19. Ingrid #2
The bartender returned. “Babygirl… there’s been a change in plans.”
I tilted my head, my heart rate picking up. Across the bar, a strange man stood watching, waiting.
The bartender nodded to him. “Someone important needs to see you, so I have to let you go. This man will be the one to take you.”
I looked at the massive, muscular man standing beside me. I shook my head, fear paralyzing my throat.
The bartender leaned in. “No arguing… I don’t want you to get into any trouble, okay?”
The guard placed a heavy hand on my lower back. I gulped and stood, my heels clicking on the floor as he led me toward the VIP rooms upstairs. I searched the crowd for May or Amber, but they were gone.
Inside the VIP suite, the air was thick with the scent of weed, cigar smoke and expensive cologne. Several women sat in various states of undress.
My blood went cold when I saw him—Brandon. He adjusted his pants and took a sip of his drink, his eyes locking onto mine with a sickening familiarity. I saw some of the guys from the gym there, too; they looked at me with sharp concern, but they didn’t move.
The guard led me to an older man in a neat jacket and an open dress shirt. He lolled on a sofa flanked by girls who might as well have been naked, their bras and underwear were so flimsy. They ran hands over him. He grinned easily—then turned to meet my gaze, his grin growing like a Cheshire cat’s.
“My, my, my… look who showed up at my doorstep…”
I bit my lip, my body trembling. I wanted to run, but my legs felt glued to the floor.
The man waved the girls away before he leaned forward, straightening his jacket.
His shirt was untucked—one of the girls had been loosening it when I was walked in here—and now he pressed it back into place in his trousers, revealing a dark leather belt etched with a pattern I struggled to make out in the strobing light.
The buckle was polished, reflecting red and green and blue and purple in a kaleidoscopic flashing haze.
“Where are my manners?” the man said. He reached out a hand. “I’m Darragh.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Darragh—this was the man whose name kept cropping up to Tristian, who he refused to talk about. I had no idea why—but the fact that Tristian kept locking conversations down told me this guy was bad, bad news.
I gripped the strap of my clutch so hard my knuckles turned white.
“Who are you?” I choked out. “Wh-why am I here?”
Darragh lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t know?
I’m a friend of Tristian’s. He hasn’t mentioned me?
” He tutted, shaking his head. “You give a guy the best job of his life, help him on his way up into the world, and that’s how he repays you—doesn’t even tell his new girl about you.
I’m hurt, truly. Aren’t you hurt, boys?”
The guard who’d accompanied me up here nodded. As did another, who supervised Brandon and a couple of guys from the gym as lapdancers rode a pole nearby. The guys half-watched both shows, eyes moving from the girl’s curves and to me with Darragh.
I was terrified—absolutely terrified as I stood frozen.
“Wh-what do you want from me?” I whispered.
“Just to say hello, that’s all. Thought we could sit a while and have a chat.”
It took every bit of strength in me to refuse: “No.”
Darragh broke into a grin. “No! She says no! Just like that! Isn’t that funny?”
More low murmurs of agreement. The guys seated around the pole were twisting in their seats to watch us now, the piece of flesh on show forgotten.
Darragh’s grin dropped. An icy, cold, predatory look came over him instead. Leaning forward, he said, “You don’t get to say no. Now, sit.”
I didn’t get a chance to act on his command.
The man who’d escorted me up shoved me down with all the force of a tank bearing down onto me.
I landed hard on my hip next to Darragh, almost rolling into him.
I yelped, kicking backwards, but the Irishman’s arm wrapped about my shoulders and pulled me in tight.
“My, my, what a friendly one you are! Normally the chaps have to pay extra for that!”
The boys roared. So did some of the girls, their giggles high and fake.
I muscled myself up. “Let… go of me.”
Darragh loosened his hold, enough for me to clamber off him. But he still held on, one arm wrapped around my shoulder, fingers digging into me.
This close, his predatory gaze was positively frightful.
“Smile for the camera, sweetness.”
A bright flash went off before I could react. I blinked, overcoming the blindness a moment later. The goon who’d brought us up stood holding a phone. And not just any phone; my phone. He’d snatched my bag from me as he shoved me down, and now pointed the camera my way.
“What are you—!” I protested.
The goon cut me off: “Want me to send the pic to Tristian, bossman?”
Darragh said cheerfully, “I would like that very much indeed.”
The goon navigated to my texts. “Sent,” he said a moment later. “Not sure I’ll get a reply though.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
“Da Vinci’s been leaving the doll on read for the past few days.”
Darragh looked down at me, sullen. “Oh, you poor petal.” He pushed a stray hair from my face, and I flinched, not moving as his arm around my shoulder tightened.
“Well, don’t you worry your little head, doll.
I’m sure Tristian will get back to this message.
Now, while we wait… why don’t we get acquainted, eh? ”