My End Game
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Isabel S. Knight
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1,4M
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35
Chapter 1
IRELAND
I wasnât sure if wearing a black leather jacket over a cropped black shirt, tight faded jeans, and my worn-out black Converse would be enough to get me into the club without earning a few judgmental stares.
But at that point, I honestly didnât give a damn. I didnât have time to go home and change into a skimpy dress and heels.
It was my best friendâs bachelorette party, and I had just wrapped up a final review of our game proposal with my teamâsomething that could potentially land us our biggest deal yet. That alone had drained the last of my energy.
I was supposed to be here an hour ago. One whole hour. So yeah, fuck it.
I never cared to dress up for occasions like this anyway. I never saw the point unless it was mandatory, like a corporate function or a formal event.
If I absolutely had to doll up, I could. But this was just a night of drinking and getting wasted with girlfriends. Why make yourself uncomfortable in the process?
At least in my outfit, I could sit, squat, or stumble without the constant fear of flashing my panties to strangers. Practicality over popularity, right?
As I walked down the dimly lit corridor leading to the clubâs entrance, I was immediately greeted by chaos: people already wasted, the sharp pulse of strobe lights, and thumping electronic music that felt like a jackhammer to the skull.
The bass was so loud I could feel it vibrating through the floor. It was the kind of place that made your brain feel fuzzy even if you were completely sober.
There were bodies pressed too closely together; people grinding like they were auditioning for an adult film; and a lingering mix of alcohol, perfume, sweat, and something else I didnât care to identify.
I winced. This definitely wasnât my usual hangout, but I reminded myself that this night wasnât about me. It was about Samantha.
I scanned the place in the hope of spotting someone from our group, but I should have known better. The club was packed to the rafters.
Desperate, I pulled out my phone and texted Amber.
Ireland
Iâve been standing at the entryway for the past few minutes. Where are you guys?
Amber
Please donât be mad. We lost track and took a little detour, so weâre still on our way. Weâll be there in 20 minutes, and donât you dare leave, because Samanthaâs going to kill you.
Unbelievable. Those bitches.
Ireland
I donât know, Ambs⌠It smells like alcohol, sweat, and horny folks in here. I canât take it, so I think Iâm just going to head home. Donât worry, Sam wonât kill me until after her wedding. She needs her maid of honor to be alive.
Amber
Stop being so dramatic! Sam says our table is on the second floor in the VIP section. Wait there. Weâll be there soon. Five to ten minutes, tops.
I groaned and rolled my eyes. As much as I wanted to walk out and never look back, I couldnât ditch my best friendâs bachelorette party. Not when sheâd made me maid of honor.
With a dramatic huff, I adjusted my bag, squared my shoulders, and prepared to fight my way through the crowd.
Pushing through grinding bodies, ducking past flailing arms, and avoiding more than one spilled drink, I made it to the stairs and finally reached the second floor.
A waitress, bless her soul, guided me to our reserved booth. The VIP section was slightly less chaotic, which I appreciated more than I could put into words.
I practically collapsed into the plush, velvet-lined booth and shrugged off my jacket. I tossed it onto the seat beside me and reached for the drinks menu in the center of the table.
I had just started flipping through the pages when a low, husky voice slid into my left ear, startling me.
âHello, gorgeous.â
I flinched, nearly dropping the menu, and turned with an expression that probably looked like murder in the making.
Oh, great. A pick-up line. Classic.
My eyes landed on a man who, unfortunately for my pride, was stupidly attractive. He was grinning in a confidentâcocky, evenâmanner that made it clear he was used to this kind of interaction. Charm radiated off of him like cologne.
I glanced around, momentarily dazed. Maybe I was hoping my friends had finally shown up, or maybe I just wanted confirmation that he wasnât actually talking to me.
I wasnât used to being approached like this. Clubs werenât exactly my natural habitat.
I leaned back slightly and tilted my head.
âYes?â I said.
He extended a hand with a small, disarming smile.
âIâm Micah. I promise Iâm not obnoxious, and Iâm definitely not a serial killer. I was just wondering if you might want some company.â
I stared at his hand for a second before reluctantly taking it. His grip was warm, his touch confident. I tried not to overanalyze his introduction, but I was already doing exactly that.
Behind him, I noticed a group of four guys at the adjacent booth, all watching with mild amusement. They were obviously his friends, and they were all attractive in their own right. But when my gaze landed on the last guy in the group, something in me short-circuited.
He was stunningâthe kind of man whose very presence made the air feel thicker. He had short, dark hair, intense eyes beneath those perfectly arched brows, a chiseled jaw dusted with just the right amount of scruff, and ink snaking down his neck and around his toned arms.
And those muscles? Lean, strong, and dangerous. He looked like heâd been sculpted by the gods just to make women lose their damn minds. I hated that.
Forcing myself to break the spell, I turned back to the man next to me.
âMicah, right? Pleased to meet you.â I offered a tight smile.
He nodded and flashed a brighter grin, clearly pleased with himself. âSo how about it?â
I kept my expression light, cheerful even. âListen, my friends wonât be long. So thanks for the offer, but Iâm fine. Iâm sure there are other ladies here whoâd kill for your company.â
I gestured toward the dance floor, where several women were very clearly trying to undress him and his friends with their eyes.
He glanced in their direction, but his attention snapped back to me just as quickly. We stared at each other for a beat, his gaze unnervingly intense. Finally, a crooked smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
âWow! Was that a flat-out shutdown?â
I didnât answer, but the expression on my face probably said it all.
He chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender.
âOkay, I get it. Since you donât want my company, can I at least get your name?â
âUmmâŚitâs Ireland.â
He nodded and flashed me another smile that couldâve made me reconsider if I were a weaker woman.
âSee you around, Ireland.â
And just like that, he walked away. I watched him go, blinking slowly, trying to process what the hell just happened.
I hadnât expected to be approached, let alone flirted with, but the night clearly had other plans.
As I looked back toward the other booth, my eyes met the demigodâs. He was still watching me, studying me. I felt heat rush up my neck.
He tilted his lips just slightly, and I couldnât tell what that meant. Was it a smirk? A frown? A curious mix of both?
Whatever it was, it made his face look even more dangerously beautiful.
I didnât know how to handle that level of hotness with grace, so I did the one thing I could: I pretended none of it affected me and stared intently at the drinks menu again.
I flipped the page to keep the illusion of calm, but my heart was still hammering in my chest. I could feel his gaze lingering, the weight of it brushing against my skin like static before a storm.
Whatever passed between us, it was too strange and too charged to be nothing.
I shook my head and tried to focus on the drink names, but one thought kept pulsing louder than the bass thudding through the club.
Who the hell is he? And why does it feel like Iâve just been seen for the first time since I can remember?
