A Taste of Utopia Read Online Free PDF Page A

drink.
    That’s why her friend’s face had been familiar earlier. But my mind was too infatuated for me to make the connection.
    The perspective of fucking Cherry Lips senseless hits me. My cock stands at attention. However, for some unfathomed reason, I don’t want to be her hired fuck. Not hers. Well, fuck me.
    Better make that drink a double.
    I push my way to the bar and order two drinks to send over to them and another double vodka tonic for myself.
    I toss the liquor back hoping for liquid courage. It burns my throat. I grimace and slide the cup across the bar top. “Another one, please,” I call over the loud music.
    Perched on the barstool, I inconspicuously study Cherry Lips.
    She and her friend remain in the VIP section. After what appears to be an argument over the drinks I had sent, the server points to me, and they accept them.
    Chloe Greenberg raises her glass my way. She probably knows I’m the hired fuck.
    I raise my glass back, my eyes never leaving Cherry Lips. She looks down. Either she’s painfully shy, or is playing coy. Either way, I snap into my role of predator.
    According to Adriana’s directions, I am to pursue her with the casualty of a regular guy out clubbing and hunting for the night. And I am never to mention the word escort. I understand. The word can be a killjoy. Well, I can live with that. I’m used to role-playing.
    They pay for fun and sex and I always deliver. For the next few hours, I would be a typical guy. I would flirt and score the girl with cherry lips. At the end of the night, she would writhe under me, moaning in pleasure. Life would go on.

 
     
     
    Lottie
     
     
    “WE CAN’T ACCEPT drinks from a stranger,” I remind Chloe.
    “Who sent it?” Chloe asks the server.
    “The gentleman leaning against the bar. The taller one.”
    “Oh my God, look! It’s the guy that we saw in the lobby earlier. He’s the one who bought us drinks.” Chloe nods in the general direction of the bar.
    I follow her gaze. There he is, in all the splendor of his divine beauty. Our eyes meet. The lights flash on his face, revealing his intense gaze.
    “Who prepared the drinks?” I ask. The server certainly knows who Chloe is. I mean, everybody here must be under orders to keep an eye on us.
    “The bartender, ma’am. I witnessed.”
    With a surge of giddiness dizzying my head, I agree with Chloe, and we accept the drinks. I hold an elegant glass filled with a red liquid that matches my dress and sip from it. A bittersweet taste floods my mouth.
    He bought me a drink! In the movies that’s the cue a guy’s interested. Oh my, I can’t bring myself to believe he’s interested in me.
    I glance down, breaking eye contact. If I continue to look at him, I’ll drool and make a fool of myself.
    Still inside the VIP area, I dance and people watch. From time to time, I steal glances toward the bar.
    Chloe sweeps the fancy red drink from my hand and places it on a center table. She collects two tequila shots, gives me one, and says, “Bottoms up!”
    In unison, we drain the liquid. It scorches my throat and sears through my bloodstream like wildfire.
    “Let’s dance,” Chloe yells, snatching the empty cup from my hand and placing it on the table. She grabs my hand and drags me to the dance floor.
    “Rain Down Love” blasts from the speakers. The tequila I gulped goes straight to my head, giving me a slight buzz.
    Chloe and I are full-fledged geeks. Unapologetically. We proudly wear our thick glasses and bury our noses in books. However, there is one un-geeky thing about us. We can dance.
    Honest to God truth: Beyoncé doesn’t hold a candle to us when it comes to shaking our booties. Though we rarely go out, when we do, we dance the night away.
    I follow Chloe. Instantly, the fear of tripping over my heels dissipates. I morph into my alternate ego I like to call “Rita”—as in Rita Hayworth, one of the greatest film noir actresses and dancers.
    Waves of vibrating energy zing under