Page 37 of Worth Every Penny

I can’t concentrate.

My phone rings, Seb’s name flashing up on the screen.

“Nico, where the fuck are you?” He yells when I answer. There’s a lot of noise in the background, and he says something that sounds a lot like, “Double Scotch, on the rocks,” beforehis voice comes back loud and clear. “It’s Amy’s after-party. Amy Moritz. She’s asking for you. What the fuck are you doing that’s more important than celebrating with her and christening Martini Gems?”

I groan, dropping my forehead into my open palm, elbow propped on the desk. I’ve been so distracted I completely forgot that tonight was the opening night at the new club in the basement of the Mayfair Hawkston.

“Erica Lefroy’s here too,” Seb continues. “Wants to know where you are. Get down here pronto. It’s fucking rude not to show up and everyone wants to see you.”

I let out a long sigh. The last thing I want to do is engage in small talk with the over-inflated egos of conceited celebrities. Not Amy or Erica… but the rest I could leave.

“I’ll be there in twenty,” I tell him before hanging up and dialing my driver.

There’s a queue outside. Plenty of paps too, waiting to get a picture of Amy Moritz and anyone else who’s in the club tonight. I stroll right to the front of the line, ignoring the irritated glances of the people waiting and the constant clicking and flashing of the cameras.

“Mr. Hawkston,” says the doorman, nodding at me and waving me through.

The beat of music thumps through the soles of my shoes as I descend to the basement, and I’m greeted by a blast of hot air that already smells like overheated, sweaty humans.Fuck’s sake.

I reach the bottom step and turn into the club itself. The music, louder now, assaults my ears. The place is lit like an opticmigraine. A plethora of bodies writhe and grapple one another on the dance floor under the flashing overhead lights.

I’m the only person wearing a suit. I’d stand out like a sore thumb if anyone was sober enough to notice.

Velvet booths line the walls, where groups of people cluster around tables covered with champagne flutes and cocktail glasses. Everyone looks to be having a great time.

“Do you want to check your coat, sir?”

I turn to the cloakroom attendant. “No. I’ll keep it on.”

I’ll do my duty. Give Amy my congratulations. Make sure Seb knows I’ve shown my face, and then I’ll head home.

I jostle my way through the bar area when I catch sight of Seb. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans. How long ago did he check out of the office? He’s standing at a booth, leaning over the table, chatting animatedly with the people sitting down. I keep my eyes on him as I head in his direction and he must feel it, because he excuses himself and comes towards me, slinging his arm around my shoulders, tugging me close and yelling in my ear.

“You made it. Take your fucking coat off. You look like you’re about to leave.”

“I am.”

He shakes his head and leads me over to the table. Several women sit around it, including Erica and Amy. There’s also a male TV star I vaguely recognise, as well as one of Amy’s backing dancers. Judging by the way Amy’s draped over the dancer, they’re either sleeping together or about to.

Amy, who’s wearing a dress covered in more rhinestones than Elvis Presley’s jockstrap, drags her long-lashed eyes away from him long enough to notice me. She jumps up from her seat in the middle of the booth, realises she’s penned in on both sides, and climbs right over the table. Glasses and drinks go flying, and everyone tries to dodge the debris. Amy hops off the table, brushes down her dress, and throws her arms around my neck.

“You were going to miss this, you little prick,” she shouts over the music. “Sit and have a drink.”

I hesitate.

“Fucking sit down,” Seb hisses in my ear.

“Do sit,” Erica adds, extending a long, graceful arm across the table towards me. She looks more sober than the rest, exuding that supermodel elegance she’s renowned for.

They all start shuffling round the table to make space for me when a flash of sparkling green catches my eye. I turn to get a closer look.

There’s a woman pressed against the wall beyond the bar. She’s clearly inebriated because she can hardly stand up. A guy is grinding himself against her like he’s trying to have sex with his clothes on. His jeans are so loose they’re hanging halfway to his knees. In contrast to her apparent inebriation, his movements are sharp, deliberate, and obviously sober.

His fingers dimple the woman’s skin where he grips her bum, which is half-exposed in a pair of tiny silk shorts.

Shorts I saw only a few hours ago. Shorts I fuckingtouched.

It’s Kate.