@creatvresoftheniight (Marcus)
Fucking Marcus McCarthy.
That was all she could think of since that stupid, dumb drunk text that he decided to send her. How dare he have the audacity to ask her something like that when he was drunk? That was not a thing you bring up when you’re blackout drunk. You bring that up when you’re sober and when you fucking mean it. How in the seven Hells was she supposed to think that he actually meant it and it wasn’t some drunk stupid idea that he had on the spot?
If you mean it, have the balls to ask me that when you’re sober.
That’s what she had told him before leaving his place and heading back to her bookstore. A week went by and he never brought it up. Never asked her. So obviously he didn’t fucking mean it and she was an idiot for believing that maybe, just for a split moment, that this was something that he wanted. That she meant something to him. How could she be a fool? This was why she didn’t do relationships. Why she didn’t get close to anyone or let anyone get close to her.
Because shit like this proved to her what her father said.
Shit like this hurt her and she had sworn she would never let herself get hurt by anything or anyone.
And yet, she had done that with Marcus. She had let him get closes and look where that had ended her. She had let herself fall into this little trap and now, where was she?
Well, now she was at the club, dancing and drinking the night away. Claire needed to distract herself and she needed to do it the only way she knew how - alcohol and meaningless sex. She had already made a few connections and was thinking about which one she might take home - if any of them. Currently she was in the middle of the dance floor, sipping on her drink and dancing. There were a few guys lingering around her and she gave them a playful wink. But as she turned, she caught sight of someone on stage and her mood immediately plummetted.
Fucking Marcus McCarthy.
The fucking asshole was on the stage dancing, acting like a stripper and obviously getting a lot of attention. But that wasn’t what bugged her the most. They weren’t a thing. They weren’t an item. But she was here to get her mind off of the pompous, asshole, self-centered, ball-less prick that was currently the center of the entire club and what was she to do? With a growl, she pushed her way through the crowd and towards the bar. “Tequila, double,” she ordered, leaning against the bar. She needed something strong so she could numb herself somewhat.
Although it didn’t help that her eyes were back on Marcus on the stage.
Fucking Marcus McCarthy.







