Tracy leaned forward a little from her vantage point in one of the semi-private VIP areas and watched as Brendan grinned one of his signature grins at some woman in a white bodysuit. Anyone who wore a white bodysuit in a club that had black lighting was just an exhibitionist plain and simple, because everyone knew that the black lights made lighter colors glow. She sighed and leaned back in her seat so Brendan and the tramp in white were out of view once again.
What seemed like a long while later he came back to her, and Tracy smiled blandly at him. After pulling the gauze curtain to close off their sitting area, he collapsed next to her on the sofa. After a moment he slid his hand along her leg and Tracy clamped her thighs shut.
“Uh oh,” Brendan said leaning back. “What did I do now?”
“Nothing,” Tracy said. She reached for her glass of champagne.
“You sure?” Brendan asked, leaning into her line of sight.
“Positive,” she said, taking a sip and avoiding looking him in the eye.
“Okay, nothing’s wrong,” Brendan said, nodding his head thoughtfully. “So if I wanted to do something to fix the ‘nothing’ that’s wrong—hypothetically speaking of course—what would I have to do?”
Tracy tried, but couldn’t prevent herself from smiling. No one made her smile this much, or laugh as hard. No one made her feel as good as he did, or as bad as he could, or as beautiful, or as sexy, or as angry, or as jealous, or as alive. Or as completely herself. Ah, to be herself with a man—what a revolutionary notion.