43. Riley
Riley
N ow, I’m no rocket scientist, but if this douche-canoe’s hell-bent on me wearing black, guess exactly which fucking color I’m not choosing?
The words are right there, ready to launch from my lips, but it turns out, I don’t even have to waste my breath.
The bouncer outside caved in seconds. But the barely-dressed hostess? Doesn’t bend. At all.
Her spine straightens, smile slipping into something cold—venom pooling beneath perfect skin.
And since the imprint of his filthy hand is still searing into my ass, trust me, I’m intimately acquainted with that particular flavor of rage.
Her voice drips syrup-slow, lethal sweetness sharpened to a knife’s edge, as jade eyes slide contemptuously from him to lock onto mine.
“You came with him?” Her tone curls mockingly around the words. “Or did he come with you?”
Huh?
Seriously, what is this—freaking riddles hour? Where’s Google Translate when I need it most?
“She came with me,” he cuts in sharply.
Inwardly, I cringe.
It’s impressive, really—how every single word in such a short sentence can be so, so wrong.
Her smile slides smoothly back into place, but for a single, vicious heartbeat, raw satisfaction flickers across her features as she pins him with those lethal jade eyes.
“Then it’s her call. Not yours.”
Checkmate, asshole.
“I said she wants black,” he growls again—louder, angrier, as if volume alone can force compliance. As if we’re not all standing three feet apart.
The woman doesn’t even blink.
My head shakes slowly. Violet Sorrengail, meet the Threshing. May the weakest bleed first.
Her wrist flicks subtly—so casually I almost miss it—but something about that tiny motion screams armed security or hidden emergency button.
Dread ignites in my chest, sharp and instant.
Because if dumbass gets tossed, my ass is hitting pavement right next to his.
Heat floods my veins, a ruthless boil threatening to overflow.
No way in hell did I cram my Hobbit feet into sadistic doll shoes, freeze my tits off in line for half an eternity, and let this jackass brand my backside with his sweaty paw print only to leave empty-handed.
Not. Fucking. Happening.
The words slip past my lips before self-preservation can clamp them shut.
“Colors…what are my options?”
Without speaking, she tilts her chin—directing my gaze to the delicate choker hugging her throat.
A sleek, jeweled band sparkles in the flickering candlelight, glistening.
Blood red. Fiery orange. Soft blush pink. An icy diamond splintering the light like fractured glass. Deep ocean blue. Rich, decadent emerald…
And at its center—black. Dark as sin. Tempting as a midnight whispers.
I’ve never considered myself materialistic—mostly because I’ve never had shit worth wanting—but right now?
I can’t find my voice.
They say shiny things cast voodoo hexes on girls like me. But for the first time in my life, I’m struck stupid-silent. Overwhelmed.
Spellbound.
I have the weirdest suspicion these colors represent something. And for all I know, picking black lands me in an underground fight club, battling gladiator-style for survival.
Or worse—limits my tequila consumption.
I sweep the room again, casually, hunting desperately for a clue. A cheat sheet that tells me exactly which color keeps me breathing and well within the comfortable boundaries of drunk and disorderly.
Nothing.
Sure, I could ask.
Given tonight’s stellar track record, that’d probably earn me a one-way ticket straight back to freezing my ass off outside with Chicago’s grizzliest bouncer.
So… yeah. Maybe not.
Once more, all five-foot-six of smug entitlement decides to make his presence known. Again .
“You’re making a mistake,” he spits. “Do you know who I am?”
Great.
Because my night wouldn’t be complete without some dickhead dropping the “Do you know who I am?” card.
Completely unfazed, she smooths an invisible wrinkle from her barely-there bodice, not the slightest bit ruffled by his chest-puffing bullshit.
“Who you are is irrelevant,” she purrs sweetly.
“That you follow the rules is.” Her voice turns silk over razor wire.
“Step out of line, and I’ll have two armed guards drag you out by your nutsack—or put a bullet straight through that thick skull of yours.
” She punctuates her threat with a wicked wink. “Dealer’s choice.”
And as satisfying as it is to watch this dumbass get publicly castrated, a cold wave of unease slithers down my spine.
Because nutsack or not, I absolutely cannot afford to get tossed out alongside Mr. Nutsack here.
Or shot.
I suck in a breath, slap on a smile—fake and bright as the candles flickering behind her—and chirp, “Pink! I’ll take pink.”
Her nod is cool, approving. “As you wish.”
I swear I almost hear the walls whisper, Good girl. You’ve chosen wisely.
The flicker of a tantrum in Jabba’s eyes isn’t lost on me. But since Morticia just dismissed him entirely—with all the significance of a gnat swimming in her champagne—I gladly follow suit.
Besides, considering we narrowly avoided a two-for-one turkey shoot special, would a little gratitude kill him?
Small victories, buddy. Savor them.
Gold-tipped nails slide a crisp sheet of paper across the podium. The text is microscopic, written in the kind of legalese designed to feed off human suffering and loopholes.
I squint. “What’s this?”
“Your contract.”
“My… contract?”
I scan it quickly, hunting frantically for red flags—subscription scams, multi-level marketing cult initiations, soul-selling rituals. But all my eyes manage to snag are ominous snippets like binding agreement and non-disclosure.
Sheesh. Rich people and their secrecy kink.
Still, it makes me wonder—are there celebrities behind that door? Untouchable elites who get off on absolute privacy?
And more importantly, are they all as insufferably douchey as Mr. Nutsack?
I’m halfway through deciphering paragraph two when something heavy drops onto the page—a necklace drowning in oversized pink gems, shimmering hypnotically enough to short-circuit my brain.
“You requested the pink diamonds, correct?”
My gaze flicks to the necklace, and every internal alarm screaming make smart choices grinds to a dead halt.
Holy shit.
“Diamonds?” I breathe, eyes wide and disbelieving. “Are those…real?”
“Very real. And very yours. The second you sign.” Her wicked smile curls at the edges, eyes glittering. Apparently, this is exactly where the line forms to sell your soul.
My hand moves on autopilot, scrawling my name across the line before my brain catches up. God only knows what I just agreed to.
She rounds the podium, her gaze pins mine like a butterfly to a corkboard.
When all I offer is a blank, awkward staring contest, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches in a silent but universal threat: Any day now.
Huh?
“If you’d be so kind as to bare your neck,” she prompts, voice soft yet edged with impatience.
A sharp prickle races down my spine. So you can make me undead?
Then my gaze drops back to the glittering diamonds.
Oh. Right.
I sweep my hair aside, catching a glimpse of myself in a mirrored panel—and freeze. For a second, I don’t even recognize the girl staring back.
Wide-eyed. Breathless. Wrapped in a dress that practically required lube and a prayer to squeeze into. Teetering on shoes that truly are killer—in every sense of the word.
The drum solo from We Will Rock You kicks into high gear inside my chest the instant the necklace snaps shut.
Am I sweating? Jesus. This sparkling noose around my neck probably costs more than a small country.
It’s delicate. Dainty, even. But heavier than it looks.
Then comes the click .
Quiet. Ominous. And final.
This isn’t the kind of clasp that pops open accidentally—it’s the kind that demands a key, a crowbar, or an especially rabid animal gnawing straight through my neck to pry it loose.
Her manicured fingers reveal a tiny, gleaming key. “I’ll keep it safe.”
Then—without breaking eye contact—she slips it directly into her cleavage.
Well, that’ll be awesome to retrieve later. Like blindly fishing for keys between Satan’s sofa cushions. Who knows what other unholy treasures I’ll dredge up?
Before I can puzzle out why she’s safeguarding it like a nipple ring, her fingertips brush past my arm, pressing lightly against a hidden panel.
A quiet, mechanical hiss slices through the silence.
The wall shifts.
Mary, Jesus, and Joseph. It’s a hidden. Fucking. Door.
In one smooth motion, the wall glides open, and suddenly I’ve stepped straight into an Ashley Elston novel—the dark thrill of danger and secrets coexisting deliciously with music, laughter, and the sweet, smoky fragrance of inescapable sin.
Seductive hedonism coils around me like a warm blanket. And as much as I loathe admitting it, this right here?
Totally worth it.
Etched above the doorway, words glisten faintly in the flickering light, the letters carved like scars into dark stone:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Recognition prickles at the back of my mind. My gaze snags on the words, flipping desperately through the shadowed pages in the back of my mind. “Where do I know that from?”
Her eyes darken, inky black spilling beneath thick lashes. She leans in close, her voice pure honeyed poison sliding over my skin. “The book.”
“ Dante’s Inferno ,” I breathe, the words falling from my lips.
Her mouth curves into a wickedly sweet smile.
“Congratulations. You’ve officially entered the first circle of Hell.”