The problem with trying to sleep under a nightclub is that there's too much noise to actually sleep.

I groan and toss off the sweaty covers, kicking my bare legs free. I'm on the fold-down Murphy bed, in Devon's office, and the lights from the city cut through the slats of the blinds into the room. Thumping pulses of electronic music vibrate in my ears. Plus it's hot. I thought heat rises, but it's as if all the heat of the bodies of the people having fun above me is coming down, to taunt me.

I never go to night clubs anymore—when I was a student, I would go with friends sometimes, or with a date, but since my panic attacks started, I've been too broke and too afraid of being triggered by the bone-rattling beat to go out.

I've certainly never been to an expensive, exclusive club.

No time like the present....

I've been forbidden to go, but that just makes me want to go more.

I might be a caged bird, but this cage is larger than Devon thinks.

Decided, I roll off the bed and wiggle into my one clean pair of jeans—tight and ripped, and, I'm assuming, totally inappropriate for the swanky club upstairs.

"Screw it," I mutter. I twist my long, straight hair into a messy bun and shove my silky nightgown into the top of my jeans, not even bothering with putting on a bra.

I have a fuzzy black cardigan that I toss on top, but leave unbuttoned. It will at least hide my nipples if they poke, but I'm so hot from the excessive heating in this place, I'm tempted to take it off as soon as I have it on.

On or off, though, I'm going. If the upstairs neighbors didn't want me at their party, then they shouldn't be so loud.

I shove my feet in ballerina slipper shoes and ease out the door. Devon gave me a card key—it should unlock any doors, but is supposed to be for the bathroom. It's time to test it out....

At the elevator, I hit the button for the top floor. A quick sight of myself in the mirror almost has me changing my mind.

No make-up, breasts swinging free under the barest bit of cloth, old jeans hanging on by threads—I'm going to stick out like a donkey in a flock of flamingos.

Which is pretty much how I feel at this moment. I'm a wreck, but that's nothing new. My hand flutters up to my throat when it tightens with sadness.

Easy.

There's one thing you're better at than any of them, I guarantee it.

The elevator actually carries me to the top and dings when the doors open. I step out into a dark alcove with an arched opening to the club. A huge, balding bouncer under the arch whirls to face me, hand moving to his side.

Is security armed? Hell.

In a blink, I recognize the man from the hallway when I first arrived this morning, but I can't remember his name. There have been too many names and events today for my brain to function.

He smiles warily. "I wasn't aware you were on the premises, ma'am. Is Mr. Orlando with you?" He checks over my shoulder, nervously, but immediately relaxes when he realizes I'm alone. "Can I help you find something?"

He's practically yelling over the noise of the music. I shake my head, not wanted to yell back. It's pretty obvious where the party is. He's leaned in also to talk to me. His eyes fall on my chest, and I cross my arms instinctively, wishing I'd taken the time to put on a bra.

The next second, he's looking away, though, standing straight at attention. I feel like the president's daughter, he's so serious about watching for threats.

I wave to say goodbye and for a moment, I think he's going to stop me. But I waltz right under the arch, past him, and into the noise, flashing lights, and pulsing, moving bodies.

The place is packed for a Thursday night. What the hell must it look like on Fridays? Bobbing my head, I weave between tables, dancers, and people with their drinks, while I head for the bar.

I have no money.

I remember how this works, but I'm only slightly hopeful someone will think I'm interesting enough to offer a drink to—the women here are phenomenal. Perfect make-up, slinky dresses, high heels, and fabulous bodies.

My sweater is not helping. I slip it off my shoulders and tie it around my waist. A hand runs along the top of my back and I jump.

A sophisticated-looking, but much older man is next to me. He lifts his hands. "Sorry if I scared you. But your back was so tempting. Would you like a drink?"

Wow. Ok. That was fast.

I nod. "Sure."

Mr. Hands-On doesn't ask what I want, but I'm not picky. I'll have to take the drink and give him the slip, though, or risk being felt up in the next couple of minutes.

Maybe I shouldn't have taken off my sweater....

I watch the bartender mix a gin and tonic with hibiscus tonic and I take the drink before the man can touch it, just in case.

His eyes are riveted to my chest. He bends closer to talk to me, still staring. "Would you like to go somewhere quieter? To talk. I would bet money you have things to say."

His gaze tells me he's interested in other activities besides talking, though. He takes ahold of my upper arm, already pulling me towards him. I try to step back, but his grip tightens.

What had Devon said? These rich clients don't understand what no means?

*** ONC 930 word count. Thanks so much for reading!!! ***