Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Shaking my head, I draw myself out of my morbid thoughts and glance up and down the busy street. The city is alive, and my eyes land on three girls as they giggle. It looks like they’re heading toward a nightclub.
I used to be that carefree.
Finishing the last of the coffee I bought thirty minutes ago, I get up from where I’m sitting in a café. Instead of going back to my hotel, I follow after the girls at a slow pace.
Two girls are holding hands. I remember I used to be that close with Bernadette before they moved to New York because her father was transferred there for work.
The girls join the back of a long line of people waiting to enter the nightclub, and I stop behind them. They’re talking Russian, but from the excitement in their voices, it’s clear they can’t wait to get inside.
Wearing a pair of tight, black jeans and a cozy sweater over a white long-sleeve shirt, I’m not dressed for the nightclub.
All the other girls are glammed up for the night.
Feeling a little self-conscious, I lift my hand to my head and pull my hair free from the braid before placing the tie around my wrist. I tug my fingers through the strands and take a couple of steps forward as the line moves.
Are you really going into the nightclub?
I glance around me, taking in the happy faces, and I feel the excited vibe filling the air.
It’s better than sitting in my hotel room where my grief will overwhelm me.
Two guys come to stand behind me, and I feel overly aware of my appearance. Like any other girl my age, I notice boys, and for some reason, they seem more appealing just because they’re foreign. It’s weird.
My eyes sweep over the group of girls in front of me, and as we move forward again, I notice their high heels. My sneakers might not fit the dress code.
Tugging my bottom lip between my teeth, I contemplate giving up on this silly idea, but something keeps me from leaving the line.
When we get closer to the entrance, I can hear the music coming from inside the nightclub.
A night out will do you good.
The girls ahead of me are allowed to enter then the bouncer’s eyes land on me. His stern gaze sweeps over my outfit then he shakes his head. “Net.” His tone is harsh when he says something else, and the guys behind me chuckle, which has my cheeks going up in flames.
From my limited knowledge of Russian, I know the bouncer said no.
As I let out a sigh and turn to leave the line, a gorgeous woman comes toward us, her eyes flicking from me to the bouncer. She says something in Russian, then hooks her arm through mine, a bright smile on her face. I notice the group of men behind her. They look like bodyguards, making me wonder who the woman is.
My heartbeat speeds up, and caught off guard, I listen to her rambling in her native tongue as we enter the nightclub before I think to say, “I don’t understand Russian.” I pat my hand against my chest. “American.”
Her smile widens, and her eyes fill with surprise. “Really? So cool.” Her accent is thick, and as she tugs me toward the lower floor where people are dancing, she leans into me. “My name is Svetlana.”
Thank God she understands English.
A smile forms on my face as I meet her eyes. “I’m Everleigh…ahh…thanks for getting me into the nightclub.”
I glance at the orange and blue décor, the strobing lights, the bar counters, and sitting areas. Svetlana leads me up a narrow staircase, and at the top, we enter a much more luxurious area than downstairs.
“You come alone?” Svetlana asks in broken English.
I nod, conscious of the men still following behind us. “Are they your guards?”
“Yes, ignore them.” I’m pulled toward a bar counter, then she asks, “What do you drink?”
Getting a good look at her face, I have to admit she’s stunning. Her hair is a couple of shades lighter than my light brown strands, and her blue eyes are downright mesmerizing. She’s wearing tight leather pants, a silk blouse, and a three-quarter-sleeve jacket. Paired with high heels, the woman looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine.
I almost decline a drink but remember the drinking age in Russia is eighteen. Shrugging, I sit down on a stool. “I don’t drink much. You can get anything.”
Svetlana also takes a seat, then asks, “Are you visiting Russia?”
I nod, and slipping the strap from my shoulder, I set my backpack down by my feet. “Russia is beautiful.”
“How long will you be here?”
The bartender interrupts her, and Svetlana holds up two fingers without saying anything.
“Just another week.” My eyes dart between the bartender and her, then I ask, “Do you come here often?”