Love, Business & Stilettos (#Wattys2016)

Chapter One

A quick note:

1. This story is COMPLETE and will be updated daily until all chaps are up!

2. If you're one of the lovely people who's been reading, I'd like to take a moment to say thank you soooo much AND I'm sooooo sorry, lol. After some constructive feedback, I've changed a number of things within the story and so I've had to start over with the posts. I know it's a chore to reread, but the majority of the new chaps are different (if that's any consolation). 

As this is a first draft, I'd like it if you can give me your honest feedback on all parts of the story. Love it? Hate it? Indifferent? I want to know!  Ok, I think that's it! Thanks again and Happy Reading!

CHAPTER ONE

The bartender looked like MC Hammer. Not the present day, bald and businesslike Hammer, but the top-of-his-game, "Too Legit to Quit" Hammer that rocked the curly box hair with the cuts in the sides. I fully expected him to conclude my drink order with an impromptu rendition of "Can't Touch This", but apparently table-dancing barkeeps were frowned upon. He slid me a shot of Tequila. My third.

"Do you rap?" I yelled above the music.

He smiled and shook his head no.

"Are you sure? Because you look just like MC Hammer."

"Who?"

My eyes bugged out. Were there really people in the world who didn't know MC Hammer? That had to be a sin or a crime or something not good.

"I said—"

"Girl, leave James alone before I tell him to cut you off."

I turned at the sound of Amara's voice in my ear.

"What! I was just asking a question. Can you believe he doesn't know who Hammer is?"

"Yes, now lets go. Our table's ready.

I gave her my best tipsy glare then rolled my eyes. It was just like her to show up late then rush me. I tossed back the shot and tried not to wince when the sharp fluid scorched my throat. After leaving the bartender a generous tip, I bobbed along to the infectious House music as Amara squeezed us through the crowd and up to the VIP lounge. If I were smarter, I would have stayed in the office and sketched more of the mini-collection. Instead, I'd let the promise of free drinks lure me away. Now I was already half-drunk, and our evening had only just begun. Not a good sign.

I smiled anyway and held onto Amara's arm while she led us through the crowd of writhing bodies. She was barely over 5'0, but her commanding presence made people ignore her round, child-like features and move out of the way.

In no time, we reached the private bank of elevators that would take us to the clubs "sky boxes"—one of many perks associated with knowing the owner's daughter. Amara entered the code and we ascended to the sound of a lady singing about swinging from a chandelier.

We emerged from the elevator and into the dimly lit hall. Lights pulsed against its purple walls in erratic, seizure-inducing patterns. I wasn't drunk, but tipsy enough to tumble if I weren't careful. Best to focus my attention on the path ahead.

I saw his lips first—Vince Parker's— a luscious pair I'd only ever seen on movie screens or in fantasies. They parted as if to speak though I couldn't make out what amid the spectrum of lights flashing around us. My gaze flickered to the woman clinging to his arm. The over-sized breast on said woman. The body-con dress three years past its expiration date.