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Your ex had some nerve showing up at your place. Some fucking nerve.

"Leave me alone, Brandon. Don't come back!" you shouted while flinging a box of his belongings at him, aiming for his face. You wanted to hit him in the face. With your fist. He opened his mouth to speak as you slammed the door. You didn't care to hear anything he had to say. You returned to the couch, turning up the television's volume as he banged on the door. It took him nearly five minutes to leave. Good thing he'd finally gone, too. You had the kind of neighbors that wouldn't hesitate to call the authorities.

Three words echoed in your head.

"Pick someone supportive."

A close friend had once given you that sage advice and it'd fallen on deaf ears. You fell for the first nice guy and eight months in, realized while he felt good to you, he wasn't good for you. Brandon's interest originated from ulterior motives; you were a successful woman, the type to make moves and you'd unknowingly made several for him.

First, he insisted on introduction to your colleagues at work events, claiming politeness when he was actually networking. His actions grew increasingly blatant, coming to a head the night you caught him between the thighs of your co-worker. Incidentally, she was higher on the corporate ladder. They'd met through you. And then met intimately. In your bed, no less.

That particular incident was only three days old. Brandon continued to call and text, apologizing and begging you to take him back, throwing a little more salt each time into the fresh wound.

What you wanted most was to be left alone with junk food and Netflix, but your friends weren't having it. They'd all but dressed you in something hot and dragged you into a waiting Uber. Despite your initial resistance, you were now three drinks deep into a friend's private birthday party at Supperclub and grateful your friends were so persistent.

In a sense, Brandon was the furthest thing from your mind as you danced, surrounded by other partiers. Also, he was the first. You put a little more into every sway of your hips; though he wasn't there, you hoped he knew what he was missing. Each sip from your glass pushed him further away. The pain gave way to a warm buzz, prompting a permanent smile and the belief that you could literally dance your life away.

Your group was somewhat tight-knit, but not so much that anyone was afraid to venture off and do their own thing. When you were just about the last one left, hot and sweaty underneath the spinning ceiling lights, it wasn't a big deal. Maybe you'd find them again, maybe you wouldn't. You just wanted another drink.

The bar was just a few yards away but balance and depth perception weren't currently your strongest suits. Tugging your dress down, you steadied yourself in stilettos to give it a go anyway. You hadn't walked more than two steps before a tall shadow fell over you. Your features twisted in confusion as some stranger hovered confidently.

"How are you doing, miss?" he boomed over the music. Maybe beer goggles were to blame but he was cute, at least in a dark, shadowy place like that. You caught a flash of unnaturally white teeth when he smiled, adjusting a blazer that was at least two sizes too small. Then again, this was Los Angeles; any guy with muscles made sure everyone else noticed.

"Great!" You smiled, grateful for the company. The last of your friends was gone, likely having found something, or rather, someone, he wanted to get into and being alone would only leave you with your thoughts. You nodded when Mr. Mystery asked you to dance. He smoothly backed you further into the shadows, into seclusion - as much as two people could be secluded in a packed nightclub, anyway - and planted his hands to your hips. He lucked out, as Dreezy's "Body" started to play. You loved that song sober, so when you'd had a bit to drink...