Chapter 37
A block from the club, the bass is already thumping.
Pauly, Jeremiah, and I walk arm in arm. Pauly and Jeremiah because they’re in love and can’t go five minutes without touching. Jeremiah and me because I’m in stilettos and haven’t figured out how to walk like I belong in them.
"You sure it’s okay I’m here?" I chew my lip, nerves prickling my gut.
"Yes, of course," Jeremiah says easily. "Our meeting will be quick. After that, we dance."
Their boss called this meeting. Something about territory, money, drug-dealery stuff. I don’t ask questions. I’ve learned not to. The less I know, the safer I stay.
The invite came with a location: Rave. A downtown club I’ve only ever heard whispered about, but never entered. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I could never afford a night out there. Apparently, their boss owns it.
“W.W.B.W.D.?” Jeremiah leans down and murmurs in my ear.
I grin despite myself. What Would Blair Waldorf Do? A mantra I started saying years ago, half-joke, half-prayer. Jeremiah caught me saying it once, and now he uses it to nudge me when I need a boost of confidence.
I roll my shoulders back and set my face. Resting bitch face, activated.
Tonight, I look like the woman I’ve spent the past year pretending to be. Someone poised. Someone dangerous. Desired, even.
My hair falls in loose waves. My makeup’s sultry and sharp. The shimmery nude mini dress I’m squeezed into glows against my tan skin. I feel hot. I just don’t feel like I belong. Not yet. But I’ll fake it until I do.
We bypass the line. At the door, Pauly gets a fist bump from the bouncer and we’re waved through. No ID check. No questions.
Inside, the hallway is dark and narrow, but the lights ahead pulse like they’re beckoning. The music swells with every step we take. We have to push through packs of sweaty, beautiful people before we finally break into the club’s main room. And it’s stunning.
A live DJ is elevated on a lit platform. The crowd below him is pure movement. Grinding, laughing bodies shimmering under kaleidoscope lights. It’s intoxicating. Chaos, but somehow choreographed.
We make our way to the bar. I order a vodka cranberry because it’s the only halfway elegant drink I know. Something tells me they probably don’t do dollar beer here...
While I scan the club, a man in a tailored suit approaches. He’s handsome, with brown skin, neatly twisted dreads, and a smile that says he doesn’t have to try. The kind of man who owns the room just by standing in it.
"Pauly. Jeremiah," he greets, teeth impossibly bright.
"Marcus," Pauly replies, instantly deferential. "We were just heading to VIP."
"No sweat. I saw you on my way in." Marcus’s gaze lands on me. "Who's your friend?"
“She’s not involved,” Pauly answers, a little stiff.
Marcus shrugs. “Bring her. Wouldn’t want to leave a beautiful woman by herself.”
He turns and walks away without waiting for confirmation. He’s the kind of man who knows we’ll follow.
I glance at Jeremiah, uncertain. He sighs and takes my arm. “Just stay quiet. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t give any more information than necessary.”
We trail Marcus to VIP. The bouncers barely glance at us. Upstairs, the noise dulls. Glass walls overlook the dance floor, and the space is outfitted with private booths and top-shelf everything.
Marcus slides into one of the booths like he owns it. I guess it’s because he does.
"What’s your name, gorgeous?"
"Aro," I say, gripping my drink too tight.
He watches me take a sip. "How come I haven’t seen you before?"
"I don’t usually hang around this part of town."
"And what part do you usually hang around?"
I glance at Pauly. He gives a subtle nod.
“The poor part.”
Marcus gives a soft laugh. I’m not sure if it’s because of my brutal honesty or if he thinks I’m joking. I’m definitely not joking.
“Shall we get to it?”
Jeremiah jumps in, eager to get Marcus’s attention away from me. “Yes, let’s.”
Marcus gives me a soft, almost kind smile. “Help yourself to another drink. They're on me.”
“Thanks,” I say, then make a quick escape to the bar.
I sit by the window overlooking the crowd and order another round. The liquor is smoother than what I’m used to. Expensive. I sip slowly and try not to think too hard about who’s paying for it.
I’m so caught up watching the club that I don’t notice Marcus beside me until he speaks.
"Do you like to dance?"
I jump slightly, then recover. "I used to."
"Why not anymore?" His gaze is steady and curious.
I stare into my glass. "It’s not that I don’t want to. I just… have responsibilities. Nights like this don’t happen often."
He leans closer, and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I freeze, but I don’t pull away.
“That’s a shame,” he murmurs. “A woman like you should have freedom.”
“A woman like me?”
“Smart. Beautiful. Women like you are dangerous for men like me.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “I doubt you’re vulnerable to anyone.”
His eyes glint. “You’d be surprised.”
He checks his watch, then nods toward my friends. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make. And your friends look like they’re getting antsy.”
I follow his gaze. Jeremiah and Pauly are hovering with looks that say wrap it up.
Marcus stands. “It was a pleasure, Aro. I’ll be seeing you soon.”
I don’t correct him. Just smile. I know I won’t see him again. Men like him don’t circle back for girls like me.
Still, I can’t deny the traitorous ache in my chest when he walks away.
Pauly and Jeremiah rush over seconds later.
“What did he say?”
“Not much.” I down the last of my drink. “He asked if I like to dance.”
“He asked if you like to dance?” Jeremiah echoes. “God, he’s so weird. Rich people are like a different species.”
He grabs my hand. “C’mon. Let’s not waste the night.”
We head back down and spend the next few hours dancing and laughing. I try to lose myself in the music. In the one night I have to feel like I belong here. To enjoy this.
But even then, I keep glancing around. Not for my friends. For him.
We’re about to leave when I feel eyes on me.
A shiver runs down my spine. I look up. Through the tinted glass of the VIP lounge, there’s a figure at the window.
I can’t see his face, but I know it’s Marcus.
And even though I tell myself that he’s just watching the crowd like a businessman counting dollars…
some small, reckless part of me hopes—just for a second—that he’s watching me.
That maybe I’m someone worth noticing.
Even just for one night.
∞∞∞
I shouldn’t have said yes.
But I did.
Three days after the club, Marcus texted: “Dinner. Tomorrow. My driver will pick you up at seven.” Like it was already a done deal. Like he didn’t need to ask.
I told myself I wasn’t going to go. Told myself I didn’t have anything to wear. That I wasn’t the type of girl who said yes to a man like him.
Then, a dress and heels showed up this morning. Brands that I could only dream of owning. In my exact sizes.
I thought about canceling on him and pawning them, but part of me was scared he would find out if I did.
Now, I’m sitting across from him in a restaurant with no sign out front, no prices on the menu, and enough wine choices to make me question my entire education.
Marcus orders for both of us without asking. Salmon for me. Sea bass for him. Two glasses of something older than I am.
I should be annoyed. Instead, I’m… amused.
“You look like you don’t trust me,” he says as the waiter disappears.
I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t.”
He chuckles showing off those perfect teeth. “Smart woman.”
At least he’s honest.
The table between us is candlelit and minimal, like everything here. High ceilings. White tablecloths. People speaking in quiet, polished tones. It’s the kind of place where women wear diamonds and men wear watches that cost more than my entire college tuition.
I feel out of place, even in this dress. Even with Marcus watching me like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing.
He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table. “I meant what I said the other night. You don’t belong in the shadows.”
“I’m not in the shadows,” I say coolly. “I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got.”
He smiles like I’ve just confirmed something for him.
I pick up my wine and take a sip. It’s smooth, expensive, and completely wasted on me.
“You’re dangerous,” I murmur.
He laughs. “Because I brought you to dinner?”
“No,” I say. “Because you say all the right things. And I’m old enough to know that people who always say the right things usually mean the opposite.”
That makes him pause. Just for a second.
“You think I’m a liar?” he asks. There’s no anger in his tone, just genuine interest.
“I think you’re practiced,” I correct.
He tilts his head. “And yet, you came.”
Touché.
“I was curious about you,” I admit. “Curiosity is my worst trait.”
“I hope not.” His eyes flick down to my bare collarbones and back up to my face. “I can think of worse ones.”
There it is. The charm. The flirtation that should come with a warning label. I let it wash over me, but I don’t sink into it. Not yet.
Dinner arrives, looking flawless and plated like art. For a few minutes, we eat in silence.
Then he says, “You didn’t grow up without money.”
Again, it’s not a question.
I tilt my head. “What makes you so sure?”
“You hold your head high. You use the correct silverware for the course. You smell the wine, savor it, before you drink it. Those things are taught. Ingrained.”
I set my fork down. “You’re observant.”
He shrugs. “I am.”
We stare at each other across the candlelight.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I admit, feeling off-balance.
“I don’t want anything,” he replies smoothly. “I just like the way you look at me. Like you know I’m bad news and still want to find out how bad.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that I’m here, in this dress, eating this perfect meal, letting this dangerous man make me feel… wanted. Seen.
I drain the rest of my wine. “If you’re expecting sex, it’s not happening.”
He smirks. “If I were expecting sex, we’d be somewhere with fewer forks.”
God help me. I laugh.
He leans back, pleased with himself. Narcissist. But a charming one.
The rest of dinner passes in easy conversation. He tells me stories about travel, business, cars I’ll never afford. I ask about music, books, things he probably never gets asked about.
And when the check comes, he doesn’t even glance at it. Just slides a black card into the folder and shifts the conversation.
We leave the restaurant and step into the warm night air. His driver waits at the curb in a sleek black car.
Marcus opens the door for me, but I don’t get in. I look up at him instead.
“Why me?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. “Because you look at me like you don’t want anything from me. You don’t expect anything from me. I have a feeling if I didn’t call tomorrow, you wouldn’t give two fucks, but I want you to. And that scares the shit out of me.”
I swallow. Hard.
Then I slide into the car.
This is a bad idea.
But I’m not done with it yet.