Under Covers

thirteen | prague

thirteen | prague

Czechs drink the most beer per capita in the entire world – nearly double that of the Austrians, who are the second largest consumers

RAYNA

May 7th, 22:06 (GMT +2)
8 days until it happens

I'M NOT UPSET, or offended, or seething with frustration. That would be illogical. That would imply that I care.

And I'm not rusty, or losing my touch, either. I'm sexy and alluring and hot, hotter than the goddamn fucking sun.

I saw it all over his face as he watched me dance. He wanted me. He wanted to put his hands on me, and his mouth on me, and other parts of him too.

He likes to think he's disciplined, huh? In control, level-headed, unmoved.

Sure. Whatever. We'll see about that.

The sweat wicks off my steaming skin the second I step from the club into the crisp spring evening air. I glance down the sidewalk just as the tawny flash of Jake's coat rounds the street-corner, out of sight.

I really wanted to wipe the security footage after I nixed a copy of it for myself. But deleting the originals would mean destruction of potential evidence, and even I'm not willing to go that far for revenge.

Tampering with his copy of the evidence, though... Totally fair play.

I was hoping that he'd take the bait. Sidle up behind me, hold me to the beat of the music. I'd let him press himself close to me, let him touch me wherever he wanted. For the sake of the trick, of course. I was gonna swap the disc in his pocket with a seven hour loop of Donald Trump speaking at MAGA rallies on repeat. Entertaining stuff.

Time to revise that idea. Coming up with new strategies on the fly is the fun part. It keeps things interesting when nothing works out the way you wanted it to.

I follow him on foot for six blocks until he ducks into a bar a couple minutes from his hotel.

Inside, it's buzzing but mellow, dimmed lighting cast in orange pools around the dark room, soft laughter and low voices. I find him sitting on a high stool, resting a forearm on the scuffed wooden bartop. Brown bomber jacket slung over the rail of his chair, black t-shirt, dark jeans, umber leather boots, lazy, rumpled hair that looks like it's been tugged at one too many times. He seems tired. He rubs the meat of his palm into a crinkled eye. Aw, habibi. Poor lil' baby's had a long day, hasn't he?

He orders a top-shelf single-malt Scotch, neat, with precisely two drops of water. Pretentious fuck.

I slip silently onto the seat next to him and give the bartender a bright, winning smile. Immediately, he puts on a flirty grin and asks what he can get for me. "Dirty martini, slightly wet, please." Just to be cheeky, I put on a painfully-exaggerated English accent and add, "Shaken, not stirred."

Beside me, Jake rolls his eyes, snorting out a dry chuckle. "Just couldn't stay away, could you?"

My pride itches a bit, bruised, because it looks like I'm crawling back to him after he rejected my invitation to dance at the club. Play it cool, Rayna. All part of the game. I don't bother dignifying his snideness with a response.

"Your accent is bloody terrible, by the way," he comments, not even looking at me.

I pick idly at my nails, not looking at him either. "Yeah? Bite me."