Baby Be Mine Page 3

  “Excuse me?” Whitney huffed at Max.

  “No, nothing, I didn’t say anything.” Max pretended to zip his mouth. “Elise, you didn’t hear anything, right?”

  There was a look of sadness and longing on Elise’s face that Max couldn’t understand. It only appeared for a fleeting second before it disappeared again.

  “I didn’t hear that,” Elise said, smiling at Max with affection.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, then,” Whitney finally said, letting the subject go.

  “All right,” Elise said, smiling too enthusiastically this time. “Now, Max, say your congratulations to your cousin.” And that was when they all noticed Clarice had gone completely silent and a sad look was plastered on her face again, just like the face she had made when she blew out the candles.

  Whitney was the first to react, folding her arms around her friend to comfort her, while Elise went to grab some green tea, with Max following blindly behind her, having not a clue as to what had just happened.

  Once Clarice and Whitney were on the couch and Elise and Max came back with the steaming green tea, they all sat in a circle, giving Clarice their undivided attention.

  “That’s it. I’m not going to cry over what’s already been done, or hasn’t been done,” Clarice declared with her head held high. “We are going out tonight.”

  “Wherever you’re going, can I come too?” Max asked enthusiastically.

  “Not unless you have a death wish,” Clarice said, eyeing her cousin sternly while the two friends pondered Clarice’s declaration.

  Yes, Clarice thought. She might be old and yes, she might be on the shelf, but it wasn’t too late yet to find her own family, her very own husband, and find love. Starting tonight, she was going to reverse the clock. Tonight, they were going clubbing!

  Chapter 3

  This is definitely my scene, Hunter thought as the loud beat of music rushed through his bloodstream, pumping him up with adrenaline. And he wasn’t the only one that felt this way. Everyone around him was gyrating to the nonstop music, their bodies rubbing up and down each other to the sound of the beat, crushing, pushing, swaying, moving until they didn’t look like individual dancers out to enjoy themselves, but one gigantic mass, melting together on the dance floor.

  The atmosphere was high, as if they were all addicted to this infinite drug. As the music increased in tempo, so did their energy level. The air itself was a mixture of sweat and perfume, intoxicating and overpowering his olfactory sense. But, man oh man, did he love it. He felt so alive, so happy, so carefree.

  Looking around him, all he saw was a sea of blurry faces, each consumed in their own world of passion. He tried to keep to the center of the dance floor, where all the action took place, but as more people clamored into the throng, the others got pushed to the side. Himself included.

  As he took a side step to avoid another wave of bodies hitting him, he collided with something soft. Turning to see what he’d damaged, he found the sexiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on. She looked up at him and at that very moment, as if they sang the same tune, she gave him a seductive smile. He, in turn, smiled at her.

  Liking what she saw, the girl moved toward him. Her hands immediately went to capture his neck, and as the music changed from Lady Gaga’s “Applause” to J.Lo’s “Papi,” she was butt-swinging around him, arms and legs assaulting him at every turn, and man was he turned on.

  The mysterious girl suddenly leaned into his lips, nipping and sucking at him like there was no tomorrow, until he was puffed out of energy, his lungs starved for oxygen. There was no electricity shooting through his body, just a lapping, distasteful kiss, the amount of saliva flooding the floor of his mouth almost drowning him alive.

  How can someone so hot be such a bad kisser? Hunter thought as his libido got crushed. Pushing the girl away gently, he went in search of water for his parched throat. How ironic when just mere moments before he was almost drowned in her saliva. The girl looked slightly wounded for a second but then was off galloping to her next victim like the trollop she likely was. Hunter felt sorry for the poor sod who would experience the same predicament he just did.

  Paving his way to the bar was an incredible mission that required more than strength and stamina. Standing at almost 1.9 meters tall, he still had to squeeze past those high-craze, energetic animals, like raging bulls, their heads bumping into him at every turn. The more he tried squeezing between them, the more he was pushed back, like a rag doll tossed about.

  Summoning his energy, he willed himself forward, pushing among those sweaty bodies until he was safely on the other side of the dance floor. By then he realized he needed more than just the standard drink to get his energy up and pumping again. Again, he cursed himself for not eating beforehand. Dancing really was a strenuous exercise in itself.

  When Hunter reached the bar, he eyed the bartender, slamming his hand down on the counter and shouting for a pint of Speight’s, but the bartender was blind to his request, as he was currently in an argument with a couple of women. Inching closer, he heard them speak.

  “She’s thirty,” one of the women said to the bartender.

  “Thank you, Whitney, for clarifying,” the other one said, smiling. And turning to the bartender, she shouted, “I’m thirty. My friend just confirmed that fact.”

  “No,” the bartender said, looking a bit flustered.

  Who in their right mind wouldn’t be flustered when faced with two gorgeous women demanding his attention like that? Somehow, for that split second, he envied the bartender.

  “Can’t you see? I’m not a twenty-year-old kid,” the woman whined.

  Obviously, this must have had something to do with fake IDs. Kids these days wanted to drink alcohol way before their time. Even though he considered himself a kid still, he was way over twenty-one and looked well over twenty-five, so there was no need for a fake ID there.

  “Don’t show me that face,” the girl yelled at the bartender. “You want to see my ID? Fine, I’ll show you my ID.”

  The scene playing out before him was starting to become humorous, and Hunter couldn’t help but continue to tune in as the drama unfolded before him. It wasn’t every day he got to see a beautiful young girl, looking not a minute older than nineteen, claiming to be thirty just so she could get a sip of alcohol into that gorgeous body of hers.

  Hunter chuckled and shook his head. He could only recall one other time when his life was this amusing. It happened about a week ago, when a girl gave him a bouquet of roses the day before Valentine’s Day and then ran off after yanking his towel, exposing his naked state.

  He could still remember standing there, butt naked and all, gazing at her as she scrambled away in fright, oblivious to the sound of whatshername, the girl he’d just had sex with, screaming loudly, making threatening remarks about wanting to kill that girl if she were to see her again.

  He could still remember the exact image of her black hair fluttering about in the breeze, tossing, turning, and gliding through the hands of the wind. He so damn wanted to be the wind that day, to feel those strands through his fingers, to see if they were really soft to the touch. He was mesmerized by that beautiful girl, at the nerve she imparted upon him when she dared tear off his towel and at the fading image of her escape. At that moment he was tempted to follow her.

  Dear Lord, he would have definitely followed her if he weren’t butt naked. He would have run after her and made love to her right there against the next available tree. But goddamn if it weren’t for his neighbor Macy, always hanging about on her front porch, looking to catch a glimpse of him with his next woman, then he would have been off after her already.

  Hearing ruffling, his eyes danced back to the scene in front of him. He watched as the girl rummaged through her bag but could not produce anything.

  “Miss, I can’t serve you alcohol if you don’t have ID with you,” the bartender rephrased.

  “I have it in here somewhere,” she grumbled while sh
e continued searching for her card, her shoulders slumping in disappointment. Then she turned to the other girl he assumed to be her friend, who was dressed all in black, like a goth, complete with coke bottle glasses.

  “Go get Elise. I think I left my wallet in her bag,” she instructed.

  The friend looked reluctant to leave for a minute, but then she was off to the other side of the club, disappearing into the crowd. Now the girl was all alone, but she still continued to stare at the bartender like she was on death row.

  At this point, Hunter couldn’t help himself. Being a Casanova, he just needed to ruffle her feathers a bit and rescue her from her moment of distress. This girl definitely needed some lifting up, and he made sure he was the first one to offer her that service.

  Hunter couldn’t help but marvel at her long hair that shone brightly under the many colorful disco lights. She was of petite frame, perching on the stool, her legs dangling like a little kid’s. Definitely my cup of tea, Hunter thought.

  Not wanting to prolong the wait any longer, Hunter inched himself closer to her, his stool now very near. And while she was so consumed with her conversation with the bartender, he took action.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered into her ear.

  As if heaven had opened up, she turned her head and God help him, but his mouth almost hung open for a full minute. It was that exact same girl who had made that confession to him just last week, the same girl he couldn’t get out of his head.

  No way could he have mistaken her. Those same pupils shone a molten black. Those same cheeks, just like that day, were scarlet in color, but this time it wasn’t from the embarrassment over his lack of dress, but instead, they were puffed out in anger due to the argument with the bartender.

  This beauty sure was a sight to behold. She was hot and heavy and, hopefully by tonight, ready for him—once he’d worked his seductive charm on her, of course.

  “You!” she said, her cheeks blazing under the rainbow-colored lights.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the sweetheart who confessed to me last week,” he drawled out seductively. “Did you enjoy the view before you ran off like the devil was on your tail?”

  This is definitely not my scene, Clarice thought as a raging headache settled in nicely at the back of her skull. The music drummed so loud in her ears that she thought if she frequented here often enough, she was sure to have an auditory deficit by the time she reached forty.

  She was so not looking forward to midnight, but here she was, in a nightclub, with midnight itself clearly approaching faster than Lighting McQueen. And then she would officially turn thirty. Yay! And to top it all off, the argument with the bartender over her desire—no need—for one alcoholic drink wasn’t helping either.

  Oh, heaven help her! Was it too much to ask? She wasn’t asking to conquer the world. It was one drink, one small, bloody drink. Dear Mother and Father, please forgive me for swearing like this, but this is just too damn much. She was on the verge of bursting into tears again. It was her goddamn birthday, for Christ sake, so just let her have that one sip, a lick, at least to know what it’s like to taste alcohol before bloody midnight rolls around and she officially ended up being a spinster forever.

  A spinster who had never tasted alcohol on her tongue? What would the dental team at her practice say if they found out? She could imagine them gossiping and writing on their weblog already. Clarice Mason, highly trained gum specialist, sourly turned thirty without a lick of alcohol to her name. Oh the shame.

  No. She could not bear it. This MUST call for desperate measures.

  “Look, please, you’ve got to believe me,” Clarice pleaded. When the bartender looked unmoved, she resorted to using reasoning. “I’m working now. I’m not a little kid anymore. I’m a periodontist.” Still nothing. “I bloody worked as a dentist for two full years before applying to study in the gum field.” She’d started shouting now. The bartender didn’t even blink an eye at her reasoning. At that moment she felt like yanking all his teeth out, gum disease or not, and jabbing them right into his eyeballs, wanting to hear him whine in pain. Oh, she wished she were a witch like her friend Whitney. Then everyone would be freakin’ scared of her and she wouldn’t have to resort to begging for a small drink.

  “Have you any idea how long both degrees took me? A full eight years, plus my three years out practicing, that equates to eleven!” By this stage, she was on full rampage, slamming her little fist onto the bar to intimidate him, so mad at her current situation that she could feel her cheeks growing red. As each word was spoken, her voice notched up an octave. “So if you think I’m under twenty-five, you must be a bloody idiot.”

  In return, the bartender just continued to blink lazily, staring at her oddly, like she was a psychotic patient just out of a mental hospital, rambling on about her profession.

  “How do you think I got into this freakin’ nightclub in the first place?” She rambled on. “I’m well over twenty-five, I assure you.”

  “I’m sorry, miss, but I really need to confirm with your ID,” the bartender repeated indifferently.

  “Are you a broken record? I told you my friend is going to find my wallet.” She fumed in frustration. “It must be in her bag or something.”

  “Well, I’m happy to wait.” The bartender smiled at her.

  “Well, I’m not happy to wait. I’ve only got five minutes left until midnight. Now are you going to serve me that drink or not?” she challenged.

  “No!” the bartender said simply, not backing down.

  Her shoulders sagged in defeat. Dear Lord, you will have me become a spinster without allowing me to drink alcohol, is that right? You want me to die a spinster? Well, I’m happy to oblige with that request, but why must you deprive me of alcohol too? I want to experience drinking before I turn thirty. So please, if you would just grant me this wish, then I would be happy to die a happy spinster. And just like that, her strength was back in her shoulders and she lifted herself, sitting much straighter.

  What was she giving up for? There were still a full five minutes left before midnight. So she put on her best intimidating stare, the one she normally used when her patients refused to listen to her oral hygiene advice, the one that meant business, wishing and praying at the same time that Whitney and Elise would come back with her wallet in hand so she could get a swig of that drink.

  Just then, she heard someone whisper something into her ear, and like electricity shot up her spine, she startled and turned her head to the direction of that voice. And God did answer her prayer because right there in front of her was that Casanova she had delivered the flowers to on the day before Valentine’s.

  Her eyes took in his azure irises. There was that same wicked gleam as that fateful day. She redirected her gawking stare away from his penetrating gaze, her heart thumping to the rhythm of the loud music. Big mistake! It landed on his lips instead, and heaven help her, but he flashed that devilish grin again, the one that made her legs turn to jelly. If not for her sitting on the barstool, she would otherwise be on the floor by now.

  But tonight, though, that smile held an extra special meaning, as if he were happy to see her again after that embarrassing stunt she had pulled, yanking off his towel. Tonight it was fully displayed, for her viewing only, his perfectly straight white teeth, probably a product of orthodontic work, many years of wearing braces, and bleaching—yes, bleaching to reach that level of whiteness on his enamel. Suddenly, that image of his semi-naked body danced right before her eyes, clouding her cheeks in a beautiful pink blush. So surprised she was seeing him right there in front of her, her face just mere inches away from his own, all she could utter at that moment was, “You!”

  Why was it every time this Casanova was around, all she could do was stutter? It wasn’t like she was born with an impediment or something. In fact, she was quite the talkative person. Once she learned how to speak English, her cousins and friends couldn’t shut her up. So why now? Why all of a sudden couldn’t
she string a simple sentence together?

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the sweetheart who confessed to me last week.” He spoke seductively, close to her ear. “Did you enjoy the view before you ran off like the devil was on your tail?”

  What could she say? How to respond? She was tongue-tied. Then a thought struck her. “Buy me a drink.”

  “What?” he asked, flabbergasted. She was sure he wasn’t expecting her to reply like that. But what had she to lose by demanding this request?

  “Buy me a drink,” she repeated.

  No way was she giving this up. This man looked like he was over twenty-five. He could buy a drink for her.

  “Sure, sweetheart,” he said, smiling.

  And as simple as cheese melting on toasted bread, Hunter ordered her a shot of whatever it was in that small cup, or glass, or something that looked like a portion cup in her dental practice. Clarice immediately started to question whether that brown murky liquid was actually alcohol at all.

  She picked up the small portion cup in her hand and turned it about, eyeing it at close quarters.

  “Are you sure that’s alcohol? It sure looks murky,” Clarice asked Hunter.

  Hunter simply smiled, then replied, “It’s spirit, sweetheart. Drink up.”

  “Why is it not purple like in the Bunsen burner?” Clarice queried.

  “It’s definitely spirit, sweetheart. Now drink it up.” He confirmed and then urged again.

  Looking at her cellphone, she had but thirty seconds left before midnight hit. Not thinking any further, but with one mission to accomplish before Cinderella had to leave her glass slipper behind, she chunked the whole contents down in one go… and, my oh my, did she regret it, because at that very moment, her eyes watered, her breath caught, her face bloomed red, and all she wanted to do was one thing—spit that disgusting liquid right back out. But twenty seconds, dear heaven, twenty seconds to go before midnight struck. She could hold it in. Yes, she could.

  Hunter, who was on the other side of the scene, observed her face blowing up like a puffer fish, her cheeks bowed out and her eyes bulging, as if she were holding the drink inside her mouth. Surprised, he suggested, “Drink it up. Don’t hold it like that.”