Dance Floor Disaster

Grayson Blackwood felt the pulse of the music thrumming in his veins, the deafening bass vibrating through his chest as he soaked in the wild energy of the nightclub. This was his scene. His escape. All around him, bodies twisted and pulsed, moving in rhythm as if under a collective spell, hypnotized by the pounding beat.

The crowd was electric, a writhing mass of heat and sound, so tangled together they seemed like one enormous entity rather than individuals. Sweat mingled with the heady scent of perfume, creating a haze that clouded his senses. Yet he craved it—the chaos, the noise, the euphoria. This was where he felt most alive, the constant thrum drowning out everything else.

The crush of dancers forced him closer to the edges of the dance floor, despite his attempts to stay near the center where the intensity peaked. Suddenly, a soft, curvy body collided with his, the contact jolting him. He turned, gaze locking with the most striking woman he'd seen all night. Dark hair tumbled down her back, her eyes glittering under the neon lights as she flashed a sultry smile.

Without missing a beat, she leaned into him, moving her body in sync with the music. Her arms looped around his neck as she swayed, hips brushing against his with deliberate intent. The music shifted into a sultry Latin rhythm, amplifying the tension as she pressed closer.

Her lips brushed his, teasing at first, before the kiss deepened. But instead of the fireworks he expected, the kiss was...off. Wet, sloppy, as if she hadn't quite mastered the art. Grayson found himself practically drowning in the exchange, his desire fizzling under the flood of saliva.

How can someone so hot be such a terrible kisser?

Pulling back gently, he managed a polite smile as he stepped away, desperate for a drink and some space. The girl looked momentarily wounded before shrugging and moving off, already targeting her next conquest. He exhaled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Poor guy who's next, he thought with mild sympathy.

The trek to the bar felt like navigating a battlefield. Despite his height, the throng of dancers made progress difficult, bodies colliding with his as the music pushed everyone into a frenzy. He wove through the crowd, avoiding flailing arms and spilled drinks until he finally broke free, reaching the polished bar counter.

"Speight's," he barked at the bartender, slapping a bill onto the bar.

But the bartender didn't even glance his way. Instead, he was embroiled in an argument with two women, both stunning in their own right. Intrigued, Grayson shifted closer, catching bits of their conversation.

"She's thirty," the blonde insisted, pointing to her friend as if testifying in court.

"Thank you, Juliet, for the confirmation," the brunette, Ava Langley, replied with exaggerated patience. "As you can see, I'm thirty. My friend just confirmed it."

The bartender looked unconvinced, eyeing Ava with suspicion. She didn't look a day over twenty.

"Look, I'm not some kid trying to pull one over on you," Ava huffed, folding her arms in defiance.

Grayson smirked, leaning on the counter to enjoy the show. This was better than any reality TV drama he'd ever seen.

"Miss, I still need to see ID," the bartender replied firmly.

Ava's eyes narrowed. "You want my ID? Fine! I'll show you my ID." She fumbled through her small clutch, pulling out a card and practically shoving it in the bartender's face.

Juliet snorted, clearly finding the whole situation amusing. "You're really selling this, Ava."

Grayson couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face. The confidence mixed with sheer stubbornness was...entertaining. And attractive.

The memory struck him then—just a week ago, he'd had a run-in with a girl who left a lasting impression for all the wrong reasons. She'd shown up at his door, handed him a bouquet of roses, blushed furiously, and then ripped his towel off before bolting.

He'd been stark naked, dumbfounded as she fled, her long black hair whipping in the breeze while the woman he'd just been with screamed threats of murder from inside. The mental image of that chaotic encounter still haunted him, both mortifying and oddly thrilling.

Grayson shook the thought away, focusing back on the present. Ava was now arguing passionately with the bartender, while Juliet stood back, arms crossed, clearly enjoying her friend's meltdown.

"Look," Ava was saying, exasperation clear, "I just want a glass of wine, not a life sentence."

"You do look pretty young," Grayson cut in with a teasing smile, unable to resist.

Ava shot him a glare. "Oh, great, another guy who thinks I'm faking my age."

"Hey, I'm just saying, the more you argue, the guiltier you look," he said, sipping the beer the bartender had finally served him.

Juliet covered her mouth to stifle a laugh while Ava's eyes narrowed further.

"Are you always this charming, or am I just lucky tonight?" she bit back.

Grayson grinned. "Depends on how much you've had to drink."

"I haven't even had a drink yet!"

Juliet finally stepped in, patting Ava's shoulder. "Okay, okay, let's all relax. How about a round of waters while we sort this out?"

The bartender seemed to consider it, then nodded and set three glasses on the counter.

Grayson raised his in a mock toast. "To underage drinking scandals."

Ava rolled her eyes but clinked her glass against his anyway.

As the tension eased, they ended up talking—or rather, bantering—for the next half hour. Ava was sharp, witty, and stubborn, but Grayson found himself captivated by her every word. Juliet eventually excused herself to hit the dance floor, leaving the two of them alone at the bar.

"So," Ava said, swirling the water in her glass, "do you make it a habit to rescue damsels from alcohol-related disasters?"

Grayson smirked. "Only when they're as cute as you."

She blushed, but recovered quickly. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr....?"

"Grayson Blackwood."

"Ava Langley."

His gaze softened, the usual casual flirting shifting into something more genuine. He didn't know why, but tonight felt...different.

"Nice to meet you, Ava. So, you planning to argue with all the bartenders in town, or just this one?"

She laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Just the stubborn ones who question my ID."

Grayson leaned closer, their faces inches apart. "Well, I have a feeling you're going to keep things interesting tonight."

And as the music swelled in the background, Ava found herself hoping he was right.