Chapter 2 #3
“Jeez, Wren, could you squeak any louder?” she hisses, stealing a shifty look at Angelo. “Of course I didn’t hire a stripping cop.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“He’s a firefighter.” She turns on her heel. “Be right back.”
As she fights her way through the sea of dancers, irritation washes over me. I love her, dammit, but I sure wish I’d followed through with my earlier intrusive thought of pulling her hair.
Sighing, I turn my attention back to the table and busy myself with tidying. I dab at spilled liquor and smooth out a crease in the tablecloth. As I sweep Rory’s sandwich crumbs onto her discarded plate, I remember Tayce never grabbed her that water.
I glance up from rearranging the cupcakes to make sure she’s still standing.
Though, it’s never a good sign when she’s not actually standing where I left her.
Squinting into the flashing lights, I scan for blonde curls and sequins, and eventually, find her in a dark, quiet corner, trapped between a jagged wall and Angelo’s broad silhouette.
My gaze lingers.
Then it sticks.
Her hand squeezes the nape of his neck. His grips the curve of her hip. A fistful of fabric, an arched back, parted lips brushing over a flushed cheek. They flash like stills from a movie under the pulsating light, every click burning a bigger hole in my chest.
This is true love, and Christ, how I crave it.
Dangerously so.
A shock of guilt and something darker zigzags through my insides. I catch myself and snatch up my thoughts before they can run away from me. Before they can bolt out of the club, get behind the wheel of a beat-up Chevy, and peel east down the highway.
If my future is a hand, my past is a vise, and it’s starting to squeeze my lungs.
I scan my surroundings for a distraction.
Tayce is nowhere to be seen—she’s probably still arguing with the stripper over a last-minute cancellation fee—and even though the DJ is playing the best songs to have ever graced the charts, hardly anyone on the dance floor is dancing, thanks to the magnetic pull of the Visconti in the corner.
I settle for collecting as many empty glasses as I can carry. When I squeeze through the crowd and dump them on the bar, Dan glances up from behind it and rolls his eyes.
“Can you stop doing that already? It’s your day off.”
“Someone’s got to do it.” I smile at him pointedly and dodge the wrath of his dish cloth as he pretends to whip it at me.
“Where are your shoes?”
“Leah puked on them.”
“Figures. Wanna borrow mine?”
I lean over the bar to get a look at his shoes. He’s swapped out his Nikes for smart black loafers tonight—not that I’d be caught dead wearing either, even if they were my size.
“Mm. Don’t think they’ll match my dress, but thanks for the offer, honey.”
He laughs and twists the cap off a water bottle. “Here, your friend needs this.” He nods to the shadowy corner where Rory and Angelo are making out. “She bumped into a bar stool earlier and accused it of trying to start a fight.”
It’s my turn to laugh. Dan usually works Friday and Saturday nights with me at The Rusty Anchor, and it’s safe to say Rory’s drunken antics are far tamer than what we’re used to.
He’s the perfect shift buddy: he doesn’t complain when I prop my iPad against the tip jar and watch nineties rom-coms, and he’ll always unpack the deliveries off the truck so I don’t break a nail.
I prop an elbow on the bar and twist to follow Dan’s amused gaze. “Can we take the white wine out of her white wine spritzers?”
Rory backs up my suggestion by wobbling sideways and knocking into a high-top table nearby. Angelo steadies her with one hand and catches a toppling champagne bottle with the other.
“Yes, but if she notices, it was your idea, not mine. I’d rather not get on the bad side of a woman who fights furniture.”
A reassuring reply is on the tip of my tongue, but it wilts as quickly as it blooms.
Because there’s that feeling again. The rough, prickly sensation of being watched. It drags up my spine and grips a hold of my nape. Then it whispers a warning in my ear, and with a sharp tug on my chin, it pulls my attention to the far side of the club.
“Wren?”
Dan’s voice is a hollow echo behind me. I want to turn and grab onto it like a life raft, but I can’t.
Everything is suddenly too heavy and too slow.
My limbs, the music, the dancing. Even the strobe light is working in slow motion.
It crawls up inked skin, over an angry scar, up to an unwavering stare.
Green.
Dan calls my name again, but he sounds even farther away this time. And he is, because now my bare shoulders are brushing past other shoulders as I move across the dance floor.
Inked skin, angry scar, green.
Inked skin, angry scar, green.
The light sweeps over this trifecta on a lethargic loop. I’ve seen it before, only illuminated by different lighting. Lit by the lone match in the parking lot earlier, but also—
Hands meet my waist, green spins into sparkles and a slur of metallic pink. I’m facing the direction of the bar again, only this time, I’m not looking at Dan but Rafe.
He pins me with a look of mock disapproval, then brings his hand to his chest. “Are you trying to break my heart, Wren?”
I blink at him, disorientated. “Huh?”
“The Wren Harlow dancing alone to an ABBA song? I’ve never seen such a sorry sight.”
He tugs me into the thick of the dance floor. Blood rushes back to my brain, and the world picks up its regular place.
ABBA. Rafe Visconti. Right.
I breathe out a dry, shaky laugh, and force my body to move to the beat of “Waterloo.”
“Did you know ABBA won the Eurovision song contest with this song in 1974?” I yell in his ear, a little too loud, gripping his upper arm a little too tight. “It was originally titled ‘Honey Pie,’ but that just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?”
Rafe glances down at me in amusement before spinning me in a full circle.
Ink. Scar. Green.
My socks slide on the mirrored floor, and I crash into Rafe’s chest, but he’s quick to steady me. “Whoa, easy there.” His gaze darts south, and he frowns. “Where are your shoes?”
“Do you know that man?”
I didn’t mean to say that. I meant to say, Leah puked on them like I’ve been saying all night. But the spin loosened my tongue, and the question flew off it, desperate and breathy.
Rafe looks over my shoulder and cocks a brow. “Who, Gabe?”
Gabe.
The synapses in my brain crackle and pop, bridging neurons and hammering disjointed puzzle pieces into place.
Gabriel, like the angel?
It can’t be.
“Wren—”
“Who is he?” I blurt out.
We’re no longer dancing. We’re standing still, staring at each other, him with an expression somewhere between concern and confusion, and me with a heavy chest and a throbbing pulse.
My eyes drop to his lips. I don’t want to miss a single syllable of his answer.
“He’s my brother.”
My ears ring.
Ink, scar, green.
I’m not religious, but in this moment, I thank God.
I thank God he’s alive.
And then I thank God I didn’t tell him my secret.
Because I didn’t know there was another Visconti brother.
But I do know that man.