BOOK TWO in the STEAMY FORBIDDEN ROMANCE series -- please read BOOK ONE, Illicit, before proceeding with this novel!
Coralie Watson, now living in NYC to focus on her singer/songwriter career, has landed herself in quite the predicament. Stuck in a...
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🔥STEAMY ALERT—some mild sexiness throughout the chapter 🔥
♫ Love me like you never wanna let me go If you're likin' what you're tastin' really let me know ♪ (Mya—My love is like... Wo)
Sonorama—named after a music festival that happened in Spain every year—was the trendiest yet most exaggerated bar Coralie had ever been to. But compared to the shit-hole she currently worked at, and even The Swirled Lady in San Francisco, it was tasteful. It was a place of unleashed vices, of expensive alcohol, and uppity people. The sleek metal tables were raised, with cushioned seats around them, planted in a semi-circle surrounding a makeshift dance-floor in front of a large stage. Farther out, the private booths were a plushy white that shone violet in the overhead lights. And the L-shaped counter in the rear was made of mirrors, reflecting women's stilettos in all their extravagant colors, and men's legs turned towards said women, their polished shoes tapping to the beat.
It wasn't a nightclub—the sign out front basically screamed that fact—yet its aesthetic was that of a high-class venue at the top of a skyscraper.
From what Coralie could tell, the clientele... was something else. An eclectic mix of trash-talking girls on the run from their normal nightclubs, single men in their forties searching for a quick fix, and couples eager for a third person to add to their bed for some fantasy fun. There were the hardcore drinkers, ordering shot after shot without ever showing a sign of inebriation. And the far-from-classy chicks sloppily dancing with their tits hanging out. And the thirsty boys fist-banging behind them, craving to attract their attention.
Yet the aura was one of money, and lots of it. The bar was in a prime location in Manhattan, and though it wasn't atop a snazzy rooftop or particularly luxurious, it was packed with people. Whether they'd showed up for their usual outing, or having heard of the show that night, Coralie wasn't sure. But she appreciated the enormity of the event as she waited for her turn to sing, concealed behind a black satin curtain.
A few small indie bands had opened the evening, drawing attention from men who mouthed the words to all their songs and pumped their fists and clapped like mad at the end. The guy performing before Coralie—finishing up his set now—had dreamy eyes and silky hair and a voice like velvet, and had attracted all the women in the bar to the front to ogle at his lips as he sang.
How was Coralie supposed to follow that? She didn't have sounds like that—she had two original songs that she'd struggled to pick, and two covers that she'd selected at random. Delilah had been no help, keeping the drapes between their bedrooms drawn and refusing to attend the gig to encourage Coralie. Coralie didn't deserve her assistance, she knew, but she'd really needed her roommate. And she worried that her stupid sexual mistakes would ruin her chances tonight.
Nikita had welcomed her an hour ago, and explained how the night would go. Online influencers would flock in at some point, and the goal was to get as many retweets and Instagram story posts as possible. When Coralie showed up, only a handful of said influencers were there. But now, as she waited backstage, taking peeks out into the audience, more had arrived. She noticed several semi-famous internet dudes raising their phones to film, and starlets in glitter gowns that grazed their asses sending Tweets out into the universe.
