CHAPTER SEVEN
TY
I f I wasn’t beside myself, chewing a hole in my cheek and breaking into a cold sweat from the droves of anxiety-provoking scenarios my mind has conjured up, I’d be impressed by Rena’s prowess. But after visiting four gothic nightclubs in Vegas, coming up empty, and confirming with her that she’s been fucking with me, I happened upon an establishment that has my insides curdling.
A goddamn sex club.
I might blitz the whole fucking place if I find her there.
It didn’t take a lot of digging to unearth Eternal Night as her likely location. The name gave it up quickly. Ten years ago, they had begun as a gothic vampire club. But as more popped up, they expanded to edge out the competition. From what I can ascertain, it’s an eclectic environment, offering a little something for everyone while still maintaining a modicum of that gothic essence.
The dress code is concerning. While I’m pleased to wear a mask to conceal my facial construct, I have no doubt I’m not the only one that appeals to. Which means any creep could be lurking there in the hopes of accosting a woman and never getting caught. Those are the abuse victims my shelter rarely has a chance to harbor and erase because they never have the opportunity to run. Hence the torrent of panic-provoking scenarios flitting through my mind.
I flip up my mask and flash my ID to the bouncer for admittance. Because of the upstairs club, they tout anonymity as one of their marketing ploys. That’s a partial lie. What they don’t advertise is that they also snap a picture of your face for security purposes. Not tonight though. I tampered with their software. It’s currently on the fritz. I also brought three other masks with me, in case.
Crowds aren’t my thing, other than La Lune Noire, where my family and I feel as though we’re shrouded in a thin veil of safety. Every other public gathering is a minefield. Someone could recognize us from our past. And that wouldn’t end well. It’s always a risk. For that reason, I’m embracing the disguise. Simple all-black attire with a matching mask. Nothing notable.
Slinking through the throng of drunk and overly eager patrons, I head straight for the Rock Through the Ages lounge. It’s her kind of music. She’d better be there because my patience is thinning. With every second of searching, that wrathful part of me I attempt to snuff out gains purchase.
I wander around for what feels like an eternity, scrutinizing every dancing, screaming, drinking female. She’s not here. And the band just finished, so maybe she’s in the gothic room. That is the characteristic she sold to me. I can’t picture her enjoying heavy metal music, but maybe I’m wrong.
When I’m making my way to the far corner exit, a woman’s voice blares out from a microphone, announcing her band, The Mystifiers. They must be well loved because cheers abound. I’ll stop back here and check again if Rena isn’t in the other areas.
As I reach the door and dip into the hallway, the voice captures my attention again. “We are so excited to welcome back our special guest star from last night. Put those hands together for Little Moon. ”
My heart practically stops, lungs seizing.
Little Moon.
She used the nickname I’d assigned her as her stage name? I turn on my heel and race through the people for a better view as a guitar riff belts through the air. It’s her.
Fuck me. She looks sexy up onstage.
Confident and carefree. In her element.
And so unbelievably talented.
That riff bleeds into No Doubt’s “Just a Girl.” And her whole beautiful face beams. Everything blurs into a backdrop as I gape, mesmerized by every strum of her fingers, every quirk of her full lips, every bop of her head. Breathtaking.
She leans into the lead singer, crooning some of the lyrics into the mic. And our gazes collide, like, somehow, within this audience of several hundred people, she felt me. Knew where to look, who she fits with. Belongs to. Every part of me coils tighter, incapable of severing this hold she has on me. I’m not sure I understand it, and I certainly don’t know what the fuck to do about it, but I’ve never been so captivated.
She smiles, her focal point never shifting from mine as her fingers continue to skate across the strings. Magnificent. When she lifts her chin higher in a subtle confirmation that she’s just as much of a hostage as I am, the angle of her face casts a strange shadow on her cheek. Maybe from her eye mask or … I glance around for the source, but there’s nothing.
It’s a goddamn bruise. Has to be. I tromp toward the stage, slithering through people to obtain a better angle. The closer I get, the more irate I become.
Rough crowd? Some motherfucker put his hands on her.
Who the hell hurt you, baby girl?
It all blurs to slow motion. Fading in and out. The only sounds—my crashing breaths, the distant echo of chords and shouts, and the swishing blood flow assaulting my eardrums. My fists clench at my sides. Black spots mar the corners of my vision .
Slipping.
Crunch. Squeak. Blood. One wrong choice.
Until it all comes zooming back with an unwavering fury, amplified when I catch her tentative gaze slicing to the corner, as though something there is unnerving her. My feet carry me around the stage of their own accord.
One thought grounding me: Someone dies tonight.
Since everyone is cloaked in disguises, it’s challenging to determine who Rena may have been peering at, so I switch tactics, deciding to get to her first.
A guard stands in front of the door that leads backstage though. He’ll probably make me wait until her set is over. That’s not happening. So, I bump into a group of women standing nearby and duck out of the way before they can pinpoint the culprit for their faltering. They squeal, drinks spilling all over their scanty lingerie-inspired ensembles, and as I hoped, they cause quite a commotion. But the guard doesn’t abandon his post, like I expected, which makes my actions despicable and useless, but I have only one girl in mind right now.
As I’m scouring for another diversion, a conversation behind me pulls my concentration. “Yeah. The hot-as-fuck guitarist.”
“Little Moon,” another guy warbles, and I feel every cell of my body ignite with turbulent ferocity.
The first guy lets a dark chuckle rip. “Total bitch, but she’ll be a firecracker.”
My jaw clicks, but I steady my breathing and listen.
“If she doesn’t break something else of yours. How’s the nose, jackass?”
“She’ll pay for that. Fucking whore. I’m taking her back to the house tonight. We’ll see how tough she is after she’s been railed by a couple dozen of us.”
A snicker drifts toward me. “Count me in. She attached?”
“Nah, we watched her for hours last night. Pretty sure she’s traveling alone. ”
I’ve heard enough, so I spin, noting the cigarettes in Asshole One’s pocket and flashing him a broad smile. “Hey, man. Couldn’t help overhearing. I’d be interested in a piece of that pink-haired pussy.”
“Sorry. Private party,” the guy snipes, unhappy that I’ve weaseled my way into his super-secretive, discussed-in-a-club gang-rape plan.
“Right,” I concede. “No worries. I’m sure I can find some tasty cunt upstairs.”
“Yeah, bruh.” The other guy bobs his head with a sinister smirk, plainly reliving a memory. “Great ass up there, but membership is pricey.”
Certainly pricier than abduction.
I hum, considering. “Might be worth checking out. Thanks, man.” With that, I dip my chin to him and start walking toward the stairway that leads to the pricey sex club, but double back to them. “You know what? It might take a while to get a membership. Mind if I bum a smoke first?”
Even with his mask on, I can tell Asshole One is disgruntled.
But his dumbass friend solves that for me. “This set just started. We might as well have one now anyway.”
The motherfucker who got his nose broken kicks his chin toward the side door, so we all saunter into the alleyway. He passes us each a cigarette. I hate smoking but endure it and their mindless chitchat while I grunt agreement at the appropriate openings and scope out my surroundings.
Secluded. The reverberating notes of the more populated area trickle back here, and the building pulses with the thumping bass of the nightclub. Horns and the din of traffic whir just out of reach. The lamppost lights are yellow, dim, casting an orangish glow on the brick of the building. The concrete is cracked and in desperate need of repaving. One end dips into a gate that separates the front lot while the other seems to spill into another alley or side street. And a dumpster overloaded with trash bags has the stench of piss and rotten food wafting around us.
It’s interesting that he led us out to an area that is devoid of people instead of to the front entrance, which thumps with Vegas nightlife. Or even to the lobby bar, which permits smoking. Ordinarily, I’d peg that as a plan to jump me, but they wouldn’t risk it with their big schemes on the horizon. No. This is familiar territory for them.
“The parking lot was fucking packed,” I muse while blowing a plume of smoke into the inky night. “I had to snag a spot all the way down the goddamn street.”
“Even worse on weekends.” Asshole Two, who didn’t hurt Rena but is ready and willing to rape her this evening, throws a thumb behind him. “There’s a side street that butts up to the end of this alley. Always empty.”
Perfect. For kidnapping women or …
“Just down here?” I point the glowing cherry as my gaze darts around in confusion. “How the fuck do you get back there?”
He waves his arms through the air, muttering directions but resolves to start walking. Asshole One steps away from the brick wall of the building, cigarette dangling from his lips as I pitch mine, and he barks his irritation and urgency for getting back inside.
As soon as there is a natural break in his speech, I step behind him, wrapping one arm across his chest, shoulder to shoulder, the other curling across his face to palm his temple, and I snap his neck, delighting in the cracks and eradicated breaths.
Life extinguished in a second.
Throwing him over my shoulder, I pluck my knife from my pocket, flick it open, and follow silently behind Asshole Two. He’s still blathering about some shit as he treks toward wherever they parked. When the alley widens into the deserted side street that he mentioned, he peers at me over his shoulder. His eyes widen with alarm at the sight of his friend draped over me, but before he can speak, I throw my knife and hit his carotid artery.
Only a select few in the world could pull that off. But as a special forces-trained sniper and an assassin who’s perfected that sharp-shooting skill with any and all fathomable weaponry, I never miss a mark.
The blade sinks into the tissue, and he sputters a few gurgling noises, blood spurting in a geyser-like stream as he folds in on himself and drops to the ground with a thud.
I’d have preferred to make it all the way to his vehicle first, but this will do.
There are two cars on the side street, so it’s not completely desolate, but it lacks clarity on which belongs to them. That’s easily remedied. I drop the broken-nosed motherfucker on the ground near the vehicles and go back to retrieve the other. Hoping to avoid soiling my clothes before I see Rena, I hoist him up and fold his waist over my forearm. It’s not especially practical or comfortable, but I only need to cart him about twenty-five feet.
Right as he flops in half, three drunk women stumble into the alleyway, spotting me.
“Could be worse,” one of them howls, gesturing toward us, her intoxicated observation ricocheting off the solid surfaces to create a deafening tunnel of high-pitched peals. “You could have to carry me like that.”
I chuckle and jerk my chin to them, issuing a friendly, “Stay safe and have a good night, ladies,” as I turn around and haul the dead fucker back to the car.
Once I drop him, I pat him down for the keys, pressing the fob button to unlock the trunk. That alerts me to which vehicle it is, so I scoop the bloody guy up and deposit him inside. It’s full of rags and chloroform, various restraints and weapons.
Sick pieces of shit.
His vacant eyes glare back at me. Petrified in a state of bewilderment.
Sometimes, plans bite you in the ass, motherfucker. Or the neck.
“Oh, I’m gonna need that back.” I pluck my knife out of his neck, wipe the blade on his cheeks, fold it closed, and stash it back in my pocket.
Then, I grab his friend and lug him over. Ripping off his mask, I study the racoon bruising. Purple rings fringing his swollen nose. His eyelids aren’t as open as the other guy’s, but either way, all I see are beady coal irises taunting me.
Like the ones from my nightmares … his .
My fingers itch to reach for my blade, to sink it into his flesh, again and again and again, lifeless or not. Scorching heat swarms my chest and spine and limbs. The stammering and stuttering of my heart are goading me to do it—to desecrate his body until he’s nothing but an unrecognizable heap of vanquished evil.
A chant whirs around me like a typhoon of regret. Too late. You should’ve, but you didn’t. You failed them. You were too late.
Crunch. Squeak. Blood. One wrong choice.
As if I’ve been slapped, Rena’s angelic face suddenly flashes before me, interrupting the berating mantra. But that stunning porcelain skin is stained purple by this motherfucker who planned to defile her. That’s the precise second that I release the sanity noose holding me back, grab my knife, and stab the repulsive rapist with every ounce of pent-up rage blasting through my muscles. His body jumps from the force of each gash. Dozens of holes mar his chest and stomach. And eyes. I move to the other cocksucker and carry out the same vengeance.
Fuck. It’s still not enough. At least dead bodies don’t bleed, so I’m relatively clean. I mean, fresh kills like these still seep, but they don’t gush. The longer they’re dead, the less gore there is. Not that I stab a lot of corpses. The point is, I’m not splattered in blood because their hearts aren’t pumping it.
Wiping off the blade once more, I stow it in my pocket, modulate my breathing, and rinse my hands, face, and arms with a bottle of water from their trunk. I need to hurry to get back before Rena’s done playing.
Snatching both their wallets, I sift through for identification. Enzo Sanford and Sebastian Forner. I snap a quick photo of both of their addresses. Enzo said he’d take Rena back to “the house,” so I’ll dig into that later.
After shutting the trunk, I toss the keys onto the driver’s seat and pull out my burner phone to dial York. He’s the cleaner we keep on retainer. Well worth the money. Not only is he the best there is, but he also has guys all over the world. While he works solely for us, he has no idea who we are. It benefits both parties. That’s one of the advantages to the government wiping us from existence. Complete anonymity. No fingerprints to run, no facial recognition, no DNA. Even our former identity criteria have been altered. They wouldn’t risk a situation where a dead guy was caught for something.
It all adds up to us being able to hide in plain sight. To do their bidding. And plenty of our own. Not to mention KORT—our primary focus. What that means for York is that he rakes in the money while having little chance of going down for the abundance of crimes he revels in expunging.
Win-win.
He answers our private line on the first ring. “Go.”
“Eternal Night. Vegas.” I glance at the street sign. “Webster Street alleyway.”
“How many?” He always gets right to it. Time is a commodity that is rarely plentiful in these situations. The number of bodies is what he’s looking for.
“Two.”
“Requirements?” That’s regarding the type of cleanup he’ll need tools for—fire, flood, bloodbath, et cetera.
“Car crushing.”
“Nice.” He chuckles, moving on to the coverup. “Plotting?”
I don’t give a shit if anyone misses these fuckers. Nothing ties them to me. But I guess I’m not sure that’s the case for Rena. “For now, nothing. But I’ll text later this evening.”
“Fine. Send the plate number. Eleven minutes till arrival. Sounds like no diversion is necessary. ”
“No,” I agree. “I want a pic of the empty spot so I know it’s cleared.”
“Will do,” he says before hanging up.
I stroll back through the alley and mosey all the way around the building, squeezing past the gate and reentering through the front entrance. After flashing my ID to security again, I duck inside the restroom to clean myself up and switch out my mask. At a minimum, those ladies saw me with the guys. I didn’t change the mask outside because it’s possible the bouncer would have noted the difference from earlier and questioned it.
I’ve probably been gone for close to a half hour, so I’m relieved to see Rena is still playing. But my patience is utterly extinguished. I’m nearly ready to storm the stage and drag her out of here. Instead, I resolve to find a way back there, ambling casually through the Rock Through the Ages club toward the gothic room, hoping there is another entrance on that side, when a cocktail waitress scurries by, wearing a key card on her hip.
I bump into her, catching her before she trips and fumbles her tray. “Sorry about that. It’s packed in here.”
“It happens.” She smiles, but is clearly in a hurry, slinging a quick, “Thanks for keeping me upright,” over her shoulder as she dashes for the bar.
With her employee card in hand, I weave through the throng of patrons and tables, all veiled in darkness, until I find a staff-only door. Swiping her card, I sneak inside and dart to the left since that’s the direction of the stage. I pass a few employees, but no one seems to question whether I belong or not—a clear indication Rena has picked an unsafe establishment to frequent. A claustrophobic maze littered with metal doors designated for staff-only areas eventually leads me to her, where I lurk in the shadows, my phone vibrating with the text of the empty parking spot while I wait.
Again, as though Rena can sense me, she swings her gaze to the curtain behind her, searching before returning to the audience. As the song switches, she bends toward the lead singer, saying something. The girl announces Little Moon’s exit and urges applause from the crowd before Rena retreats backstage, her investigative gawk flicking to all the concealed corners.
She jumps when I emerge, forcing her back to thump into the wall and her backpack to slide off her shoulder. “You’re here,” she rasps, her voice worn from belting out songs. “I knew I saw you.”
“Of course I am.” I have no other words. This has been the most harrowing two weeks of my life, but she’s right in front of me, and I’ve got no idea what to say.
My fingers thread into her flowing pink-and-gold tresses, thumb drifting over the bruise marring her cheekbone. Did he hit her? Backhand her? Force himself on her? Was she scared? Is that why she was drinking, why she texted me? I should have found her sooner. I should’ve been here. His nose was broken. She fought back. My tough girl.
Mine.
I’m not sure when that changed or if I should give credence to it. Or if I even have a choice in the matter.
Powerless.
She makes me weak.
But also … I think one taste would be revitalizing. New life. A strength I’ve never known.
Or the poison that finally does me in, forcing me to give up the fight and succumb to the beast.
Would she still want me if she knew? She shouldn’t. She deserves so much more.
There’s something about her that doesn’t exist in any other realm. Not in this life or the last. Dangerous and enticing. A healing death.
It’s selfish to drink her in like this, but I can’t stop. Every fiber of my being wants to finally trash that morality fence, lay it across the moat, and storm her castle.
“Why?” she chirps.
Why am I here ?
Her throat works on a swallow, the column rolling along her dainty, swanlike neck. Even her pulse point is visible, or maybe that’s my imagination. I graze my fingers over it, savoring the hammering beat and the flush of her porcelain skin. This outfit is divine and lethal, the swell of her perky breasts greeting me with a whole lot of enthusiasm, begging to be squeezed and sucked and tweaked.
Jesus, she’s exquisite.
Moving to her mouth, I indulge one of my cravings, dragging my thumb across her luscious pink lips. Plump and soft and perfect. She’s so fucking pretty.
So, I avoid declaring a reason for being here and instead share my infatuation. “You were incredible up there. So talented. Radiant.”
It’s more than I should say, but she’s got me so damn off-balanced.
Her hands skim over my chest as she tracks every subtle motion I make, her breath hitched so long that I’m surprised she’s not turning blue.
Blue.
Blueberries and rain—like the rims of her eyes. While the centers are the grayish-green fields with the dusty-brown aisles. A mosaic of freedom.
I want to dive inside them and let them devour me, break me apart bit by bit, until I reemerge as the warrior she needs.
“Radiant?” she chokes out. One airy, expectant, and timorous word.
“That’s an understatement. You’re fucking stunning,” I admit before gliding my hand back to her pulse point and losing myself inside her again.
Seconds tick by. I’m adrift in the abyss of her beauty, her essence, her scent—apple today, accompanying the berries, and only a hint of butterscotch.
It’s as though the world has stopped. The patrons and music and strobing lights. The flashbacks and demons and weight of all I can’t control, all the ways I’ve failed. It ceases to exist, suspended to whatever this gravitational force is between us.
If I let go, it will all come rushing back. How does she do it?
I’m helpless to the allure of her siren song.
But a savage for plundering it.
I shouldn’t be so close to her. I can’t trust myself.
What the fuck am I doing?
“Ty?” Those blueberry-field irises frolic all over my face, brimming with the threat of a drizzle beneath her mask. A plea. “Do it,” she whispers, her attention flicking to my lips with a lingering ogle.
What kind of monster would deny her anything?
But what kind of moron would share a single breath of hers with anyone?
“Not here, Little Moon. Whatever this is, it isn’t theirs.”
She peers around us, heeding the curious gazes of a few observers before returning to me. Her nails scrape over the scruff on my cheeks, ring-clad thumbs exploring, much like mine were moments ago. Pressing her chest against me, she erases any space between us, her lips brushing so gently over mine that it barely constitutes a kiss. It’s more of a tease, but it rockets a shock wave of greedy yearnings through me.
“Okay, well, whatever this is,” she says, slow and controlled, her mouth forming each syllable with intention, “when we figure it out, I wouldn’t mind you tightening your grip.”
It takes a minute for her words to register because I’m stuck, relishing the sweet apple-scented plushness of her lips. My grip . My hand is still splayed on her throat. A necklace.
“Fuck me,” I hiss.
A coy grin blooms on her rosy cheeks, and her voice is raw and breathy. “Sure. But we definitely shouldn’t do that here.”
Christ, she needs to stop saying things like that to me. Headboards and shackles and wanting me to chase her, choke her, fuck her. So much bolder than I would have expected.
Visions flicker in my mind—wholly different from the ones that have been annihilating me for the last couple of months. These are the type I rarely entertain. Throwing her down right here, my hand binding her wrists while I thrust inside her sopping cunt, those long-as-fuck legs coiled around my waist as she writhes beneath me, begging for more. I’d want a taste first. I bet she’s sweet and decadent—butterscotch-infused. She probably croons beautiful whimpers when she comes and looks … I wonder how her innocent face twists. I’ve never wanted to know that about anyone.
I’d have to kill everyone here. That’s unreasonable. And messy.
Snapping out of it, I regain my composure. “You’re trouble.”
“You have no idea, but I warned you.” She giggles into my neck as I hoist her into the air and bolt for the exit. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home,” I answer, and her body stiffens in my embrace. “Not home,” I correct, aware of her misunderstanding. “To whatever place you’re calling home right now.”
Her ankles lock behind me, and her arms tighten around my shoulders, her slender fingers lacing into my hair. “I should’ve known you’d move fast like this, trying to get me into bed after only a few minutes of foreplay.”
“Rena,” I warn because she’s making me dizzy and confusing everything, but that’s the least of my concerns when a deep tenor cracks through the thudding beat of the band.
“Little Moon. Where ya going?”
I level the guy with an admonishing glower. He seems harmless enough. Clean-cut. Wrinkled button-down. Manager name tag. He’s mildly nervous as he notes my scowl, but doesn’t back down.
“It’s okay, Fender,” she assures him, squeezing me with her own warning. “This is my … guy friend .”
That response plunges me into a feral rage. I’m not sure what I’d have expected her to introduce me as, but not that. Jesus , this is one tangled mess after another. I want to end this guy for calling her Little Moon, and her brothers would want to slaughter me for nicknaming her, coming here in secret, and fantasizing about her. But I can’t find it in me to hold on to the latter, not while she’s curled around me.
“Nice to meet you, Fender. I’m taking my girl home now. Thank you for looking out for her.”
His focus flits between Rena and me. “No problem, bud. Just wanted to make sure she was safe.”
“She is tonight .” I stress the last word because where the hell was this Good Samaritan last night when she got attacked? Shifting my weight forward so it’s clear we’re done, I tack on another important detail for him. “And so we’re clear, only I call her Little Moon.”
Rena’s breath crashes over me, an exhale that has me soaking in her pretty face. She nods, her teeth sinking into her lower lip before addressing Fender. “Yeah … about that, I might need to change my stage name, but I’ll let you know. I mean, it’s not like Little Moon belongs to anyone right now. The girl and the name are currently free agents.” Her eyes flick to me as she beams victoriously. “Right?”
A growl rips from the depths of my chest. Her everyone is shackled to something theory ensnares me like a straitjacket. No easy way out of this one.
Not sparing him another glance, I carry her out to the parking lot. “You won’t be getting back to him about anything,” is the only response I extend.
Her lips tickle my cheek along the seam of my mask. “I guess that’s up to you, Ty.”
Fuck , she plays dirty. She’ll be the death of me.
But what a way to go.