dammit.

I haven’t seen him since his party — on purpose.

I’ve avoided him like a bad tattoo decision. Took alternate routes. Perfected the art of looking anywhere but at him.

Did it help?

Of course not.

Because avoiding someone physically does absolutely nothing to stop your brain from replaying every little intimate moment on a sadistic loop. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite smother that stupid, treacherous little hope that maybe — just maybe — his hypothalamus is under a spell too.

And the universe laughed.

That one lucky paparazzi vulture caught us in 4K and vomited the evidence all over the internet. Intimate photos. The kind that screams ‘context required’ — him lying over me, wiping my cheek. Me tucked into his arms. His eyes closed, chin resting on my head. Us on the dance floor like we were starring in a doomed romance montage.

You get the gist.

Now the entire fudging world — and probably a few bored aliens — are speculating about our ‘relationship’. How serious it is. How long it will last. Whether I’m the distraction or the downfall.

Someone even coined a couple name. #Damena.

I hate that my stomach flips every time I see it.

He runs a hand through his already-disheveled hair, somehow making it worse and hotter at the same time. His navy polo stretches across his chest like it’s fighting for its life. I look up at his face.

That damn face.

The kind that ruins your week just by existing.

“Can you please let go of your goodies,” Jackson snaps, planting a palm on Damion’s face and shoving him back, “and step away from the man who is NOT related to you.”

That’s when I realize my hands are still cupping my boobs.

Fantastic.

I drop them instantly. Yep. Joke’s on me.

Jackson’s arm drapes over Damion’s shoulder like he owns him.

“It’s bad enough the whole damn world thinks you two are sneaking around for real,” he adds.

I slide into the booth — our booth — tucked deep in a corner like a well-kept secret. From here, the dance floor sprawls below us behind a double-sided glass wall — bodies grinding, lights strobing, bass thudding so hard I can feel it in my ribs. The air smells like booze, sweat, and bad decisions.

I need to reclaim the upper hand. Immediately.

Logan appears with a tray of tequila shots like a benevolent menace. I grab one. Then another. Then — why not — another. I’m three deep before my brain taps me on the shoulder and asks if I’ve lost my damn mind.

I blame the day. I blame the tension. I blame the fact that Damion is sitting there looking big, dangerous, and unfairly hot.

“Maybe we are.” The lie slides off my tongue smooth and reckless, already airborne before I can tackle it mid-flight.

Jackson’s gaze snaps from me to Damion so fast it could cause whiplash. His eyes go from mildly amused to molten.

“Man,” he says, voice light but deadly underneath, “maybe I need to remind you — again — to stay away from my sister.”

Sounds like a joke. It’s not.

Damion just shrugs, lazy and unbothered. “Been there. Done that.”

I have absolutely no idea what that means, but whatever it is, it knocks the smug right off my brother’s face. Logan chokes on his drink and shoots Damion a you’re-dead-later look.

Oops. Guess some jokes hit arteries.

“Oh, chillax,” I say, waving a dismissive hand before the testosterone soup overboils. “The chances of me sneaking around with your buddy are even slimmer than Jackson falling in love.”

Dead. Silence.

Jackson goes rigid. Not offended — haunted. Like I just whispered a curse into his ear. His jaw tightens, his face draining a shade, stomach visibly rolling.

Well.

Guess the mere concept of love gives him hives.

I grin into my empty shot glass.

“So,” Ilkay says smoothly, like a seasoned diplomat defusing a bomb, “did you find a dress?”

Oldest brothers always knows when to pivot. It’s a gift. Or a survival instinct.

“OMG,” Lucinda blurts, apparently deciding now is the moment to contribute, “you guys should see your sister’s dress. It’s so frickin’ sexy men are going to drop like flies.”

I glare at her. She beams.

“I’m serious,” she barrels on. “It’s skin-tight, the slit is so high … that honestly … only the tiniest little G-string could fit under that thing.”

And now I want to die.

Judging by my brothers’ collective expressions — ranging from horrified to deeply disturbed — they are all vividly imagining it wrong.

“Ugh,” Enrique groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Why did our parents curse us with a little sister? Another brother would’ve been way easier.”

“Seriously,” I snort.

“Yeah,” Jackson adds, zero shame, “then we wouldn’t have to worry about every guy wanting to fuck you.”

I just shake my head. Sometimes my brothers make Damion look emotionally evolved.

“Oh, really?” I shoot back. “What about me worrying about every girl wanting to fuck you?”

That earns a round of booming laughter.

“It’s different,” Logan says immediately, in the most offensively sexist tone imaginable.

“Exactly,” I snap. “I’m not like you animals. I swear, if someone glued a vagina onto a teapot, you’d probably try to screw it.”

I stare them down, chin lifted, daring them to deny it.

Their egos remain completely unbruised.

“Hey,” Enrique says mildly, “we have principles. We don’t just screw any old pussy.” He pauses, then smirks. “Except maybe Jackson.”

“Pfft,” Jackson snorts, “I have a taboo list. And I’m seriously considering adding ‘kettle with a vagina’ to it.”

“You have a taboo list?” I ask, genuinely alarmed.

“You don’t?” Lucinda straightens her glasses and blinks like her worldview just shattered.

Great. Now I feel like a nun.

“I don’t even have a to-do list,” I mutter. Which is painfully true. No lists. No experience. No action. And every single one of them is to blame.

Especially HIM.

“You guys are ruining my sex life!”

Logan chokes mid-laugh and spills his drink straight into Enrique’s lap. Enrique yelps, leaps up, swearing, and promptly knees Damion in his side.

“Shit,” Ilkay mutters.

Jackson freezes like someone just unplugged him.

“Come again?” he asks slowly, color creeping back into his face.

“You. Are. Ruining. My. Sex life.”

Enrique grabs some paper napkins from the table and wipes over his drenched crotch.

“I didn’t realize you had a sex life,” Logan says helpfully.

“I DON’T,” I snap, fingers knotting together to stop them shaking. “Because of YOU. You hover. You glare. You terrify every man with a pulse.”

Damion smiles — sanctimonious, smug, infuriating.

I point straight at him. “And you! With your stupid curse crap! Because of that, I’ve experienced nothing. Do you think only men get horny?!”

“Fuck,” Jackson bellows, pressing his fingers to his eyes.

“Please stop,” Logan gags.

“You are all the human embodiment of a migraine,” I mutter, standing and fleeing toward the bathroom.

I spatter some water on my face and stare into the mirror. It reflects flushed cheeks, wild eyes, and a woman who is very tired of being everyone’s protected little sister.

Am I ever going to experience a real orgasm? Or am I going to die untouched and bitter?

Maybe I should just do it with Ren and get it over with.

I stare at myself, daring my reflection to answer.

The door swings open, and in strolls Damion like he owns the plumbing.

“This is the women’s bathroom.”

“I know.” He glances around, unimpressed. “Not nearly as enigmatic as I thought it would be.”

I choke out a laugh while catching his eyes through the mirror — green, steady, dangerous in that way that makes you forget basic logic.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I’m seriously uptight, holding myself together with prayer and porcelain, and honestly? He’s a big part of that uptightness.

“I’m debating whether I should remain a virgin forever,” I say flatly, “or sleep with Ren and get it over with.”

“He’s not your only option,” Damion says. No teasing. No smirk. Absolutely no mockery in his voice.

Because it is all in his eyes.

And something else flickers there too — something electric and uninvited. It pulls a surprised breath from my chest, a traitorous hum low in my stomach.

Okay. Maybe he has a point.

His hands settle on my hips, warm and grounding, and he steps in until his chest fits perfectly against my back, like it’s always known where it belongs.

“One day,” he murmurs, lips brushing my neck, “you’ll have to admit you want me as badly as I want you.”

My brain short-circuits. Every single neuron lights up like a Christmas display on cocaine.

Then he’s gone.

I nearly crumple, gripping the sink as my legs go full noodle.

My phone buzzes.

D Stalker: Warning — stay away from the biker!😡

Another buzz. A photo loads.

Me. In the purple dress. The one I just bought.

A cold prickle crawls down my spine.

This is not cute. This is not flattering. This is full-on creepy.

I suck in a breath, stare at my reflection one last time, and walk out.

Lucinda is standing in the hallway talking on her phone, whispering, as if she doesn’t want anybody to hear the conversation. She startles when she sees me and hangs up.

“Sorry,” she says. “It was my dad. He’s a bit —” she pauses, probably looking for the right word, and then goes with “— intense.”

I can relate to that. My whole damn family is a walking anxiety disorder.

We walk back to the table, and I knock back another tequila.

“Can you order us some food?” I ask Logan. “I’m starving?” Maybe I’ll feel better after I eat something.

“Why do we feed her again?” Enrique teases.

“Because she gets feral when we don’t,” Jackson says.

“And then she screams at us,” Ilkay continues.

“Good point. Burgers it is.”

Axel arrives with three men and walks over to our table. I know them.

Alejandro — the dog trainer, the witness to my spectacular face-plant this morning, who caught me just in time when I ran from the office, and who sent a chill through my spine at the mall. It’s like he’s everywhere.

Then there’s Jesse, who is in some of my IT classes. And Noah, an engineering student, I’ve met through Jesse.

“Hey,” Alejandro says, sliding in next to me. “How’s your knee?”

I blush immediately. Of course I do.

“Just a scrape.”

I don’t miss the silent standoff happening across the table. Alejandro’s stare is pure ice. Damion’s is hellfire with opinions.

Testosterone crackles in the air like static.

Ugh. Alpha males are exhausting.

I take another tequila shot. At this rate, I’m definitely not driving.

But not even the alcohol can drown out his words in the bathroom.

There’s only one problem — I play for keeps, and he’s not the staying kind.