Anna Zaires

A man, not a boy.

“How old are you, Nora?” he asks next.

I blink. “Twenty-one.”

His expression darkens. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Almost eighteen,” I admit reluctantly.

. A man, not a boy.

He’s stunning.

And utterly terrifying.

Aristotle is by far the coolest club in the city. But Leah was right—there were others.

He stands next to me, and I have to remember to breathe.

I can smell the clean, musky scent of his skin and feel something hard and warm against my stomach.
His erection.

He’s just too popular not to be a player

chip crumbs off the counter and wiping up

. No makeup and my long brown hair in a ponytail.

I leave the house like that to avoid any suspicion. I tell my parents I’m going to hang out with Leah at a friend’s house. My mom smiles and tells me to have fun.

Now that I’m almost eighteen, I don’t have a curfew anymore. Well, I probably do, but it’s not a formal one. As long as I come home before my parents start freaking out—or at least if I let them know where I am—it’s all good.

Once I get into Leah’s car, I begin my transformation.

Off goes the thick sweater, revealing the slinky tank-top I have on underneath. I wore a push-up bra to maximize my somewhat-undersized assets. The bra straps are cleverly designed to look cute, so I’m not embarrassed to have them show. I don’t have cool boots like Leah’s, but I did manage to sneak out my nicest pair of black heels. They add about four inches to my height. I need every single one of those inches, so I put on the shoes.

Next, I pull out my makeup bag and pull down the windshield visor, so I can get access to the mirror.