The Carrero Heart - Beginning (Friends to Lovers)

I’m blocked by Camilla, thrusting a champagne glass in my face almost immediately; it’s like she knows my intention and is telling me to back off without saying a word. The glass she gives me is of something clear, and I notice the weird oily swirl running down the center as though something alien has been freshly poured in.

I glance from the drink and back to Camilla, catching sight over her shoulder of the girl I’d been about to rescue, being fucked in a corner, pounded against in the most vulgar way, while her face is that same gaping emptiness, and I recoil, nausea rising up. From here, all you see are his back and shoulders, no hint that he’s exposed at the front, his hand pushed hard at the wall, concealing her mostly, while the other keeps her leg up at his hip so he can screw her standing up. Subtle thrusting motions are all that give the game away.

My gut is screaming that this whole scene is wrong, even if this is the norm for places I used to frequent. Public sex goes hand in hand with drunks and drugged up assholes. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen clubbers go at it in the shadows, but in this place, a place Arrick frequents, he would never condone any of this, and it’s sending off a million warning bells.

“I’ve had enough.” I try to hand it back to her. Certain there’s something in it, but she just shoves it back at my face. The mistrust in my stomach makes me stiffly stop it and bring my eyes to her in an act of defiance. Camilla frowns, smiles wider and leans in quickly, catching me off guard, hitting my mouth with hers and delivering a seductive lip suck and attempt to kiss me properly. That at once sends me into defensive mode and I practically spit out the taste of her cherry lipstick and champagne saliva. I pull away, shoving her back harshly and spill the drink between us in the process.

“I’m not like that.” I stutter, completely thrown. I’ve never had a girl make a pass at me, and I have no idea how to react. It sends a new wave of repulsion through, similar to what I get with men, yet somehow worse. It feels like more of a betrayal somehow.

eyes homed in on me once more and edges in a lot more slowly as if somehow warning me means she gets to have another go. This time I push her further and harder

snap defensively, that inner child lashing out when cornered and my breath starts hitching in panic. She giggles and runs a finger down my cheek with a pouted smile,

voice like she’s talking to a fucking puppy and taps my glass again. Not fazed by my outburst or hostile reaction at all. “Drink up and we’ll have a little dance instead.” She tips my glass up at my base, pushing it into my lips so I taste the first sip, my eyes glued on her warily,

I tip the glass to the side and empty the contents over my shoulder, feeling the splash of liquid up the back of my

being used on girls in clubs, to make them more pliable, lower inhibitions and zombie them out so men could abuse them for their own pleasure. I didn’t think it was actually true, but now I am not so

I have dutifully had my drink. My heart is hammering, eyes taking in the number of girls around us in various positions with these men. The goosebumps over my skin alert

recognize her as another runaway rich kid whose parents think she has gone off the rails. I’m sure her parents know mine, and she’s leaning forward on the lap of a man with gray hair, gray fucking hair! He’s like fifty, and he maneuvers under her. I can’t tell if he’s messing with her, unbuckling pants or doing the deed, but I click that under here, where another floor above acts as a roof to conceal this shit, in the dark private corner where