Haisley

“Quit scrutinizing my every move. You’re always on my back.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes—you are.”

What’s wrong with a woman going out and having a good time? Let me answer that for you—absolutely nothing. So why does it always feel wrong when I tell my mother I’m going to the bar with friends?

I mean, it’s not like I’m a teenager anymore. I don’t need her approval, but I can still feel her judgment and steely blue eyes through the damn phone. I think she tries to give me a headache on purpose. Just to mess up my carefully made plans.

“Seriously, Haisley, when are you ever going to settle down?”

“Mom.”

“Your sister just found a lovely young man. He adores her tremendously. I can tell by the way he looks at her. I just know there are wedding bells for those two.”

“I’m not Willow, Mother.”

“Well—no. Of course you’re not.”

“I’m successful in my own right, Mom. I don’t need a man to take care of me.”

“I didn’t say that, Haisley. I just meant that it would be nice to see you with someone every once in a while.”

“The day I bring someone home is the day hell has frozen over. On that day, you better call an ambulance because I’m already dying and I’m just trying to give you your last wish.”

“Haisley Carina Knox.”

“I’ve got to go, Mom. I need to meet Ella and Phoebe in a little while, and I still need to get dressed.”

I hear the sigh. It’s the sigh full of nothing but judgment and disapproval. Yet she knows there’s nothing she can do.

I’m twenty-six years old. I’m way beyond her telling me how to live my life. She had high hopes for me to marry well. I had high hopes that she would forget about it altogether.

“All right. Call me in a few days. Let me know you’re still alive at least.”

“I will. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

Walking into my closet, I search for the perfect outfit. My closet is pretty extensive.

Where my sister Willow shops for the richest bachelor, I shop for clothes. Where she shops for the one who’s going to put a ring on her finger, I shop for shoes.

And where she’s looking for the perfect man to take care of her so she never has to work, I’m looking for a new handbag. My sister and I are like night and day.

She has never worked a day in her life and isn’t ashamed of it. Her plans in life are to be the perfect trophy wife.

Which I’m sure she’ll be good at, with her tall, slender frame. She has blonde hair (which isn’t her natural color, by the way), blue eyes, and breasts she just had redone, compliments of her last rich bachelor.

She’s quite beautiful. Turns heads wherever she goes, and she knows it.

Me, on the other hand, I took my father’s hair color. So, it’s a deep brown, almost black, and I got Mom’s blue eyes.

I’m also tall. Not quite as slender as Willow, but of course, she could get knocked over by the wind.

Unlike Willow, who I’ve never seen eat more than a couple of lettuce leaves, I’m not afraid to eat. So, I have some curves and an ass that I’m told just won’t quit.

So there. I have a great ass and I’m a little thicker. So, sue me.

I still rock this life like nobody’s business. I’ve also worked my ass off to get where I am, both physically and metaphorically.

I’m in the gym with a trainer three days a week. I’m also a songwriter and singer.

I don’t sing as much as I sell my songs. I get paid a ton of money for my songs to be sung by some of the most famous singers in the world.

I get paid even more in royalties if that song is used in movies, commercials, or any other platform.

My newest song was just picked up and used in one of the movies that recently came out. It’s supposed to be a trilogy, so they already want another song for the second movie. That is set to start filming in about a year.

That means I kind of need to read the books, I guess. I just hope it’s not another vampire or werewolf movie.

Give me a bad boy—one who thinks he can live without her until he realizes he can’t. Then he realizes it’s too damn late.

Damn, maybe I need to start writing books too.

After grabbing a quick shower and sliding on a short black dress that hugs all my curves, I grab my favorite black strappy heels. If I plan on dancing, these heels are the ones for it.

I was going to leave my hair down but figured it would get too hot, so I pull it up in a high ponytail, curling the ends. Going to the mirror, I decide on just some nude lipstick, a little color on my cheeks, mascara, and I’m good to go.

Nobody really wants to sweat off a whole face full of makeup in a hot-as-hell dance club. Alcohol, dancing, and a lot of bodies in one building equals sweat.

If it weren’t for so many bodies pressed up against each other, I’d question the underwear, but thongs it is. After my phone rings, I hit the speaker and continue to get my things together.

“Bitch! Are you not ready yet?” Phoebe yells.

“I got stuck on the phone with Mom.”

“This place is kicking already. Fine looking men.”

“Save me at least one, will you, Phoebe? I need to get laid tonight, and I know you. You like to take them all for yourself.”

“Well, then you better hurry up and get here. They’re sitting up in the VIP across from us. Damn, fine indeed.”

“Well, as long as at least one has a halfway decent cock and knows how to use it, I’m good to go. No need to see his face that well.”

“Oh, you’re going to want to see their faces.”

“We’ll see. I’m on my way. Order me a vodka cran.”

“Will do!!”

The bouncers know us by name. We never wait in line and always sit in VIP.

I have the cab driver pull up to the front. I pay the driver and carefully get out so as not to show everyone my goods. Maybe the dress is a little shorter than I thought, because when I sit down, it rides all the way up high on my thigh.

Yep, keeping legs crossed and no bending over tonight.

I hear the groans and curses as I walk up to Bruce, kiss him on the cheek, and walk inside.

On my way in, I hear Bruce say to the other bouncer, Curt, “Damn, that ass.”

I turn my head right before the door shuts and see Bruce looking, so I wink.

Making my way up to our usual VIP section, I hear the squeals of Phoebe and Ella.

“It’s about damn time! Come on, drink up and let’s go dance!” Phoebe squeals.

“Sorry! My mom wouldn’t let me off the damn phone. Willow found her a new one. She’s sure this one is going to ring those wedding bells she wants so damn bad.”

Ella asks, “Wait—what happened to the last one? You know, the one who paid for her boob job.”

“He left her for one who was ‘natural.’ You know, the curtains match the drapes sort of thing.”

“Oh my god. Tell me he didn’t.”

“Yep. Told her the ombre didn’t do it for him anymore. Blonde on top, brown down south.”

Phoebe loses it and spits her drink everywhere. The bad part is, the poor waiter was just bringing me a second vodka cran.

“I’m so sorry!” I tell him over the music.

As I helped the waiter clean himself up, I looked up to see a pair of deep, dark eyes staring intently in our direction. Hot damn.

There were three gorgeous men in the other VIP section. Phoebe was right. I definitely wanted to see their faces—especially Mr. Dark Eyes with his chiseled jaw and week-old scruff.

He was wearing what looked like a dark blue suit, but the jacket was missing. The white shirt had the first few buttons undone, and the sleeves were rolled midway up his arms.

Those pants, though? They fit him like a second skin, and I itched to wrap my legs around those muscular thighs.

Looking back up at his face, I saw him leaning forward with his arms resting on his legs, his fingers loosely laced together, steadily watching me.

Then he purposely nodded hello, never taking his eyes off mine.

Holy shit. I just realized he’d been watching me the whole time I was checking him out.