Tag by Nicola Jane
Chapter One
LUCY
“I heard that after the fight, Tag sends out his security to pick women for him.” My best friend, Tyra, flicks her black hair over her shoulder. Her large brown eyes dart around before she adds, “Yah know, for sex or something.”
“That’s disgusting. If a man can’t be bothered to approach me himself, then he isn’t worth my time,” says Maribel firmly.
“That’s why you’re single, Bel.” I grin, popping a straw into my glass of gin and giving it a stir. “Why doesn’t he just come and talk with a girl he likes?”
“He’s tipped to be the next big thing,” says Tyra. “I guess being that popular with the ladies kind of makes you big-headed.”
We take our drinks from the bar and push through the crowd to find our table. It’s Friday night and my girls dragged me on a night out. Tyra is a journalist, and she gets the best gossip on celebrities, but she also drags us to a lot of functions so she can grab the next story. Tonight, for example, an up-and-coming MMA fighter by the name of Tag is in the ring. Tyra managed to get us front row seats, which she was really excited about, but personally, I’m not into watching men beat the crap out of each other.
I choose a chair farthest from the cage. I’d heard horror stories from my assistant at work about getting splattered by blood. He was probably just kidding, but I don’t want to take the risk.
“How’s Noah?” asks Bel. She always asks to be polite, but my two friends hate my boyfriend. They think he’s an arrogant arse.
“Busy with work,” I say with a shrug. It’s my classic response when they ask me because I know they aren’t really interested, they’re just being good friends.
“Oh my god, he’s over there,” says Tyra excitedly while tapping Bel on the arm. I crane my neck to try and spot whoever she’s pointing at. It’s not like Tyra to get excited, she meets celebrities all the time. “He’s so gorgeous,” she gushes, practically swooning.
The crowd parts slightly, and I spot a large guy covered in tattoos. I don’t think there’s one part of exposed skin that’s not covered in art. His hair is cropped short, shaved at the sides and slightly longer on top. His dark facial stubble adds to his sexiness. I like my men clean cut and shaven, but there’s something about this man that gets my blood pumping.
“He definitely has something about him,” Bel says, sighing dreamily.
“Can we take a moment to appreciate those muscles? The guy is ripped!” says Tyra.
I watch as he makes his way towards us, occasionally stopping by a table and chatting with the occupants. A female rushes past our table, headed straight for Tag. She hands him a pen and pulls down her top, so he can sign his autograph across her chest.
“I wonder if he’s girl spotting now,” Tyra muses, running her fingers through her hair and crossing her long legs. Tag passes our table without giving any of us a second glance. Tyra looks positively outraged. “Rude!”
I exchange a smirk with Bel. Only Tyra would be insulted that she wasn’t picked out like a piece of meat.
The night drags. I’ve already drunk far too much, and Tag’s fight is only just beginning. My mobile vibrates on the table, and I glance down at a text from Noah telling me he’s gone for a few drinks with his business partners. Whatever, he’s never home anyway.
I try to get enthusiastic about the two men battering each other in the cage, but I just don’t see the pleasure in it. Tyra was right—Tag is good. He hardly has a mark on him while the other guy is a bloody mess.
When it’s finally over a few minutes later, the crowd erupts with excitement as Tag holds his hands up in glory. While all the fuss around me is playing out, a man in a suit approaches me. He leans into my ear and says, “Tag invites you to an exclusive club after the fight.” He pushes a small white card into my hand. “Your friends are welcome to join you.” And then he walks away. I frown, watching him disappear into the crowd, then I look down at the card. It’s expensive-looking, with black lettering in the centre, showing an address and the number ten.
Ten minutes later, we step from the fight club onto the wet, cold streets of London. The rain drizzles, and I know if we don’t hurry to get a cab, my curly dark hair will soon be frizzy and flat. Tyra waves her hand frantically until a black cab pulls over, and we all pile in. “Where to, ladies?” asks the driver, his London accent thick.
“Actually, I have this.” I show the card to Tyra. “You can drop me home and then head on there if you’re looking to party your night away.” I don’t fancy schmoozing at Tag’s afterparty, but Tyra could get an exclusive story out of it.
“Oh my god, is this what I think it is?” she asks, staring down at the little white card.
“A man in a suit gave it to me at the end of the fight.”
“Well, we have to go. You, too.”
“Erm, no, it really doesn’t sound like something I want to go to,” I say firmly.
“Oh, come on, Lucy, you used to love a good party,” she argues.
“Leave her, Ty. She doesn’t like that stuff anymore. It’s not her scene,” says Bel. I don’t miss the way she raises her eyebrows when she says the word ‘scene’.
“That’s not fair,” I argue. “I just don’t feel like it tonight.”
“Because it’s not full of your kind of people,” says Tyra.
“Look, I hate to butt in here, girls, but if you’re not gonna give me an address, would you mind stepping out of the cab so I can get on with my work,” says the driver.
“Yah know what, fine, let’s go to the stupid party.” I flop back into the seat, folding my arms across my chest and glaring out the window.
It’s no secret that I come from a wealthy family. My stepfather is CEO of a large energy company. Since the world went crazy for global change, he’s been raking in the cash, selling energy saving solutions to large businesses. My boyfriend, Noah, has a similar background to me. We met in college four years ago, when he was studying law. He’s now a partner in his father’s law firm and was recently featured in Time Business News as one of the new up-and-coming lawyers this year.
I don’t make a show of my wealth. In fact, I avoid it at all costs. I went to college, and now, I have my own business as a wedding and party planner. My stepfather wasn’t impressed with my career choice, and Noah often refers to it as my little project to keep me busy. I don’t care, I love it and it’s mine. I worked hard for it, and I even went to the bank to get the starter loan, refusing to take my family’s money.
“Sorry, Luce, we were just kidding,” mutters Tyra. I met the girls in school when we were five years old, long before my mother met my stepfather. I was twelve when they moved me to a private school, but I kept in touch with the girls.
“I hate how you always do that when you don’t get your own way. You use that against me. You know the real me, you know I hate all that, and it’s so shit that as my friends, you bring it up to make me do what you want.”
Tyra takes my hand. “You’re right, I’m so sorry. We’ll take you home first.”
“No, we’re almost there now. Noah isn’t home anyway,” I mutter sulkily.
“He’s not home?” asks Bel.
“Drinks with the partners at work,” I say. The girls raise their eyebrows but choose wisely not to comment.
The cab stops outside a swanky-looking hotel. Tyra wipes the condensation from the window and peers outside. “Are you sure this is the right place?” she asks.
“I’ve been a cab driver for twenty years, love. I never fuck it up. This is the place.” We step out, handing the driver the fare.
“I’ve never been inside this place before,” Tyra mutters, running for the shelter of the doorway.
“It’s expensive here,” I say. I’d heard about it from Penelope, one of my ‘rich’ friends. Her husband owned a huge accounting firm in central London, and they would often have dinner here to impress clients.
I enter first, my heels clicking on the shiny, white marble floor. The receptionist glances up and smiles widely. “Welcome to Hotel Martinez. How may I help you this evening?” Her perfectly straight, white teeth almost gleam against her well made-up face.
“I have this,” I tell her, handing over the card.
The receptionist glances at the card and gives a nod. “Take the golden elevator to the top floor. Enjoy your evening.”
Inside the elevator, there’s a plush purple seat and a large golden mirror. Tyra snaps a picture on her mobile. “Seriously, it’s just a seat,” I say with a laugh.
“I’ve never been in an elevator like it. Someone could actually live in this thing, it’s so big.”
“What do you think the number ten means on the card?” asks Bel.
I shrug. “Maybe a room number? It has to be something obvious because the receptionist knew exactly what it was.”
The elevator stops smoothly and the doors slide open to reveal a large foyer. We step out and glance around at the expensive area. Large paintings are displayed on the white walls. The carpet is a deep purple colour, and there are four chaise lounges with golden legs spread around. “Well, this looks promising,” notes Bel.
“I was expecting a nightclub, or a bar at least. We’re not going to know anyone in here,” I say cautiously. “It’s all a little weird.”
“It’s exclusive, Lucy, relax. It’s exciting,” Tyra says, stepping towards a large double door. She knocks, and my heart almost beats out of my chest. I hate doing stuff like this. No one knows where we are or who we’re with—we could be murdered in there. The door opens and a man in a suit pops his head out. “Hey, we have a card,” says Tyra, holding her hand out to me, so I can pass her the card. She holds it up for him to inspect, and he gives a nod, holding the door wider for us to step inside. The room is just as amazing as the foyer, and Bel gasps aloud, earning her a scowl from Tyra, who I think is pretending she attends these sorts of things all the time.
There are lots of people inside—men in suits with glasses in their hands, and women huddled in groups, drinking Champagne. There’s a low beat indicating there’s music in here somewhere, but it’s not loud enough for me to make out the song. “Well, this is hardly an afterparty,” I mutter.
Tyra scowls at me. “I just want some pictures and then we can go,” she hisses. “If I get a good story, my boss might actually like me for a day.” Tyra got a job for TheLondon Gazette when she left college at eighteen. Her boss is a prick, always making Tyra feel like she’s incompetent.
A waitress passes holding a tray of Champagne, and before I can take one, a man steps back, knocking into the her. The tray tilts and the glasses slide off, hitting the floor one after the other. “Holy shit,” I gasp, jumping out of the way to avoid the splashes of sticky liquid.
The waitress apologises profusely, crouching down to pick up shards of broken glass. “It’s fine, it wasn’t your fault,” I reassure her, also bending to give her a helping hand.
The guy who knocked into her huffs loudly, wiping down his jacket with a white handkerchief. “Incompetent little wench,” he grumbles.
“It was your fault,” I snap. The waitress touches my hand gently and shakes her head in warning.
“Please, it’s fine,” she says quietly.
The crowd parts slightly, and a large man stomps through. He reaches down and grips the girl by the top of her arm, wrenching her from her crouching position so that she stands before him. She immediately hangs her head low and apologises. I rise to my feet, wiping my hands on my thighs. “It wasn’t her fault,” I say firmly, and the man’s sharp, dark eyes turn to me. He’s scowling, his face red and mean-looking. “That guy bumped into her.”
“And you are?” he growls.
“A guest,” I snap, placing my hand on my hips, “And a founding member of ‘Treat your staff well’, yah dick,” I add. I hear Bel snigger behind me.
“And you were invited here by?” he presses, choosing to ignore my comment. I hold the card up, and the guy smirks slightly. “Oh, number ten.” I frown in confusion, but then the crowd parts again and my breath catches in my throat. Tag is standing before me, freshly showered, his hair damp. A black T-shirt clings to his tight muscles, and it’s tucked neatly into his Levi’s. I silently beg for him to turn around so I can check out his backside in those bad boys.
“What’s going on?” he asks, giving the man a hard stare. I’m slightly offended that he hasn’t addressed me, seeing as it was obvious that I was talking to the guy first.
“Sorry, Tag. This idiot spilled a tray of Champagne, showering your guests.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Corallo,” whispers the girl, tears in her eyes. “It was an accident. I’ll pay for the damage.”
“Shit,” I huff, “I’ll pay for the damage if it means so damn much.” I reach into my purse and pull out a handful of money. I’m not sure how much is there, but I’m sure it will be enough. I stuff it in the man’s jacket pocket and pat it for good measure. “If it’s any more than that, I’ll write a check. Now, let the girl go,” I say.
Tag smirks and raises his eyebrow. “You heard the lady, let her go,” he says. The large guy releases the waitress, annoyance crossing his features. “Now, get the mess cleared away,” he adds. The waitress goes about picking up the glass, and I’m about to help her when Tag steps closer. “You are?” he asks.
“Lucy,” I mutter, my face flushing crimson.
“Where’s your card, Lucy?” he asks. I hold it up, and he smirks again. “Hmm, number ten. Okay, let’s go.” He turns his back to me and starts to push through the crowd. I glance to Tyra and Bel, who are staring after him wide-eyed.
“Well, go then,” says Tyra, shoving me forward. I dig my heels in.
“No way!” I almost screech. “I don’t even know the guy. Where’s he wanna take me? And what’s the significance of the number?”
“Who cares? He’s a god among men, so follow him,” encourages Bel. Instead, I bend my knees and help the waitress pick up the broken glass. I don’t know who the hell Tag is, or what that number means, and I don’t think I want to find out.