Chapter 2 Valentina #2
There’s a creak of hinges. The door to the bathroom opens and shuts.
“Hey!” I yell over the stall, more irritated than embarrassed. “Anyone out there got a tissue? Napkin? Paper towel? I will take a damn cocktail napkin at this point!”
A pause. Then a voice, lazy and amused: “Of course.”
A hand appears under the stall door, holding out a folded stack of paper towels. Big hand. Veined. A silver ring glinting on one finger.
“Thanks,” I mutter, snatching them and making quick work of it.
By the time I’m done and tugging my dress back down, my annoyance has cooled into something else—curiosity, maybe. I flush, unlock the door, and step out, ready to toss off a quick thanks before I bolt.
I don’t get that far.
Because leaning against the wall by the sinks, flicking a lighter open and closed like he’s bored with the world, is a guy who looks like he crawled out of every bad decision I’ve ever made.
Super hot—dangerously so. Ink coils over him from throat to knuckles, every inch of skin a riot of color—reds that burn, blues that bruise, purples that pulse like veins under the surface.
And that hair—green, wild, like moss after rain, falling into his eyes in messy waves that shouldn’t look good but absolutely does.
Even under the brutal fluorescent lights—the kind that wash everyone else out and make normal people look sickly—he looks unreal.
Sharp cheekbones cut clean shadows down his face, his jaw tight as he lights his cigarette.
The cold blue glare overhead turns the ink on his throat into stark contrast, maps of chaos etched into muscle, and his mouth, soft and full, curves around the filter like sin.
He cups the flame with a calloused hand and breathes in slow, lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke curls upward, catching the light, and those dark eyes cut toward me through it.
I didn’t think anyone could look good in this kind of light. But somehow, he looks better.
“Appreciate the save,” I say, heading for the sink, trying to sound casual while my pulse hammers.
“Anything for a pretty girl,” he says, voice low, and raspy. A strand of green hair falling right about his left eye.
Up close, he smells like smoke and something sharper underneath—ink and leather and heat. I can feel him watching as I turn on the faucet, rinsing the stickiness of the club off my hands.
“You didn’t know I was pretty in the toilet,” I smirk, walking over to the roll of brown, thin paper towel and wiping my hands dry.
“I saw you on the dance floor,” he says, dragging in another slow pull of smoke. His shoulder slides against the tiled wall as he leans there, like he owns the space.
“So you’re following me?” I arch a brow, tossing the damp paper towel into the overflowing trash can.
“You’re pretty hard to miss.” His mouth crooks around the words, eyes tracking me in the mirror as I reach for another towel and pat down my hands.
I’m winding up to throw something sharp back when the bathroom door creaks open behind me. The sound cracks like a whip in the hollow room, loud enough to cut through the bass pulsing from the club.
The man from the bar—the one who’d been watching me all night—steps in.
He closes the distance without a word, just a few slow, unhurried steps that make the air feel smaller, and then reaches behind him.
The click of the lock sliding home is soft, but it ricochets down my spine like a warning shot.
My shoulders go rigid, fingers curling against the edge of the sink. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, sharp and instinctive.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath, straightening up to face them, ready to start mouthing off.
“Her father was right. She’s gorgeous, right?” The green hair boy cuts in before I can, voice loose and easy, the kind of voice that doesn’t match the way my pulse just spiked.
The blond one doesn’t answer, just tips his head to the side like he’s studying a problem only he can solve.
Up close, I can see he’s taller than I thought, broad-shouldered but still, so still, in the way predators hold themselves before they strike.
His pale grey eyes move slowly, taking their time as they drag over me from my boots to my face, peeling me apart layer by layer. Cold. Assessing.
And then—barely there—a shift. A fraction of an inch.
“That means he likes you,” Green-hair says, flashing a grin before tipping his head back and exhaling smoke like this is just another Tuesday night.
“Sorry, my father has been dead for a while now, whatever deal he made is null and void.” I say, my gaze snapping between the two of them as the walls feel like they’re inching closer.
“Oh. See this deal doesn’t expire with his death. He didn’t hold up his side of the bargain with the Raiders, so now we’re here for you.” The green hair one takes a step forward, but I take a step back bumping into the sink.
Of course—my adoptive father, Ricardo, cut a deal with one of the largest motorcycle gangs in the South: the Texas chapter of the Raiders. They’re ruthless. The only group that rivals them are the Vipers—and that’s because the Vipers have the entire Cartel backing them.
“I’m sorry,” I let out a nervous laugh. “Do I know you?”
“Kind of. I’m Isaiah, but everyone calls me Zay.” He pushes off the wall, his movements unhurried, almost lazy, a big cat stretching as he steps closer like he’s in on a joke I haven’t heard yet.
“Look, one, I don’t know an Isaiah, or a Zay.”
“But I know you.” Isaiah smiles, and if this whole situation wasn’t unsettling. I’d admit that he is gorgeous, some tattoo’d, bright-smiled Adonis I want to climb like a tree and ride into the sunset, but instead, he is about to be punched in his gorgeous face.
I blink at him, confused, forcing my voice to stay level.
“Okay, if this is some pickup thing, I’m flattered, really, because like…
,” I gesture in the air, outlining his body with my finger, “Wow, but I’m not really the ‘run-a-train’ type of girl.
Especially not in a men’s bathroom that smells like piss and bleach. ”
“Trust me, pretty girl,” Isaiah drawls, his grin slow and sharp as he drags his tongue across his lower lip. “It’ll be more of a tower than a train.”
Did he just—?
My brain stutters, short-circuiting for a half-second before every nerve lights up with fury. Heat floods my veins, not the kind that makes you blush—the kind that burns.
I roll my shoulders back, muscles coiling tight, ready to give these two idiots the kind of lesson they’ll remember every time they so much as think about speaking.
“Excuse me?” I snarl, stepping forward, chin tipped up like a challenge.
“Ooo,” Isaiah croons, delighted, rocking back on his heels. “Get ready, Ash. She’s mad.” His dark brown eyes gleam like a cat that’s just spotted a mouse he wants to play with before he kills it.
“Keep talking,” I snap, low and lethal.
I don’t wait for him to make another quip. My body moves before my brain finishes thinking it through. My fist slams into his chest, knocking him back a step, and I pivot on my heel, aiming a hard kick toward the blond one—Ash.
He sidesteps, fast, catching my ankle mid-air with a grip like iron.
I twist, using the counter to launch myself off balance, swinging with my other leg. My heel clips his shoulder. Not hard enough to drop him, but enough to make him grunt and release me.
The bathroom explodes into chaos.
Isaiah—laughing like this is the best game he’s ever played—dives in from the side. I duck, shoulder-checking him into the tiled wall so hard it rattles. He just laughs harder, eyes bright and wild.
“Little spitfire!” he shouts, spitting out a streak of smoke, his grin wide even as he shakes out his arm.
I spin on Ash again. He’s still too damn calm. His eyes never leave me, those pale grey irises watching every move like I’m just another problem to solve.
“You think I’m just gonna roll over for you?” I hiss, swinging again, feinting left and punching right.
This time, he catches my wrist. Fingers clamp down, unmovable, and before I can wrench free, his other hand comes up fast.
There’s a sting on the inside of my arm.
“What the hell—?”
My eyes dart down just in time to see the thin glint of a needle, already buried shallow in my skin.
I yank, but he’s already pressing the plunger.
Warmth spreads like fire under my skin, rushing up my arm, dizzying.
I stagger back, blinking. My fists clench, ready to swing again, but the world tilts. The tiles under my boots blur.
“You son of a—” My words slur, heat flushing my cheeks as my vision narrows.
Isaiah catches me before I crumple, hooking an arm under my knees like this is some kind of joke.
“Told you she was perfect,” he murmurs, low, as the edges of the room go black.
The last thing I see is Ash, standing exactly where he was at the start, watching me go down without a flicker of emotion on his face.