Chapter 3
Lily
Above the usual hum of office chatter, I hear Connor’s deep, throaty laugh.
It grates on my nerves and I hunch my shoulders in response.
He’s talking to Walter after their meeting with the client he stole from me.
The forced laughter is for my benefit. The asshole, motherfucker of a jerk has no conscience.
I tap random numbers into a spreadsheet, killing time before I can escape to the restroom to release the scream that’s twisting my insides.
I can’t go yet because Connor will know he’s got to me.
And my first warning that the latest battle is still in progress is when the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I hate that I recognize Connor’s scent. Peppermint and mildew. The guy who lives in a damp, flea-ridden apartment thinks he can compensate with his minty fresh breath.
“Hey, Lily. Are you doing OK?” Connor says in a stage whisper that’s loud enough for our audience. He gives my shoulder a squeeze that’s intended to convey reassurance to everyone except its recipient.
“Go away, Connor,” I hiss under my breath. Louder for our colleagues, I add, “I’m in the middle of something, thanks.”
His fingers continue to knead my flesh. “Please, Lily. You know we’re so much better working with, rather than against each other. I think the reason you messed up was because you’re missing me.”
“Get your hand off me or I swear, I’ll scream this place down,” I say in a voice that’s low and menacing.
“Not a good look for someone with your reputation as slightly…” He pauses before choosing his word. “Unhinged?”
I glance around the office. No one is watching us, but heads are tilted as my colleagues wait for me to erupt.
I’ve had a few pitying comments throughout the week, but when I tried to tell another of the accountants that it was Connor who’d messed up and not me, she’d grimaced.
It wasn’t because she didn’t believe me.
I was advised to tread carefully. Walter Royston has a fragile ego, and he wouldn’t take kindly to being told he’d made a mistake trusting Connor.
I’m going to have to step back and wait for Connor to fuck things up all by himself.
But that doesn’t help me deal with my present issue of Connor massaging my shoulder like he still has access rights to my body.
I wish I was the kind of person who kept a letter opener.
A pen seems too obvious a weapon, so I pick up a paperclip and straighten the piece of wire.
I turn to smile up at Connor, and as our eyes lock, I place my hand over his, using the paperclip to stab the back of his hand with steady and determined pressure.
His body jerks, but he manages to suppress the cry that makes his lips tremble.
“Don’t touch me again,” I say, never breaking eye contact.
Connor pulls his hand away quickly, and I feel the wire scraping against his skin.
“Psycho,” he hisses under his breath before marching away.
The insult hits harder than it should, if only because it reminds me of my encounter with a certain driver with piercing green eyes. I stroke a finger over the corner of my mouth. He’s been haunting my dreams, and most of my waking hours, occasionally when I have my hand between my legs.
Maybe Connor’s right and I am unhinged, but fantasizing about a self-proclaimed psycho can’t do any harm. It’s not like I’m going to see him again – despite my best efforts. I’ve been searching for that black SUV on my drive home every evening this week, but to no avail.
“Join me for a coffee?” Kaitlyn asks, pulling me from my latest reverie.
“I need more than caffeine,” I admit. I need a distraction. Physical, not fantasy.
We slip into the small kitchenette and as the coffee machine whirs, I rest my back against the counter. “Have you noticed any glitches on your dating apps?” I ask my friend.
Kaitlyn hands me a mug of steaming coffee and throws another pod in the machine for herself. “Which one?”
“All of them,” I say. “I haven’t been able to login to anything this week.”
“Weird,” she replies. “But I can’t say I’ve tried. I’m getting kinda bored with all the dick pics, but speaking of diving back into the dating pool…” She digs her cell phone out of her pocket. “Have you heard of the Heatrush club?”
“The new Moncrief one? Of course. And before you suggest we go, it’s impossible to get in there unless you’ve been invited.”
Kaitlyn beams a smile at me as she turns her screen. “It just so happens…”
“You got an invite? How? When?”
“It only came through about an hour ago. I’ve been dying to tell you,” she explains. “I must have signed up to their newsletter, or something. The tickets aren’t VIP, but still.”
“Damn, you have to go,” I say as I scan the email. It gives access to two people on Saturday night, which is tomorrow. Kaitlyn is gorgeous and curvy. She’d have no trouble finding a plus one, but I hold my breath and she doesn’t let me down.
“Only if you’ll come with me.”
I set down my mug and do a little jig on the spot, my recent encounter with Connor long forgotten. And with any luck, a new man will make my green-eyed psycho a distant memory too. “We need to go shopping at lunchtime. This deserves a new outfit.”
“Drop dead sexy outfits,” Kaitlyn confirms with a nod.
Kaitlyn has longer arms, so she’s in charge of taking our selfie in front of Heatrush.
The exterior is a little disappointing. The club is in an old red brick building with no discernible external features except a small sign above heavy doors painted black.
The spotlight overhead picks out two heavy-set doormen who are checking people off their list. There are no neon signs or billboards to tempt clubbers inside, but it’s apparent from the long line we’re about to join that advertising isn’t necessary.
“Work it, baby,” Kaitlyn tells me as we pose for the camera.
She tilts her phone, trying to get more of our outfits into the shot, but it’s mostly our cleavage that fills the screen.
I don’t have Kaitlyn’s sizable assets, but the push-up bra I’m wearing shows off my breasts to their best advantage.
They might not be big, but they’re a good handful.
Unfortunately, the only man who’s touched them recently has been Connor. I grimace. I need to set that right.
“Are you cold?” Kaitlyn asks, looking up from the photo she’s just posted to catch me shuddering.
“Why? Does it show?” I ask, glancing down at my peaked nipples that are highlighted by the slinky material of my barely-there gold dress.
She laughs. “It shows enough, Lily.”
My eyes sparkle in anticipation of the night ahead. “Come on. If we don’t join the queue soon, we’ll never get in.”
We assume similar poses as we wait in line, arms crossed to cover our bare arms as we shift from one foot to the other to stop our feet from going numb. We face each other to share body heat, and I keep my back to the entrance, which we don’t seem to be getting any closer to.
“This had better be worth it,” I mutter, my teeth chattering.
“Oh, it is,” a deep voice says.
I catch Kaitlyn’s wide-eyed stare as I turn to the man who spoke. Clad in a dark suit with a matching expression, he’s undeniably handsome with a physique that screams security even without the ID on his jacket.
“Ladies, it’s your lucky day,” he says, taking a step back and extending an arm in the direction of the doors. “You can go straight in.”
Kaitlyn squeaks, but the cold has sapped any warmth from my mood.
“Why? What’s the catch, Simon?” I ask, dropping my gaze to his badge again.
The only surprises in my life lately have been nasty ones.
Except maybe my psycho friend. No, Lily, I tell myself.
The clue is in the name. Psychos are not good for you.
The doorman’s stare brings me back to the present, and my body temperature drops another couple of degrees. “The catch is you stay here and freeze your asses off, or you don’t,” he snaps. “Are you coming?”
He’s already walking away as Kaitlyn grabs my hand, and we leave people muttering in the queue behind us.
“Enjoy your evening, ladies,” Simon says as Kaitlyn sweeps past him.
We’re entering a long, dark corridor with pulsing neon lights at the far end, but I pause to give the doorman a final glance.
There has to be a catch, but Simon has already returned his attention to the queue.
I adjust my tiny cross-body purse so it’s at my front where I can see it as we join the throng.
“Our next mission is to get free drinks,” Kaitlyn shouts above the beat of music reverberating off the walls.
We turn a corner and head for a staircase that leads up as well as down.
Up will be the VIP area, but the staff direct us downwards, and eventually we enter a vast cavernous space.
The dance floor is packed tight with undulating bodies, and the crowd only thins at the very edges.
The black and gold color scheme is accented by the orange and red brand colors from the Heatrush logo, and is most noticeable at the booths that line two walls.
As my toes begin to thaw, I sway to the music and tip back my head.
There are at least two levels above us, and onlookers lean over the balconies.
I stare longingly at the cocktails they’re sipping.
“I’ll buy the first round,” I tell Kaitlyn.
I don’t want to accept a drink from the first creep that comes along, and I need something to loosen me up.
There are bars on either end of the dance floor. They take up most of the wall space and although they’re crowded, I spy a gap I can squeeze into.
I’m on the move when a server with a tray steps into our path. “Ladies, on behalf of Heatrush, your first drinks are on us.”
Kaitlyn’s hand shoots out to the exotic looking cocktail. “Cheers,” she says, preparing to bring the glass to her lips.