Chapter 22
Grace
I stare at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror of our suite.
Dark circles under my eyes tell the story of the past few days.
Trinity’s shooting, Lili’s kidnapping, Harper’s overdose, and the bomb threat from my apparent stalker.
It’s all too much to think about at once.
I splash cold water on my face and try to shake off the heaviness.
The High Card, my beloved home, has become more like a bunker or a fortress than the safe haven for sexual freedom that it’s always been. We’re all effectively prisoners here until the danger passes.
Which is the reason Victor’s request makes absolutely no sense.
Thirty minutes ago, he found me in the main dungeon and said, “Get dressed in something comfortable that makes you feel good. Be ready in half an hour.” His expression was impossible to read, and when I asked what we were doing, he kissed my forehead and said, “Trust me butterfly.”
Now, I’m standing in front of the small closet where some of my clothes from Victor’s house hang.
Nothing looks right. Nothing makes me feel good when everything is falling apart around us.
But I settle on a simple sundress in soft, deep purple material.
It’s fitted at the waist, has pockets, and stops above my knees.
I add minimal makeup, scrunch my curls with a little curl cream, and let them hang loose around my shoulders.
I’ve been running around in sweats and a T-shirt, and I was tempted to stick to that, but something tells me that isn’t what Victor had in mind.
And I have to admit, the simple act of putting on a dress and some makeup has put me in better spirits. Especially since I’m curious about what Victor has in mind.
When I step into the hallway, I find Victor waiting, leaning against the wall in a charcoal button-up and dark jeans instead of his usual suit.
He looks younger, less burdened, and the sight of him makes me smile.
His eyes trail up my body, lingering on the neckline of my dress and the pretty necklace that serves as my training collar.
“Beautiful,” he says simply.
My cheeks warm, as he offers his hand. “Let’s go, butterfly.”
“Where are we going? I thought we were under lockdown.”
His smile is conspiratorial, and he tangles his fingers with mine. “We are. But I have good security and a plan.”
When we exit the hallway that houses the suites, two armed guards are waiting.
They say nothing, as Victor and I pass them, but they follow us toward the back of the club.
I catch sight of Lili talking with Trinity near the bar as we pass through the main room.
She meets my eyes and smiles, then blows me a kiss.
Whatever this is, she’s in on it, or at least aware of what’s going on.
We enter the kitchen and exit into the back parking lot through a side door. Victor helps me into his Audi, the leather seat cool against my bare legs. He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. A dark SUV pulls out ahead of us, driven by one of the guards. Another follows behind.
“Seriously, Victor, what’s going on?” I watch his profile as he navigates out of the parking lot. “Is this about a pickup for the club? Or are we going to see Harper?”
His mouth quirks slightly. “Neither. Just be patient, Mariposa.”
The desert evening spreads around us as we drive, the sun setting behind the mountains, painting the sky orange and pink.
The Strip glitters ahead, and my shoulders relax.
I should be scared, being outside the safety of the club, but it’s nice to be free for a little while, driving through this city I’ve grown to love.
And Victor seems to think it’s safe, so I’m determined to enjoy whatever this is.
We turn away from the Strip, heading toward the Arts District.
The buildings grow smaller, more colorful, murals adorning brick walls, signs advertising local friendly happy hours and live music.
This part of Vegas is different from the neon excess everyone pictures when they talk about this place.
It’s more authentic for locals, and I’ve always loved it here.
Driving through this area now reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve attended a First Friday event.
I love the food and the local artists, and I always try to buy something fun for the walls of my apartment from one of them when I attend.
“Are we meeting with an artist?” I try again. Though I have no idea why that would be the case.
Victor just shakes his head, that small smile still playing at his lips. I’m not used to him being playful like this, but I like it.
He pulls up in front of a small storefront nestled between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing store, a colorful mural on the brick facade frames windows filled with books.
A bookstore.
My heart does a little somersault in my chest.
A small sign in the window clearly says “CLOSED” though, so I fear we’re going to be disappointed.
Victor kills the engine. “We’re here.”
“But it’s closed.” I point to the sign.
“Not for us.” He gets out and comes around to my door.
The security SUVs park across the street and down the block, maintaining distance but keeping watch. Victor takes my hand and leads me to the door.
A lockbox hangs on the handle, and he punches in the code. It pops open, and the key falls into his palm. He unlocks the door as if he owns the place.
“Victor.” I pause at the threshold. “What is this? How do you have the key to a bookstore?”
He guides me inside with a gentle hand at the small of my back. “I rented it. For the evening.”
The door closes behind us, and he engages the lock with a soft click. The store is dimly lit, lamps casting a warm glow over the shelves. No one else is inside. Just books, hundreds of books, their spines creating patterns of color along the walls and down the aisles.
“You… rented a bookstore?” I can’t quite process what’s happening.
Victor’s hand finds my back again, and he nudges me deeper into the store. “You mentioned once that bookstores were your safe place growing up. That you’d hide in them for hours when things got tough at home.”
I did tell him that. Years ago, in high school. In a casual conversation that I barely remember. But he remembered.
“With everything happening,” he continues, voice low and intimate in the quiet space. “I thought you might need a safe place again. Somewhere away from the club, away from the danger. Just for a little while.”
My throat tightens. This man, who commands rooms with his presence, who plans security details, interrogates enemies, and has a past littered with violence, remembered a throwaway comment about bookstores.
“How did you even arrange this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “We’re supposed to be in lockdown.”
“Turns out, if you pay enough money, people will adjust their business hours for you.” He shrugs, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“And Samuel Carter brought a team in and swept the store and surrounding area an hour ago. We have a secure perimeter. The owners are friends of Lili’s.
She turned me on to the place and told me how to get in touch with them. ”
I look around the store with wide eyes. It’s beautiful.
Cozy wooden shelves reach to the ceiling, with a rolling ladder to reach the highest ones.
Comfortable armchairs with lamps and a place to set a cup of coffee are tucked into various corners throughout the store.
The air smells of that scent that only book paper can have.
That distinctive bookstore scent that can’t be replicated no matter how many cheesy candle companies claim to have done so.
“Victor,” I say, unable to find other words.
“Go explore,” he urges. “The place is ours until midnight.”
I take a tentative step forward, then another, drawn by the endless rows of books.
My fingers brush along the spines, loving the differences in their textures.
Some cloth, some leather, some glossy paperbacks.
Each one a different world to escape to.
Victor has given me an entire building full of safe places to hide.
Behind me, I hear him settle into an armchair, seemingly content to watch me wander. No rush, no commands. Just the gift of safety and time in a space that puts us a world away from bombs and snipers and stalkers, despite those things being just beyond the glass door.
“Thank you,” I whisper, though I’m not sure he can hear me from where he sits.
Soft music registers as I venture further into the store.
It sounds classical, but after a minute, I recognize it as a pop instrumental playlist I sometimes listen to when I’m writing.
I round a corner and stop short. A small table nestled between two tall shelves holds a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, two crystal flutes beside it.
A single rose in a slender vase completes the setup.
It’s not grand or flashy, just thoughtfully elegant.
Like Victor. The champagne isn’t even expensive.
“When did you have time to arrange all this?” I ask, turning to find him watching me from a few feet away.
“This afternoon, when I got back from the warehouse.” He moves closer, takes the champagne from the ice. “May I?”
I nod, watching as he unwraps the foil with ease. The cork comes free with a soft pop rather than the explosive sound I expect. He pours two glasses, the liquid pale gold in the gentle lighting.
“To quiet moments,” he says, handing me a flute.
Our glasses clink, and I take a sip. The champagne is crisp and dry, tiny bubbles dancing on my tongue.
“This is…” I struggle for the right word. “Perfect.”
Victor doesn’t hover. He sips his champagne and lets me wander, following at a distance that lets me know he’s there if I need him, but that I’m free to explore at my own pace.
I drift through fiction, memoirs, and history. My fingers trail along the spines, occasionally pulling one out to read the dust jacket.