Chapter Thirty-Three
The Harley’s engine trembled under him when he parked in the narrow side alley behind the Eclipse, the last note of its growl bouncing off the brick facades like a stone skipping water.
It’d been raining for hours, the air slick with moisture.
Now the night sky was clearing, and only a thin fog clung to the pavement, coiling around tires and streetlamps.
It whispered along the street, slipping into the seams of coats and under collars, but Ash felt it only in the abstract, as a thing that happened to other people.
Heat pulsed off him in slow waves, the aftertaste of a day too long and too empty.
He had burned the hours since morning in aimless motion—pacing across the loft, running errands that didn’t need doing, playing the piano and trying to lose himself in the notes—anything to keep from listening to the quiet.
By the time he’d pulled the bike off the curb, the restlessness had hardened into something almost electric below his skin, a charge with nowhere to ground itself.
He was halfway to locking the handlebar when a shift in the air caught him; a prickle at the nape, the kind that made his shoulders square without thinking.
The idle thrum of traffic filled the space between heartbeats, and then…
nothing. The road lay quiet, washed in sodium light and the occasional hiss of a passing tire on wet asphalt.
No footstep, no cough, just the sense of weight in the dark.
Ash slid off the hog, turning toward the mouth of an alley across the street.
He could see into the gloom as easily as daylight—stacked crates, a glint of broken glass, the black shape of a dumpster—and a silhouette detached from the shadow, lean, sinewy, moving with the lazy confidence of a predator that didn’t mind being seen.
“Hey there, stranger,” the man said, stepping into the cone of a streetlamp.
Ash blinked, the memory of slick skin and strobe-washed heat at the Inferno flashing unbidden. Griffin looked unchanged: bleached, buzzed hair, lips curled in a smirk that aimed for casual but landed somewhere closer to calculated.
“Well,” Ash said, voice dry as the exhaust, “this is a surprise.”
Griffin crossed the street with an easy lope, boots splashing through shallow puddles, closing the distance before Ash could decide whether to stay or bolt.
He came to a halt just inside Ash’s personal space, close enough that Ash could smell cologne mixed with something sharper, cigarettes and cheap beer.
His gaze flicked over Ash in a way that felt too familiar, too possessive, lingering on his mouth before dragging lower. “Hopefully a nice one?”
Ash shifted his weight, folding his arms like a barrier. “How did you know where to find me?”
Griffin’s grin widened, all teeth, and he leaned his hip against the Harley’s frame as if claiming shared territory.
“I asked around. Took a little digging, but…” He spread his hands as if presenting some kind of romantic gesture, though it smelled more of a hunt.
“Ash Hunter’s kind of a famous name in the Calgrave nightlife scene. Or should I say infamous.”
Ash raked a hand through wind-swept curls, letting a faint smile ghost his mouth. This is why he should start using fake names. “Determined, aren’t you?”
“When I want something…” Griffin let the pause linger, taking a step closer, hand moving to touch Ash’s arm.
Ash sidestepped smoothly, the movement casual but deliberate, putting the curb between them. His smile hardened, just enough to take the warmth out of it. “Sorry, pal. I don’t do repeat performances. You got more than most. Consider yourself lucky.”
Griffin’s hand dropped. His smirk faltered, jaw tightening, something sharper showing through before he masked it again—a flicker of anger, maybe, or wounded pride. His eyes went flat.
Ash didn’t stop to read it. He was already moving, boots whispering over slick pavement as he cut across the alley toward the Eclipse’s side door, Griffin’s stare a weight on his spine.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, voice trailing behind him like smoke.
“But you’re welcome to stay and watch the show. ”
He didn’t wait for a response. The staff entrance waited ahead, a black steel slab tucked between dumpsters, its paint dulled by years of salt air and cigarette smoke.
The main one, with its glittering marquee and gold lights, burned just around the corner, where Tito watched over the line of patrons.
His twin, Nino, guarded this entry instead, leaning against the wall with a faint smile that deepened when he saw Ash approach.
“Cutting it close again, eh?” Nino said, teasing.
“Story of my life,” Ash murmured, resisting the urge to glance back again.
Nino thumbed the latch, and the door swung open with a sigh. Ash slipped past him, the heat and noise of the club rushing up to meet him as the alley closed behind.
(11:43 p.m.)
The dressing room was a hive of motion and heat, the air thick with perfume, body mist, and the iron tang of sweat.
Laughter ricocheted off the mirrors, quick and sharp before dissolving into the rustle of costumes and the clink of jewelry.
Sequins flashed like stray sparks; a feather boa drooped over a chair like the shed skin of an Aztec god.
Someone swore at a stubborn zipper, another hollered for hairspray, and a fine cloud of glitter drifted down onto the scuffed linoleum as if the place itself were shedding stars.
Ash sat at his table, stripped to a jockstrap, head bent toward the dull glow of his phone.
The lightbulbs framing the mirror made his hair glossy, his skin luminous, the faint sheen of sweat sparkling along his collarbone.
Still no calls. No messages. Just the same static silence he’d been carrying since morning.
The door swung open hard enough to rattle the hinges. Vinny filled the space like he owned not just the club but the air itself, his suit sharp enough to cut through the haze.
“There’s my star,” he boomed, voice rising above the din without effort. “Once again, you brought the crowd to their knees. All slow burn and melancholic smile—Jesus, you could melt glaciers with that look. I swear, I could bottle whatever that was and retire.”
Ash didn’t glance up. “Glad someone had a good time.”
He clapped a hand on Ash’s shoulder before pivoting toward the room at large. “Rico, stop adjusting your junk and start moving—two minutes till you’re on. And Cody, for Christ’s sake, lose the gum before you hit the stage.”
A couple of the guys chuckled; some rolled their eyes as Vinny’s praise lingered on Ash.
“God forbid you ever take your lips off the golden goose’s ass,” Cody muttered, brushing past with a little more shoulder than necessary.
“Oh, cry me a fucking river,” Vinny shot back. “When you can hold a mob like he can, I’ll kiss your ass too. Until then—ditch the belly, kid.”
Cody turned and flipped him off before slamming the door on the way out.
Vinny chuckled, a low, amused rumble. Then, noticing Ash hadn’t lifted his head once, he leaned a hip against the table, bending enough to catch his eye. The zest in his tone dulled a shade. “Hey. You all right?”
Ash kept his gaze on the phone. “Delirious.”
Vinny studied him for a beat, dark eyes narrowing, as though weighing whether the mood was part of the act or something real. Then he shook his head, half-smiling, and stood. “Whatever it is, keep it. Heartbreak sells, kid. Even if it’s just an illusion.”
Just like everything else in this place.
When the door shut behind him, Ash rose, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension, and quickly dressed up.
He threaded through the crowded room, sidestepping half-naked bodies and the tang of fresh deodorant, then slipped into the narrow back hallway.
The noise of the backstage dulled to a muffled buzz behind him.
Ahead, the dim corridor stretched long and narrow, lined with utility doors and the hum of old pipes.
At the far end, the great room’s music pulsed faintly, a heartbeat calling him back to life.
When he stepped into the main hall, the Eclipse was in full swing.
Stage lights poured liquid silver over Rico and Cody, their sequins flaring like pocket-sized suns as they moved to the tune.
The band bled a slow, aching torch song into the room, its notes swirling into the haze and softening the edges of everything.
The crowd was scattered in little islands of shadow and light, each table haloed by an amber lamp glowing like a trapped firefly.
Glasses sweated on tabletops. Voices came low, close to the skin.
The air was warm, heavy with the perfume of liquor and desire.
He slipped through the haze, keeping to the wall where the light thinned.
The pulse of the throng pressed around him, bodies brushing, eyes catching, too curious by half.
A few heads turned as he passed, recognition flickering before he dropped his gaze and let his hair fall forward.
A soft murmur followed him, the kind that could grow teeth if he let it.
He adjusted his stride, casual but quick, moving around tables with the quiet grace of someone used to being watched and trying not to be.
He only wanted a drink, the comfort of something burning in his throat, a corner to vanish into until he could breathe again.
Tess was behind the bar, auburn locks loose above her shoulders, white blouse dipping low. She caught sight of him as he approached and, without missing a beat, poured two fingers of tequila, sliding the glass his way. “You look like a man who needs this,” she said.
Ash leaned against the counter and struck a match, letting the flame lick at the end of his cigarette before drawing in. Smoke laced upward in slow ribbons, veiling his face. “Do I?”