Chapter 8 #2
Around us, the club’s energy intensifies.
A pair of dancers in the center of the floor move sinuously to the music, their bodies pressed together in a way that leaves little to the imagination.
A moan floats from a corner booth, where silhouettes merge in the flickering strobe lights.
My cheeks warm—this place is definitely bolder than anywhere I’ve been.
Yet, I feel a rush of curiosity, a sensual awareness that maybe I’m not as opposed to this atmosphere as I thought I’d be.
Lincoln’s hand shifts slightly, rubbing a slow circle against my thigh through the thin fabric of my dress. My breath stutters, and I catch his gaze. There’s something primal there, something that says he’s not unaffected by our charade either.
I steel myself, pushing away the urge to get lost in the moment. “We… we can ask around,” I suggest in a whisper. “See if anybody’s heard about his next party.”
He nods, clearing his throat as he removes his hand—almost reluctantly. The loss of contact is oddly disappointing. I take a bigger gulp of my drink to distract myself from the lingering spark on my skin.
We leave the bar area and wander deeper into the club, weaving through clusters of people.
It’s a kaleidoscope of sights: a woman in a crimson latex dress laughing in a man’s ear; a tall, regal woman with silver hair perched on a chaise, watching a couple dance provocatively on a platform.
Every so often, Lincoln murmurs a question—something casual about the nightlife here, or if they’ve heard about special events.
We get a few shrugs, a few cryptic comments, but no clear lead.
“Why don’t we check the roped-off area?” I say, gesturing with my chin. “Might be more VIP types who actually know Rolfe.”
Lincoln’s eyes track the roped barrier. Two security guards stand at attention there, scanning the crowd for wristbands or some other sign of permission.
People slip past them occasionally, disappearing into the curtained alcoves, or further down to the rooms at the end.
I can’t help but wonder what goes on in those private booths and rooms—probably deals, rendezvous, and maybe far more.
“We’ll need a reason to get in,” Lincoln says.
I toss my hair, trying to exude confidence. “We can make one. Just follow my lead.”
Without waiting for him to respond, I hook my arm through his and guide him toward the barrier. One of the guards, a blonde woman with a stud in her eyebrow, arches a brow as we approach. She doesn’t move, though, which I take as a sign to speak.
“Hi,” I say, summoning a flirty smile. “We’d love a booth—somewhere more private.”
Her gaze sweeps over me, then Lincoln, measuring us up. “Membership or wristband?”
I feign ignorance. “We weren’t given a wristband at the door. Is there a cover we can pay instead?” I slide a glance at Lincoln, who calmly opens his wallet, producing a few crisp bills. He’s quick on the uptake, thank God.
The guard looks uninterested. “We don’t do covers here. You need an invitation to enter this section. No exceptions.”
My stomach clenches, but I let out a soft laugh. “Ah, well… guess we’ll just have to make do with the main floor, then.” I cast my best disappointed look, which seems to soften the guard’s expression only a hair.
Lincoln offers a polite nod, tucking the bills away. “Thanks anyway.”
We head back into the throng, neither of us speaking for a moment. My pulse is still hammering from that brush-off. Clearly, this place has strict rules about who goes where.
Before I can voice my frustration, my phone buzzes inside my clutch. I glance at the screen. It’s a short message from my contact at the police station:
“Chloe says Devereaux said Rolfe might be hosting a private event in the next few days. If you can find him, mention Angelus if you need a password.”
Angelus. That must be some kind of code word for Rolfe’s parties. I show the text to Lincoln, who reads it with a spark of interest in his eyes.
“Looks like we have a shot,” he says under his breath. “Now we just need to find someone who can actually grant us an invite.”
“Or Rolfe himself,” I add, scanning the room. I have no idea what he looks like, but I’m sure he’ll be hard to ignore. He might be hidden away upstairs or in the roped-off VIP area.
Lincoln’s hand finds my waist, guiding me toward a quieter corner near the edge of the dance floor. “We should be careful,” he says softly. “If we go around dropping that word to random people, we might draw the wrong kind of attention.”
I nod, leaning against the cool metal railing that separates the dance floor from the lounge area. “So how do we do this?”
He thinks for a moment, gaze drifting over the crowd. “We watch. Wait for someone who looks like they’re in charge, or at least connected. Then we make our move—subtly.”
“Stealth mission,” I tease. “Just like your old days in the military.”
He smirks, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes. “Exactly.”
The music shifts yet again, this time to a darker, more seductive beat.
Couples gravitate to the dance floor, bodies moving in an almost hypnotic rhythm.
I feel an inexplicable urge to join them—even though we’re on a mission, the atmosphere is drawing me in.
The pulsing lights, the heat of so many bodies, the thrill of being here with Lincoln at my side.
The tension between us is a living, breathing thing, and I can’t ignore it any longer.
I press a hand to his chest. “Dance with me,” I say, my voice barely audible over the music.
He hesitates, scanning the room as if double-checking for threats. But then his gaze settles on me, and I see the flicker of desire there. Without a word, he nods. I take his hand, pulling him onto the dance floor.
The bass reverberates through my whole body, and I let the beat guide me, swaying my hips in time. Lincoln places his hands on my waist, at first stiffly, as if unsure how to navigate this. But after a moment, he relaxes, matching my movements.
I tilt my head back, letting the music flow through me, and catch his eye.
The flashes of red and violet light paint shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheeks, the tension in his jaw.
He looks impossibly handsome in that tailored suit, and each time his hands tighten on my hips, a pulse of want radiates through me.
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re enjoying this,” he murmurs, not quite a question.
I laugh softly, gliding my hands up his arms. “Maybe more than I should.”
A low growl escapes his throat, so quiet I almost miss it. “Focus, remember?”
“I am focusing,” I whisper back, arching my body closer to his. Our torsos brush, and the friction sends a jolt of pleasure through me. “On blending in.”
He exhales sharply, sliding a hand around my lower back to pull me flush against him.
The beat of the music merges with the pounding of my heart.
I run my fingers up the back of his neck, feeling the short hairs there as he dips his head.
We’re dangerously close, our breath mingling, lips just a whisper apart.
For a moment, everything around us disappears—the club, the lights, the mission.
It’s just Lincoln and me, swaying to the relentless bass, trying not to cross a line we can’t uncross.
The tension is nearly suffocating, and I’m not entirely sure if I want to keep dancing or drag him into a shadowy corner and do something I’d regret in the morning.
Then I feel a hand tap my shoulder, and I blink, tearing my gaze from Lincoln’s. A tall man in a sleek charcoal suit stands nearby, a coy smile on his face. “Pardon the interruption,” he says, “but my boss would like to have a word with you two.”
Lincoln straightens, pulling me slightly behind him. “Your boss?”
The man nods politely. “Devereaux Huxley. He’s upstairs.” He gestures to the marble staircase in the center of the club, which is roped off at the base. “He noticed you asking questions about Morris Rolfe.”
My stomach flips. So we’ve been watched this entire time. I slip my hand into Lincoln’s, grounding myself. “When does he want to see us?” I ask, trying to sound calm and unruffled.
The stranger steps back, indicating the staircase. “Right now, if you please.”
Lincoln and I exchange a look. This could be exactly what we need—or a trap. He squeezes my hand reassuringly, and I nod, following the man off the dance floor. My thoughts swirl: If Devereaux wants to see us, that means we’re getting closer to Rolfe… but at what cost?
We weave through the crowd, past the bar area, until we reach the white marble steps. Up close, they’re even more impressive, the polished surface reflecting the club’s swirling lights. Two more guards step aside to let us pass, and we ascend toward an ornate landing.
Each footstep sends a thrill of anticipation through me.
My lips still tingle from how close Lincoln and I were on the dance floor.
I can’t focus on that now, though—this is the real deal.
Devereaux is the owner, the man rumored to have shady connections, the man who was once suspected of being a serial killer, and he apparently knows about our interest in Rolfe.
Reaching the top, we find ourselves in a lavish corridor lined with plush carpeting and framed artwork that looks suspiciously like it belongs in a museum.
The man in the charcoal suit leads us to a set of double doors, knocks once, then opens them.
Inside is a private office, decked out in even more luxurious fashion than the main club below.
Velvet sofas, low tables, an expensive chandelier shaped like swirling vines of glass.