Fatal Alliances [✓]

08

CHAPTER EIGHT

MALIA

"TWO SHOTS OF KAMIKAZE."

I shrugged, changing my mind about drinking tonight and finished my rose mocktail in one go, wary that many eyes were on me. The rose syrup and ginger juice clashed in my mouth, the spice and sweetness burning my throat as they went down, while the bartender grinned at my sheer determination.

I was undoubtedly a confident shot-drinker, but by no means was I an attractive one, I always had to make the ugliest expressions, squinting my eyes and sucking my cheeks in, even making cringe-worthy sound effects.

Imaani's jaw dropped, surprised and taken back by my change in demeanour as I wiped my lips free of the vodka and squeaked. Romi too was startled to say the least, but he threw up his hands in defence when my eyes narrowed in on him, as if declaring he wouldn't sit there and judge me. Which was great since I wasn't his biggest fan right now, but mostly of his friend.

Mateo Izaac didn't pay me any attention over the next few moments, he sat and drank his scotch like a pompous, conceited piece of shit, laughing at the jokes that Romi made, after he formally introduced us, surnames and all.

I could feel my eye twitching, a tingle in my brain which was running signals of pure irritation through me as I gripped the shot glasses that came one after another, until Imaani had to physically stop me.

"Enough," She insisted, "Have any more of that and you'll have to be carried out and hospitalised. God, what's gotten into you?"

"Fine." I rolled my eyes, because she wasn't wrong. "Got to go, I believe now it's the time to disco."

I knew I didn't want to dance alone, fearing I'd trip up, destroy my favourite pair of thrifted stilettos and end up looking like a street-dancing cockroach slam dunking onto the ground, my arse in the air for everyone to see. To be frank, nobody deserved that sight.

If memory served well, the exact thing had happened, except it had been during Novruz —an Iranian New Years celebration, where Mama threw a huge dinner party for Baba and his friends, that ended up with her teenage daughter being sent to bed early, strapped down with a hot water bottle and one too many paracetamols in the early morning.

There were a few sweaty bodies, including idle men on the dance floor who weren't particularly doing anything, but I already knew I wanted to run my hands over them anyhow, and have some fun while I could.

I didn't even have to touch anyone; all I had to do was swing my hips around them and run my hands through my hair as I approached them eagerly, and they looked at me with their souls, lips twisted into elated smiles —mesmerised by each movement I made.

My movements were slow, seductive and playful, measured with each beat of the song. I wasn't a professional dancer by any means, but my mother's rhythm contributed to the very sequence I had going. I intended to score tonight, grab somebody and leave with them —put my sweet body out of misery and spend a night having reckless sex.