Blade

Chapter 10: Distraction

Blade

Loud cheers erupt from the electrified crowd, filling every corner of the club as the strippers move sinuously around the poles. Their skimpy lingerie clings to every curve, accentuating their perky breasts and round, toned asses, glinting under the pulsating neon lights as they sway and twist with provocative grace.

A man at the table beside us nearly loses control as the lead stripper peels off her lingerie, revealing every curve to the thrumming, eager crowd.

The men around him bounce in their seats, eyes wide and hands twitching, caught in a wave of unfiltered desire. But what makes my skin crawl is the way she locks her gaze on me. Her eyes glint with mischief, and her lips curl into a smirk when she notices my attention on her.

My lips tug down into a frown when she pinches her nipples and tosses me a wink, clearly flirting with me.

I'll admit, she's incredibly beautiful and has the whole package, so much so that Nico fidgets in his seat, gripping his thighs tightly, while Franco pretends not to be affected.

Fuckers.

Things like this don't ignite the same reaction in me they used to. It's not that I don't crave a decent fuck every now and then, sometimes the need surfaces, but it rarely feels appealing anymore. I can't even remember the name of the girl I slept with a year ago, which says a lot about how distant that part of me has become.

Some might call it sexual deprivation, and in a way, that's accurate, but I don't linger on it. There's a strange comfort in it, a way of keeping my mind out of the gutter, if only for a fleeting second. I simply don't have the emotional bandwidth to entertain these desires right now; they feel exhausting rather than exciting.

Once the strippers finish their routines, the energy in the room shifts. Most of the men who are comically perverted and greedy spring to their feet, scanning the room for girls they might spend the night with. Others, slightly less bold or perhaps more self-conscious, drift toward the bathrooms, giving up the hunt but not the anticipation.

I divert my gaze to the highball glass in my hand, filled to the top with rum, tonic water, a wedge of lime, and a sprig of mint. Not exactly the type of drink I would usually choose, but it is better than my usual bottle of beer.

I am surprised I haven't taken a sip since I got here. In some situations, I would have already gone through five bottles of beer until I could barely stand, but it is only a matter of time before the cravings kick in.

The ice clinks and dances against the glass as I set the drink back on the polished wooden table, its surface crowded with crumpled cigarette packs and spent butts

"Man, I'd give anything to fuck one of those girls," Nico slurs, tossing back his fourth shot of tequila with a careless grin. He can handle his liquor-unlike me, a total addict, though I've mastered handling myself-but even so, his words carry that familiar, reckless edge.

"You say that every time we hit a club," Franco mutters, irritation lacing his tone as he leans back in his chair, the cigarette dangling between his fingers sending wisps of smoke curling toward the ceiling.

"Let the man live a little." Matteo smirks, tossing Franco a crooked grin.

After our tense meeting with Matteo's uncle about the sudden string of bombs detonating in clubs all over Italy, Matteo suggested we come here to, you know, just relax. But "chill" hasn't exactly been my experience so far, my nerves are still on edge, and nothing about this place is helping.