The Encounter
Pamela's Point of View
The music echoed throughout the club, and the steady beat of deep sounds thumped against my skin.
I love every bit of the music blasting from the speakers. Some of the artists are my favorites.
I step inside in my heels against the marble floor.
And my dress? It shimmers under the dim neon lights.
It hugs my curves like a second skin, the black sequins reflecting the disco ball's blue and purple lights.
It is my favorite dress. I always wear it for special occasions.
But tonight, I chose to break the protocols, knowing the big fish it will attract.
My white heels were a lucky find at a clearance sale, and my golden anklet sparkles with every step I take.
My hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, framing my face perfectly.
I know I look good.
I don't need anyone to tell me.
I am the epitome of beauty.
I always envisioned lists of men that would go crazy just by staring at me.
I live for this moment.
I weave through the crowd.
I tried my best not to bump into anyone.
I wouldn't want to have my body splashed with drinks.
My next destination? The bar.
I'm about to pour myself a drink and live for the moment like it's my last.
I slide onto a stool and swing my legs as I take charge of my surroundings.
Couples rubbing against each other, men in faux-expensive suits whispering into the ears of women pretending to be captivated, and laughter that never quite reaches the eyes.
"The usual,"
I mumble to the bartender.
No questions.
He understood perfectly!
Pressing my lips together in disgust, my thoughts return to the house I walked out of less than thirty minutes ago.
My mother's pathetic voice echoes in my ears.
Not the first time it's happening. I'm already getting used to it.
"You are not useful.
You're worse than your father.
You're nothing but a disgrace," my mother would say to me at every opportunity she got.
I applied my eyeliner and kept my back to her and focused on my reflection in the tiny, cracked mirror.
My hands remained steady, even as my chest tightened hard.
My mom did not stop there.
Oh, she never did.
She always reminds me how she made a mistake getting married to my father.
He got her pregnant, and she was forced to marry him.
Every day she sets her eyes on me, she wishes she had aborted the pregnancy.
According to her, it would have saved her from the embarrassment she feels I'm causing the family.
I gulped my saliva while still trying to fight back tears.
She gives me every reason to question if she's indeed my biological mother.
I thought her words should not hurt anymore.
I erred.
They always manage to get under my skin even when I try to stay strong.
"You are the reason I am stuck on this bed; you are also the cause of your father's death. You are bad luck," she'd say to me.
Her words sting like a bee no matter how hard I try not to pay attention.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead, narrowing down her cheek.
She's got flawless skin. Not even her illness can loot her beauty.
Her eyes are filled with hatred as she turns away from me in disgust. "Get off me. I don't want you close."
Despite my tears, I walked out.
At the bar, that's where I find comfort.
I take a deep breath and shake the memories away.
This is the current state of my world. It is not that house.
Not the oppressive walls that close in on me.
I scan the room, my gaze shifting from one group to another, assessing the situation.
I see men in cheap button-downs and women draped over them wearing fake smiles.
My gaze is drawn to a burly man who steps inside.
He has shoulders, wears an average suit, and shoes that attempt to appear expensive but are not.
His outfits complement each other.
"It was not worthwhile to spend my time. He's not rich," I say to myself.
I've already weighed his pocket with my eyes.
Time to hunt for another fish.
Some would mistake me for a gold digger.
Apology accepted!
No offense taken.
But I prefer to describe myself as an opportunist.
I see an opportunity and take advantage of it.
The opportunity is for wealthy and stupid men who simply want a beautiful woman in their hands.
I call it survival instinct.
Not everyone is aware of this fact. I deserve an accolade.
I winked at the bartender before sipping from my glass of water.
It is the least I can afford.
I had no plans of getting drunk to a stupor, especially when I cannot afford a cab home.
A quick scan of the room tells me that no one here is worth my time.
My stomach rumbles in frustration as I massage my temples, hoping to relieve the impending headache.
I have had a bad week.
If I leave here empty-handed or without a man in my arms, rent will be one of my problems.
I push myself off my stool, ready to try my luck somewhere else, when my gaze falls on him.
He is in the distant corner of the club, away from the flashing lights and wandering eyes.
The darkness clings to him like a second skin, but it does nothing to diminish his presence.
He exudes a dark, brooding energy that makes him difficult to ignore.
Everything about him screams cash.
The kind of fish I've been searching for.
The type of wealth that does not need to be flaunted because it is readily understood.
The way he sits, relaxed yet powerful, tells me that he is used to people coming to him rather than the other way around.
To crown my perseverance, he's damn hot! He's everything I desire in a man. What else would I ask for?
He had dark hair, a strong jaw, bulging muscles, and a small stubble on his chin.
What a way to be alive.
I straighten up, adjusting the tiny straps on my dress before running my hand through my golden hair.
A fresh coat of lip gloss, a glance at my reflection on my phone's screen, and I am ready.
I saunter over, swaying my hips sideways with each step.
The club dissipates around me.
He is all I can think about right now.
It is time to play my favorite game: preying on men.
Finally reaching his table, I tap my long, red-blooded nails against the polished surface, flashing him my best flirtatious smile, which has never failed to attract attention.
His eyes meet mine. As he notices me, a frown settles on his handsome features, followed by a perfectly arched brow.
I point to the seat beside him, tilting my head and pouting my lips. "Is this seat already taken? Or should I occupy it?"
A long silence separates us.
A smirk gradually tugs at the corner of his lips.
"Depends on who's asking," he replies, his voice deep and smooth.
It sends a tiny shiver down my spine. "Are you looking for somewhere to sit, or something else? Be specific."
I withhold my smile. This has just gotten interesting.
Showtime!