Chapter 6 #2
The hand moves farther back, grazing my ass, and I almost fall off my barstool in my rush to sit back down.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I mop up the mess.
“No problem.” He takes another small sip of his drink, his throat working as he swallows.
I scan our surroundings in search of a distraction. “Is it me, or does the framed photo behind the bar change every week?”
His focus shifts to the photograph hanging on the wall, a black and white glimpse of an old street scene preserved in time.
“It depends,” he says, loud enough for me to hear over the music. “On Ghost’s mood.”
“So the pictures come from Ghost’s collection?” I ask.
“No, they belong to the Blue Note. This building has been around for a long time.”
“Not always with this name, though.” It’s a guess, based on what Reef told me a couple weeks ago, but Orien’s slight nod confirms it.
“It was a speakeasy before.” He leans back, shifting so his knee touches mine once more. “It went by a different name.”
“What was it?” I ask, burning at the contact.
“The Red Lantern.” His mouth curves into a small smile. “Original, right?”
“Very subtle.”
“Subtlety wasn’t the point in those days.” He lifts a finger to run along my high collar before slipping beneath. “Survival was.”
Heat spreads through me from the intimate contact, and I swallow hard, my throat clicking as my head tilts to the side of its own volition, my lashes dropping to half-mast.
The band shifts into another song, a heavier beat vibrating through the floor and up through my bar stool. The lead singer steps closer to the front of the stage, her voice rising to carry over the increased volume.
Orien leans in as she hits the chorus, his mouth near my ear. “She used to sing backup for—”
I turn my head toward him, the words landing close enough to my ear for his breath to warm the sensitive skin below it. Close enough for me to catch the stomach-clenching scent of his pheromones and the hint of bourbon beneath.
“—Delilah Rhinehart,” he finishes.
“Right,” I rasp, and take another swallow of whiskey to stop myself from kissing him again.
The song hits the bridge, the tempo dropping as the guitarist takes a solo, fingers flying over the strings. Around us, the crowd shifts, some moving toward the dance floor, others clustering closer to the bar.
The guitarist holds Orien’s full attention, appreciation written in the slow tap of his shoe. “He’s good.”
“The best in the city, according to Kain,” I agree, turning toward the stage. “They’re playing at the Riverside next month.”
Orien stiffens ever so slightly. “When did he tell you that?”
“We talk sometimes,” I say, aiming for nonchalance. “When he’s not on stage.”
Orien’s head turns toward me, his pale gray eyes holding mine. The silence stretches, that sizzle of awareness creeping in. Slowly, I set my glass down and shift my hand to his shoulder, fingers curling, my palm fitting the curve of his shoulder through the fabric of his henley.
Orien stays perfectly still, a challenge in his stare to cross the line neither of us has broken yet.
Heat builds under my skin at the thought, the flush starting at my chest and working its way up to my cheeks. A tremor goes through me. It would be so easy to lean forward and act on the attraction simmering between us.
But I lost my head last time, and it scared me. What if it happens again? The plan at the end of this is to leave and never see Orien again.
With a shaky breath, I withdraw my hand and grab my glass instead, downing a large gulp and letting the burn distract me from the warmth spreading through my body.
Orien doesn’t comment as he lifts an eyebrow. “Another?”
I tilt my glass to rattle the ice cubes at the bottom. “Yeah, thanks.”
He signals Ghost with a raised finger, and the bartender gestures in acknowledgment.
Orien turns back to me, somehow shifting closer in the process. “What’s on your mind?”
I lick my lips. There’s too much on my mind, but this is as good a moment as any for some insertion that’s not the insertion my body is craving.
I lower my gaze to my drink. “I wasn’t sure who I should talk to. It might be an issue that aligns with your…business. But I don’t know who I’m supposed to approach. Should I talk to Ghost? Or maybe Petra?”
Orien’s lips thin, as if this wasn’t the topic he wanted. “Talk to me.”
Of its own accord, my hand returns to his body, settling on his arm this time as if I can’t help myself from touching the Alpha, which it appears I can’t.
“Someone approached me for a web design job.” I let the words trickle out, careful with every detail. “He said it was for a local import company. But he wouldn’t give a real business name, only initials. He wanted to give the payment up front, in cash. Far more than market value.”
Orien’s focus narrows. This isn’t what he was expecting. “When was this?”
“Yesterday,” I say. “At the coffee place near 14th. Guy was a Beta, in his late thirties, no accent, and dressed in business casual. He said he found my profile online, but that’s a lie. My portfolio isn’t even public yet.”
“What was the product?” Orien asks.
“He wouldn’t say, aside from them needing a site, fast, to appear legitimate for some supplier overseas. He wanted a two-week turnaround. Said it was urgent.”
“Did he give an address?”
“Yeah. It’s an old brick office on Bering Avenue. I checked it out on the way here. There was no sign, only a buzzer. The mailbox is labeled BAH Partners.”
Orien files the information away. “Did you take the cash?”
I shake my head. “I told him I needed to check my schedule and I’d get back to him.”
“What made you think this was information we’d want?” he asks.
I add a hint of uncertainty to the performance. “It seemed off, and whatever the guy is importing, it’s in the same neighborhood as the Blue Note. If you don’t think it’s important, then I’ll tell the guy the timeline is too short.”
A silent beat passes.
“No, you did the right thing.” Orien studies me before he turns to Ghost, who has returned with my drink. “Don’t go back to the coffee shop until you hear from me.”
“Okay, I won’t.” I let my shoulders droop with relief. “Thanks. The guy really gave me the creeps.”
Orien motions to Ghost, who walks down the bar and returns a moment later with the ledger. I try not to stare at it with too much avarice.
Ghost sets it on the bar top and cracks it open to a clean page. “What did this guy look like?”
I give the description in more detail, having memorized the data from the dossier my family sent over of the sacrificial goat they dug up to give me an in with the Blue Note.
While Raiden Johnston never approached me in person, he’s complete scum, and he is looking to set up a website on the dark web to bring in child brides.
Ghost writes as I speak, taking down all the relevant information, and a thrill goes through me.
I’ve passed another gate at the Blue Note, and scum like Raiden will be taken off the streets, because there’s not a doubt in my mind that once they investigate his activities, Orien will ensure he disappears.
Orien nudges my fresh whiskey sour closer. “Grab your drink, trouble.”
Before I can ask why, he slides off his stool and moves toward the back of the lounge. The club’s band has gone into a cover set, drums and guitar pulsing in the floor, the chatter rising to fill the gaps.
I follow.
He doesn’t check whether I’m behind him, leading the way through a gap in the tables to the empty booth in the shadow of the stage I’d asked about earlier.
It’s dark leather, the seams split here and there, the surface buffed smooth by years of elbows and hips. The table is small, the kind designed for intimate settings instead of a crowd.
Orien slides in first, takes the far side with his back to the wall, and waits.
This is dangerous. I know it, but I set my drink on the table and slip in next to him. Seated behind the speakers, it’s actually quieter here, though not quiet enough for anyone to overhear our conversation.
Orien stretches his legs out under the table, his foot nudging mine, and my pulse skips a beat. The attraction runs bone-deep, drawing me toward him despite every reason to resist.
He spreads his arms out along the back of the cracked leather, his big body open, and his pheromones reach out to me, curling into my lungs and messing with my reason.
Under the table, his foot slides up my calf in a gentle urging motion to come closer. A shiver goes through me as I turn on the bench, drawing one leg up onto the padded seat, and place my hand on the back below his arm.
His tongue sweeps out over his bottom lip, his pale eyes locked on me, and I fall into their silver depths. I’m so screwed, and I can’t remember why I should care.
I lean forward, my other hand finding purchase on his shoulder, and I close the gap to bring my mouth to his.
His calloused hand comes up to bracket my jaw, thumb brushing the stubble at my cheekbone as he angles me in, our mouths opening together.
My heart stutters as he bites at my lower lip, tugging on it before releasing to sweep in for a deeper taste. The flavor of his mouth carries the bourbon from his drink with under-notes of the coffee he drank earlier, layered with something clean and salt-edged.