Free as a Jailbird

Chapter 8

An hour later I'm walking down the street in my purple dress with my black hair bouncing in waves down my back. I haven't done much in the way of make-up or anything, since I don't own any and Alice isn't a big fan. Just a little mascara to highlight my eyes. The shoes are dressy but at least they aren't high heels. I can safely say that if the party is crashed by a gang or perhaps even the Mafia, I'll be able to kick ass and run at the same time without making a fool of myself. Hopefully I don't have to prove that tonight.

The party is conveniently close to Alice's but not close enough for me to stop myself from thinking. I've struggled to keep the whole assassination thing out of my mind all day. I've done a lot of illegal things in my life but I can't process the thought that the Mafia wants me to become their own personal hitman.

I hear the party before I'm even on the right street. When I come to a house two stories high with beautiful greenery planted carefully around the front yard, memories of a drink in my hand I should never have picked up and a dark alley I shouldn't have ventured into wash over me. I shake my head and tell myself not to let it get to me. With high hopes this party beats the last one, I enter the huge house in search of Nick.

I'm inside for all of five seconds before I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"You showed - woah." Nick's words falter as his eyes roam my body. There's probably a very stark contrast between my usual biker boots, ripped jeans and sweatshirt ensemble and the outfit I'm wearing now. He immediately realizes he's staring and flashes me an embarrassed smile. I notice he has dimples and it makes him even sexier. "I mean you ... you're ... you look nice."

I turn on the charm and bob a curtsey. "Thank you. You do too."

I'm not the only one out of my everyday wear. He's swapped his police uniform – which still looked incredibly good on his fit body – for simple jeans and a navy V-neck shirt. Casual suits him, and the T-shirt shows off his strong arm muscles and the contours of his chest very nicely.

"Thanks. Do you want a drink?"

"Sure," I say and let him lead me further into the house. We squeeze through mingling bodies holding red cups or staring at their phones. Nick finds a drinks table in the living area where a display of French doors opens up into a well-landscaped backyard. I watch him pour us two glasses cautiously, then I remind myself that he'd be the last person at this party to spike me. He's a freaking cop.

"Here–" He hands me what looks like a Pepsi. "Sorry it's not a beer."

"Don't be," I reply with a bitter bite in my tone. He notices but doesn't question it. "Want to find somewhere to sit?"

"Sounds good," he says.

We weave again, passing the huge stereo system and a clump of grinding, sweaty partiers who are probably drunk as fuck and just as horny. I have the sudden urge to join in. I haven't dirty-danced in so long. But the desire to talk to Nick is stronger than my need to drop-it-like-it's-hot with strangers.

Outside, the pool area is full of people standing in clumps or splashing around like idiots in the pool. It isn't as crowded as the inside of the house. Nick and I are lucky to find two chaise lounges in a quiet part of the garden and we sit back, facing the pool and sipping our drinks. We listen to the sounds of laughter and squeals and splashing water and music that isn't so pounding anymore. I turn my head and catch him staring at me.

"What?"

He shrugs. "I was just ... looking."

"At what?"

"At you." He smiles. "You're not how I pictured you."

Now what could that mean? "Excuse me?"