Don't Talk About Mickey

Prologue

*Very Important Author's Note: There are a few chapters of this story that are set to private. To view these chapters, you must become a follower. If you are a follower and still cannot view them, there are easy access links in the "About Me" section of my profile page.

Also, I started this story in first person and it's not very well written, but I switched to third person at chapter 15 and it gets much better. I will be coming back to edit and change the whole thing into third person once the story is finished. Thanks for your time! Enjoy :D

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He was much older than I, but I could only tell by the lines on his face. The leather jacket and torn blue jeans made him look younger. Or maybe it was his dark brown, almost black, eyes. I searched the fingers placed tightly around a glass full of whiskey—no ring. But that didn't mean anything. He could've had it inside his wallet that was probably tucked neatly in his back pocket.

He didn't belong in a place like this—a private club full of the rich folks of Highland Park. I assumed the motorcycle among the BMWs and Mercedes belonged to him. Nobody brought a two-wheeled vehicle to Stacco's. Nobody.

I probably didn't belong in there, either, with me being the only seventeen year-old in the place. I came with my mother during happy hour, and she ended up leaving early. She let me stay behind slipping a wad of twenties into my purse. "Drink responsibly," she slurred through her perfect red lipstick before sauntering out of the door. I had better plans for the cash she gave me.

Taking another look at the stranger across the room, I wondered if he was who I thought he was—a bad guy who did bad things for money.

That was enough to draw me towards him. Usually I was a shy person, but there was no time to be timid that night.

I found myself standing before his table with my hands at my sides.

He looked up at me from underneath his thick black eyelashes and flashed a perfect smile. "You want to dance?" his deep voice barely cackled. He was a smoker.

I shook my head. "I don't feel like dancing."

He lifted his glass from the table and downed the rest of his drink before standing up. Placing his hand on the small of my back, he moved his lips close to my ear. "Let's get out of here, then," he whispered, directing me towards the door.

Shamelessly, I walked out of Stacco's with a gigolo.