6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
HARLOW
“You okay, Reb?” Sage’s soft voice slams into me from behind, and I spin in the barstool I’m seated in to find her staring at me with concern etched across her angelic face. “You look … unwell.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, flicking my hair over my shoulder. Except I’m anything but fine. I’m spiraling. Around and around I go. Where I’ll stop, nobody knows. And it’s all because of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly.
Lynx. If that’s even his real name.
“Just tired.”
Sage’s thin brows furrow as she studies me for a beat. “Okay. Well, if you need the night off or a break or something, I can cover for you. Just say the word. Anyways, Dom tasked me with reminding everyone about the hospital gala this weekend. You’re still attending, right?”
The gala. Shit.
Truthfully, I forgot about it. And if I had it my way, I’d blow it off completely.
But it’s an opportunity to make some extra cash.
A little profit sharing program, if you will.
The deal is Dom pays the way for all the girls to attend with the expectation we talk up The Devil’s Den to all the wealthy single men who flash their money around at the auction.
In exchange for our hard work and excellent marketing skills—and by marketing skills I mean flaunting our tits and flirting our way through the evening—we receive a cut of the profits from each new customer that shows up at the club.
“Yeah. I’ll be there.”
Sage claps her hands in glee and chirps, “Yay. I can’t wait. And don’t forget about the Halloween party in a few weeks.”
“I already told you I’m not going to that.”
She swats the air. “Yeah right. You’ll come. And it’ll be a blast. Anyhoo … off I go.”
Sage disappears into the crowd, providing me ample peace and quiet to funnel all my grumpiness into the annoying smudge on the mirror behind the liquor bottles. I swear, if someone doesn’t wipe it clean soon, I’m going to have a conniption and hop behind the bar and do it myself.
Speaking of bar ...
I wave Leo down and order one of his special martinis. He flashes me a wink and gets to work doing bartender things. And I get straight down to business with chewing my nails down into painful nubs.
Just as I’m moving on to my thumb, a familiar laugh echoes from the crowd behind me.
My shoulders snap into a tight line. Every muscle in my body galvanizes to steel.
Every drop of blood in my veins slows to a crawl.
Every nightmare I’ve ever had flashes before me like some sick, twisted film on repeat.
That laugh. I’d know it anywhere.
Six. Years.
No.
Exhaling a shaky breath, I toss a glance over my shoulder, spotting the source of the bone-chilling sound immediately.
All those irrational thoughts I’ve worked tirelessly to stamp down over the last six years—all those horrific memories and the relentless anxiety that comes with them—rise like zombies from their graves.
Rhys Anderson.
Polished. Prim. Proper. At least that’s what he wants the world to believe he is. But I know better, because I’ve seen what lurks beneath that expensive suit and million-dollar smile.
A monster. An unhinged, filthy, teeth-gnashing monster with a sickening appetite for pain.
Panic builds in my chest as blood whooshes in my ears, drowning out the techno music and din of laughter all around me. I grow lightheaded and nauseous and blink several times, praying my eyes are deceiving me.
But he’s still there. And I still want to pass out.
He must sense me leering because our eyes lock, his snakelike and devoid of emotion, mine wide with horror as I stare back at one of the reasons I am the way I am.
Does he recognize me? I’m not entirely sure. But judging by the way his gaze slithers over my body, he likes what he sees.
And now I want to vomit. I want to vomit all over him, stab him, and scream bloody murder that he’s the devil and deserves to die a slow and horrible death.
But that would solve nothing because nobody would believe me if I told them the truth. If I unearthed my skeletons and bared them to the world.
His thin lips hook into a grin, ill intentions practically oozing from his pores like toxic sludge.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Angry that I’m letting him have this kind of power over me, I slide off my stool and book it to a private room down the hall, not bothering to look back because I can feel him watching me. I disappear behind the steel door, press my spine to the wall, and work to calm my racing heart.
I want to kill him. I want to torture him and fucking kill him dead. I want his pain and fear and horror the way he’s had mine. And then I want his blood on my hands, splattered on my face, misting the air I fucking breathe and filling my lungs with the satisfaction of his death.
Another disturbing memory that’s been lying dormant in the back of my mind flickers to life.
Chains. The smell of urine and decay. The bite of my mother’s rosary as it dug into my flesh. A warm trickle of blood trailing down the side of my hand.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Thumbing the scar on my wrist, I swallow the bile rising in my throat and muster the courage to go back out there and face him. To show him I’m not afraid and that he needs to leave this fucking place and never return.
But just as I’m turning to leave, the door flies open and something large and solid comes barreling into me, knocking the wind from my lungs. My spine connects painfully with the drywall as a large rough hand coils around my throat.
Instinctively, I open my mouth to scream, but all that comes out is a garbled wheeze.
It’s happening again. I’m back in that basement. It’s cold and damp and pitch black, the smell of mold and rat feces overwhelming. My stomach roils and I begin counting backward from six. Over and over and over again.
“I knew it was you,” Rhys sneers, spit flying from his mouth and spattering my face. It feels like acid on my skin.
I keep my eyes closed because I can’t bear to open them and look into his. I don’t want to see the sickening desire there. I don’t want to witness the satisfaction he gets from the fear he instills in me.
“Scream,” he taunts. “I dare you. You remember how I loved your screams, don’t you?”
A whimper escapes me, and I hate myself for being weak. Petrified. Frozen in place and unable to fight back even though I desperately want to.
Fuck him.
Fuck all of them.
“Come on, pretty girl. Open your eyes.”
The voice … It’s wrong. It’s too deep and gravelly and masculine.
I inhale a sharp breath through my nose. Limes and cedarwood.
Something’s not right. Nothing makes sense.
My memories are blending with reality, the colors and tastes all bleeding into each other until nothing is distinguishable anymore.
With confusion rolling through me, I open my eyes, locking gazes with a set of deep midnight blues.
A disturbing sense of relief washes over me and I choke back a strangled sob.
Lynx.
“Shh. You’re alright. Take a deep breath for me.”
I oblige, inhaling in a much-needed breath through my nose and filling my lungs with his signature scent.
Frustrated and barely hanging on to sanity, I plead, “Let me go.”
He brings his face within an inch of mine, his lip twitching as he says plainly, “No.”
His head tilts to the side, his gaze lazily roaming all over my face. It feels like he’s studying me, and I don’t fucking like it. I don’t like it one little bit.
“Who are you, Harlow Kraemer? And why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
I freeze.
My real name. He knows my real name.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
“How do you—“ I swallow as he steps into me, sealing his large body to my much smaller one. He’s so warm. So big and strong and powerful.
Lethal.
“Another breath, pretty girl.”
My chest heaves against his, the friction causing my nipples to harden beneath my bra. Right now, my brain is high off pheromones while every cell in my body swells with something I was sure I’d never feel again.
Desire. It’s a potent drug, and right now it’s in its rawest form and pumping violently through my veins.
I must be more mentally unstable than I thought.
“Good girl. Now talk to me. Why’d you run off like that?”
When I keep my mouth shut, his grip tightens in warning. If he wanted to, he could snap my neck like a twig and there’s not a goddamn thing I could do about it. But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I share my secrets with a stranger. With anyone. So I guess I’ll take my chances.
Besides, it’s not death I’m afraid of.
It’s all the things that he could do to me that would make me wish for death that I’m afraid of.
He brings his mouth to my ear, his minty breath fanning across my neck and sending a chill down my spine.
“What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything,” I croak out. “Now let. Me. Go.” I claw at his forearms in a futile attempt at prying his hand from my throat.
A muscle in his jaw ticks in the dim light of the single sconce hanging above my head, his eyes glinting with amusement as he seems to come to some sort of conclusion.
“Are you afraid of me, pretty girl?”
“You’re stalking me. You’re big. Strong. At least twice my size. And you have me pinned against a wall with your hand around my throat. I’d be stupid not to be afraid of you.”
His gaze darkens. His jaw ticks. I take it as a silent admission that I’m correct in assuming he’s been following me.
He leans in, tilting my head and dragging the tip of his nose from my collarbone to the base of my ear. I shiver in response, my entire body breaking out in goose bumps.
“I don’t want you to fear me,” he whispers hotly.
“Then let me go.”
“I will.”
“Any minute now,” I pant.
“Dance for me.”
I huff out a humorless laugh.
“Your mood swings are fascinating. Scientists should study your brain. And I’m not dancing for you. You can get that out of your head right this second.”
He tightens his grip further, cutting off my airway.
“It wasn’t a request, Harlow.”
He reaches around and waves a gun tauntingly in front of my face.
Fucker.
“Okay. Fine,” I squeak out. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He groans and releases me, taking his heat and the remnants of my resolve with him as he gestures to the small podium with a brass pole in the center of the room.
“Wait. Right now?” My voice is shrill.
“No. Next Christmas. Of course now.”
Shit.
I glance at the closed door. Could I outrun him? Not a chance. But could I at least get out the door and scream for help? Maybe.
It’s worth a shot.
“Don’t even think about it,” his gruff voice booms, halting me in my tracks before I even have a chance to take a fucking step. “Now do as you’re told.”
My fists ball at my sides as I face off with the six-foot-too-many-inches tattooed mammoth that I’d thoroughly enjoy nailing to the wall and peeling like a grape.
“Fine. But it’ll cost you,” I snip out, lifting my chin in defiance as I stuff away all thoughts of Rhys fucking Anderson. I bet he’s sitting out there, eagerly waiting for me to return. Probably has some sick plan to lure me outside and finish what he started years ago.
Lynx’s lips twitch in amusement as he pulls a wad of cash from his back pocket and flashes it in my face. The thick roll of bills makes a dull thud sound when it hits the podium.
He pours himself into the oversized lounge chair against the wall and cocks a dark brow at me, his navy eyes glittering with a dare as he rests his handgun on his lap and smirks at me.
Well, alright then.
Exhaling a ragged breath, I smooth my hands down my body, put one foot in front of the other, and take the stage.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Dance.