Chapter Fifteen
The engine hummed up his spine as Ash rolled down the riverfront’s last sloping block. The street shimmered with oil-slick puddles, neon, and nightclub runoff, the city’s arterial blood pumping hot and senseless into the dark. He cut the throttle and let the bike idle at the curb.
The Inferno rose before him, a monolith of industrial decadence—steel bones and glass skin, sweating light.
Once a carcass of rust and ruin, the old shipping warehouse now pulsed with synthetic life: floodlights chased each other across its facade, a twitching spectrum of acid pinks, toxic greens, and seizure blues.
The massive roll-up doors had been replaced with panes of black glass that couldn’t quite contain the beat within, a subterranean pulse bleeding through the concrete.
The sign overhead was a red-lit wound in the flesh of the night, casting neon fire over the wet asphalt.
Ash dismounted, kicked the stand down, and raked a hand through wind-wild hair.
He didn’t need to check his reflection to know how he looked.
He felt it—every glance that turned his way as he crossed the street, every shift in the air, charged and low, when he passed the line of clubgoers waiting to be devoured.
The heat of the club reached for him before he even touched the door, a heartbeat dragging him back into the underworld he knew too well.
The bouncer at the entrance spotted him and straightened.
Ash realized he’d hooked up with him once, months ago.
A cinder block of a man, wrapped in tight black, with a Bluetooth radio clipped to his collar.
Arms hefty as bridge cables, ink winding across dark skin.
His mouth curved as Ash approached, equal parts memory and hunger.
“Damn,” the man rumbled, voice rough and warm. “Ash fucking Hunter. I thought you were dead or famous by now.”
Ash grinned. “Still weighing my options.”
The man—Hank?—crossed his arms, biceps bulging from the sleeves of his tee. “So, you ditch us for months, then just roll up like it’s nothing?”
Ash gave him a slow once-over. “Would it help if I said I missed you?”
Hank’s teeth flashed white. “Only if you’re planning to show me.”
Ash stepped in close enough to smell his cologne. He trailed a finger lightly down the center of Hank’s torso, stopping at the belt buckle. “Maybe I will.”
The flirting came easy, like muscle memory. They’d danced this dance before; backroom kisses, breathless gropes, shallow ecstasies in the thick hours between midnight and dawn. The man had hands that liked to hold, and Ash had let himself be held—once and done. Never more. Never longer.
“Careful,” Hank muttered, eyes dropping for a second too long. “I’m on shift.”
“You were on shift last time, too.”
Hank cleared his throat, mouth twitching. “And I still haven’t forgiven you for ghosting after.”
Ash shrugged, lips curving. “I’ll try to vanish more politely this time.”
Hank licked his lips, slow and hopeful. “Try not to vanish at all.”
Ash smiled, slipped a hand into his jacket, and pulled out his phone. The photo of Jimmy and the girl flashed on the screen. “Tell me, have you seen these two around?”
Hank held it to his face, frowning. “Yeah, I’ve seen them.
They were in maybe… five, six nights ago?
” He tilted the screen, squinting. “Came in wired, like they were already halfway gone. The girl’s name is Nora-something—I remember ‘cause I asked her for ID once. She was clinging to the guy, giggling at everything, eyes like saucers. Figured they were rolling hard.”
Ash’s smile thinned, almost imperceptibly. “Did they leave together?”
Hank handed the phone back, scratching his jaw. “No idea. I was breaking up a fight by the bathrooms around last call. Could’ve slipped out anytime.”
Ash tucked the phone away. “You remember anyone else talking to them? Anyone watching them?”
Hank shrugged. “I spend most nights standing here. I got no clue what goes on inside. Better ask Griffin at the bar.”
Ash met his gaze for a beat. “Thanks.”
Hank’s posture shifted, just enough to drop the bouncer act for a second. “What do you want with them?”
“I heard they were fun.” Ash winked, brushing lightly against him. Without looking back, he stepped inside.
The sound swelled around him like a breath held too long, then finally released.
The air thickened, fevered and drugged, steeped in sweat, smoke, and the pounding pulse from above.
The music hit hard—bass first, then synth and strobe—a riptide dragging him up.
And Ash let it take him, rising into light and fire like Orpheus walking backward into hell.
The club still showed bones of the gutted facility’s corpse—soaring ceilings braced with exposed rafters, walls lined with defunct ventilation systems and rusting catwalks.
But the ruin had been reborn in light: a crisscross of lasers slashed the darkness in sync with the beat, white and violet blades that cut the crowd like stage knives.
Every flash revealed a sea of limbs below, writhing with ecstatic abandon.
It wasn’t dancing; it was ritual, collective possession.
A thousand strangers convulsing in worship of rhythm and reverb.
Above them, suspended from a steel rig, light fixtures pulsed like machine eyes scanning the throng.
On the far side of the room, the DJ ruled behind his altar, his silhouette a skeletal priest against a wall of pink fire, sculpting sound from shadow.
The music was pure vice, a seismic tribal throb meant to dissolve inhibition and pull partygoers into trance.
Ash threaded through the crowd like a phantom.
Bodies brushed his as he passed, bare shoulders slick with sweat, fingertips flickering like moths against his arms, his back, his hips.
He barely registered them. The music seeped into him, a subdermal pulse rising from the soles of his boots into his bloodstream.
His pupils widened, drinking in the beat and strobe.
His skin prickled, heat blooming at the base of his spine.
The air reeked of sweat and ozone and synthetic euphoria.
Perfume clung like gauze. Warmth shimmered off the floor.
It was a womb and a furnace, a church and a slaughterhouse.
But even in this sensory delirium, Ash remained sharp. He scanned the periphery—past the shivering shadows, the heaving bodies, the bony scaffolding overhead—searching for somewhere cooler, darker, off the rhythm’s leash.
There. Tucked behind a jut of wall near the rear corner, where the floodlights thinned and the noise dimmed slightly, was a narrow passage.
He ducked into it, brushing past a half-naked couple pressed against the wall.
The hallway curved and opened into a recessed alcove, small, dim, and relatively still.
The bar stretched in a low arc beneath a vaulted slab of ceiling, backlit in amber and violet.
A bartender in mesh and metal studs moved in a steady rhythm behind the counter, his eyes rimmed in crayon, his smile all teeth.
The sound here was a muffled throb, as though the walls were absorbing the worst of the madness.
Still primal, still thrumming, but dimmed enough to breathe.
Ash reclined against the counter, letting its cool edge anchor him.
The bar’s surface was damp and sticky under his elbow, condensation clinging to every glass like sweat to skin.
Bottles gleamed along the shelves—blue fire, molten gold, clear venom—and the half-lit profiles around him drank to forget their lives.
Somewhere nearby, someone moaned into a kiss. A laugh erupted to his left, too loud.
He took his place among them, not apart but not quite of them either.
His body eased into that liquid pose that looked accidental but wasn’t, one hip cocked just enough to suggest ease, one arm trailing over the quartz bar top in careless invitation.
His mouth curved at the corners, lazy, decadent, a half-smile that said I could ruin you, or make your night. Maybe both.
The bartender noticed him immediately. He glided over with the confident lope of someone who knew exactly how cool he was.
Bleached, buzzed head, dog tags hanging from a chain around his neck, silver hoops gleaming in each ear.
His arms were lean, vascular, moving with casual strength as he set down a shaker and drew near, his voice all smoke and flirt.
“Hey, gorgeous. I haven’t seen you before. ”
Ash cocked a brow. “You must be new. I used to come here all the time.”
The bartender smirked, eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and appetite. “Yeah? I started about six months ago. And I’d definitely remember a face like yours.” He didn’t wait for an order—simply poured a splash of something amber and slow into a low glass and slid it over. “On the house.”
Ash picked it up, lifted it to his lips, inhaled. Gin. Expensive. “Generous,” he said, sipping. “Either you want something, or I look like I need it.”
The bartender laughed, a soft huff from the chest. “Both.” He bent even closer, the lights painting sharp shadows along his cheekbones. “I’m Griff.”
“Ash.”
They let the silence swell between them, thick with suggestion. Around them, the music pounded, bass so deep it rumbled inside Ash’s lungs. He had to raise his voice to be heard. Everything had to be shouted here. Every word, a declaration. Every look, a promise or a dare.
Ash leaned in, lips brushing closer to Griffin’s ear than strictly necessary. “So, you’re good at remembering faces?”
Griff’s eyes flicked to him. “Some tend to stick in the mind longer than others.”
Ash smiled at the veiled compliment, seizing the chance to steer the flirtation in a more useful direction.
He reached into his pocket, unlocked the phone, and slid it across the bar.
The beat swallowed the sound, but the gesture was sharp and clear.
“What about these two?” he asked. “Seen them around lately?”
Griffin looked. He picked up a towel and started drying a clean glass, stalling, considering. His eyes returned to Ash, narrowed slightly with something sharper. “You a cop?”
Ash laughed, the sound rippling through the haze. “God, no. I wouldn’t last ten minutes as a cop. All that authority and no safe word?” He grinned and winked.
Griff smirked despite himself. “So why the sudden curiosity?”
Ash traced the rim of his glass with a fingertip, slow and idle. “Because I’m interested in stories. And you seem like a man with a few.”
Griff glanced around, then tilted forward, raising his voice over the music’s throb.
“Yeah. I’ve seen them. They came in a few nights ago.
The girl,” he tapped the phone, “likes to dance until she disappears. The guy looked strung out. I poured him a drink, flirted a little, then had to tend to others. By the time I was free again, he’d already vanished. ”
Before Ash could press further, someone shouted next to him, waving a ten-dollar bill. “Two tequila sunrises!”
Griff held up a finger to Ash and turned to mix the drinks. Ash tucked the phone back into his pocket and used the pause to scan the passing people again. No familiar faces, only heat and hunger and bodies chasing oblivion.
When Griffin returned, he braced both elbows on the bar, bringing them close again. “Anyway. They haven’t been in since. But I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually.”
Ash studied him. “You seem awfully helpful.”
Griff shrugged. “I don’t usually give out intel for free, but you’ve got this whole—” he gestured vaguely— “fallen angel looking for answers thing going on. It’s hot.”
Ash’s lips curved. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Wasn’t meant as anything else. So…” Griff’s eyes slid down, then back up, a slow drag. “You looking for anything else tonight? Or just stories?”
Ash took one last sip from his glass and set it down with a soft clink. His gaze locked with Griffin’s, heavy with intent, delicious with mischief. “Well,” he drawled, “my lead just ran dry. But my night doesn’t have to.”
Griff wiped his hands on a towel, tossed it aside like it was suddenly irrelevant, and came around the bar without hesitation. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The second he was close enough, Ash reached for him, fingers curling around his dog tags, drawing him in with smooth, fluid hunger.
Their mouths met without preamble, the kiss wet and open and electric, teeth dragging over lips, tongues tangling with sloppy desperation just shy of reckless.
Ash pressed him into the shadowed wall beside the bar, one thigh sliding between Griffin’s legs, grinding up with slow intent.
Griff groaned against his mouth, his hands splayed over Ash’s hips, gripping tight, pulling him closer until their bodies locked in rhythm, moving with the bass, sweat-glazed and breathless, lost in the throb of the Inferno’s heartbeat.
Ash ground against him with a carnal precision, each movement a calculated sin.
He knew exactly how to make someone forget their own name.
Griffin was already halfway gone, panting into the kiss, eyes glazed with want.
Ash broke away just long enough to murmur against his throat, voice dark velvet edged in fire: “I told you I used to come here all the time.”
Griff chuckled, dazed. “Looks like you still do.”
Ash bit his neck, enough to bruise, and smiled. “Lucky you.”
He kissed him again, deeper, harder, and Griffin pulled him deeper into the alcove’s dim hush. Ash followed with a smirk. Some truths could wait till morning; this one was better tasted in the dark.