Free Aston's Story (Vanish #2) by Elle Michaels Page A

floating in, Aston.”
    “The fuck does that mean?”
    He laughs. Christ, I’m fuming. I exhale through my nostrils,
straighten my suit jacket, and lean back. Show a little self-control. “Cool it,
Aston. You wouldn’t want to lose your head. Not when there’s dangerous elements
about.” He mocks staring suspiciously around the room and laughs again, to
himself.
    I know he’s bullshitting. He took my package for himself
without ever intending to pay. I lean forward, planting one elbow on the
chair’s arm and lifting an accusatory finger at Al. I part my legs and rest my
other arm in my lap. It’s a confident pose that carries a belittling tone when
you’re wearing a seven thousand dollar suit, something I learned from my
grandfather. Even in his feeble twilight years, he managed to intimidate.
“Don’t underestimate me,” I say, voice low, quiet, slow. It stops him from
laughing, but it doesn’t quite wipe that shiteating grin off his smug face. I
stand and button my jacket before him, eager to find Auna and leave, but I know
this business with Al isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
    I walk through the hallway towards the door that exits back
into the club, a narrow, dark space where I wash my mind free for the night,
let go for a few hours the drugs, money, and betrayal. The door pulls back to
the thumping noise, the flashing lights, the naked women and glamour. I feel a
smile creep across my face. Debauchery just feels comfortable. Tonight, I will
banish loneliness with it. I peer across the room and my eyes find her
instantly.
    Auna.

 
    2.
     
    The mix of this Manhattan is terrible, but having been made
in a place like the Pussycat Lounge, there’s a certain charm to it. Flavor in a
place like this is more about character than taste. The drink is rough, which
matches the atmosphere. Here’s a place you’ll find broken souls, dangerous and demure,
and you can’t tell them apart. It’s rich, in a way money never made anyone.
It’s vibrant, and edgy, and sweet Jesus, “Auna, your hair, my God.”
    She flips it over her bare shoulder and stares back at me.
“What, you like my new shampoo? It’s dollar store. You know, the place where us
bums shop.” She loves jabbing me for my money. She always has, since high
school. Those were different times, back in high school. I was just a little
shit, and she was flawless. Straight A report cards, six extracurriculars,
sports, cheer, student council, etcetera. Never hung around the bad crowd,
never touched a drop of liquor nor smoked a puff of weed. Not even uppers,
which proved a favorite among the wealthy private school twerps we went to
school with. I was one of them, but I was different. She attended on
scholarship, my family paid my way. We made close friends. Until our paths
diverged.
    The warmth of her skin radiates from the plushness of her
buttocks as they slide down from my chest into my lap. They settle, then grind,
while she leans back against me. We’re in the middle of the floor, where all
the pathetic patrons watch her bare chest as it rises and falls with each heavy
breath. One in particular, a balding, red faced man, Marcus, or Michael, or
something, doesn’t even bother blinking. He’s been here more frequently lately,
I vaguely recollect having shots with him at the bar. His eyes are the widest
in a sea of gawking.
    The fact they ever get to touch her disgusts me. She doesn’t
deserve that treatment. How did you wind up here, Auna? It took some finding,
and when I came to the Pussycat Lounge, I assumed my intel was wrong. But there
you were, dancing with the lights wrapped around your pure form, sullied in the
sights of the men that ogled you. You fell from your false pedestal, into this
pit. You fell into my arena. I made my descent first, learning the truth about
life, that its grit outweighs its sweetness. Money made a cocoon around me, it
was only a matter of time before I burst from it.
    She tilts her head and my lips nuzzle against the