Chapter 3 Just a Touch
Just a Touch
Mikko
The cool surface of the bar top kept Mikko grounded as people filed into Bubblegum.
After leaving his helmet and jacket at the coat and purse check-in booth, both men had walked deeper into the club.
Mikko had been intent on finding Ivan and starting the night off immediately, but just as he’d suspected, Cristiano had other plans.
A friend had waved him over, his parting words to Mikko being something along the lines of, “I’ll be right back, don’t have too much fun without me, yeah? ”
His silhouette had faded into the crowd before Mikko could protest.
Now, a snifter of vodka was clutched in his hand, the harsh burn of each sip keeping his anger at bay.
For now. The bartenders here, or anywhere really, knew to give him something cheaper to make him grimace.
It was a willing sacrifice he made to keep his wits about him in a setting such as this.
In reality, he shouldn’t be drinking at all, but his hands needed something to do.
While Mikko envied his friend’s ability to let loose, he also valued it. He was unable to ever unclench his jaw unless he resorted to substances to soften the razored edges life had given him.
We all have our vices, he supposed.
Speaking of which, somewhere below him, in the pits of Bubblegum, a certain someone was awaiting his unorthodox trial.
Those rooms, dark and stuffy in their own right, were predominantly used for gambling as the news article had said, but Mikko’s men had retrofitted one in preparation for tonight’s activities.
Ivan was one of many people Mikko’s business dealt with.
While they may appear as a savvy corporation, they spent their nights moonlighting and shuffling large sums of money around under the guise of real estate.
Most months, Ivan flew under the radar, paying his dues as needed and keeping his nefarious habits out of the spotlight.
Until recently.
When the city news channels started circling like vultures, Mikko’s hair had prickled in irritation.
Staying out of the spotlight was the number one rule.
Or rather, the only rule.
If people started poking, they’d discover more than Mikko and his “employees” would ever want them to see.
It was a position that had its perks, but Mikko still had to be wary of the consequences.
He used his power illegally, so when shit started falling apart, he was forced to act quickly.
If he didn’t make an example out of Ivan, Portland would be up in arms. Besides, the city couldn’t run on nothing, organized crime needed hierarchy and organization too.
Nonetheless, Ivan’s vaults had dried up entirely if Mikko had to guess, and his rent was in the red. And the only red Mikko liked to see was on the hands of his men.
Although Mikko was sequestered in the quieter—if one could consider that possible—sections of Bubblegum, it still allowed for him to observe the onslaught of people filling the space as the minutes ticked by.
The seats at the bar near him were occupied, well, except the ones right next to his standing form.
People tended to steer clear of his harsh gaze, a look Cristiano said he needed to break, but old habits died hard.
Speaking of which…where was that man?
Scanning the bodies beginning to dance beneath the lights, and the ones lingering along the sides of the club, Mikko searched for his friend.
And came up empty.
Another sip to quell the fire igniting in his chest. This would be the last time his friend talked him into—
“If you’re searching for a dance partner, your sour mood isn’t gonna do you any favors.” The feminine voice had his eyes cutting down to his side, thoughts interrupted. Dark hair with a blonde money piece had his heart stuttering.
It was the woman from outside.
His teeth clenched, a blunt reply on his tongue when she continued, making herself at home despite his obvious coldness toward strangers.
“You should’ve stuck around to hear the vitriol the others outside were calling you.
” His eyebrow raised. “Seems like line skippers aren’t appreciated around here. ”
“Good thing I don’t care what others have to say about me.”
“Still,” she huffed, “jumping the line doesn’t earn you any brownie points, no matter how good you look.”
Mikko slowly blinked.
“If I didn’t know better, you sound jealous,” he countered, eyes observing the casual way she held herself. It was as if no one could touch her—or her ego.
Her deep eyes looked him up and down before she said, “Perhaps. So, are you going to tell me who the lucky lady is?” Her gaze turned back out toward the rest of the club as if searching for who he’d been looking at.
“Who said I’m looking for someone?”
“You’re telling me you’re not on the hunt?”
“I’m not,” he gritted out.
“Hmm, weird.” She leaned leisurely against the bar, close enough that her body heat whispered across his skin. “Suits like you never deny the accusations pumping your ego as surely as you pump your cock at night.”
His eyes widened at her boldness, jaw loosening for once in his life. “I—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” She patted his arm, the crisp black button down rustling beneath her soft touch. Suddenly, he wished for his riding jacket, needing the extra layer to ward himself against her charms.
Underneath the tingling discomfort, Mikko felt a warmth stirring. There was an easiness between them making him think they’d met before, but he’d remember someone as mouthy as her. While he may hate to be perceived as anything other than untouchable, this might be an exception.
Her audacity was refreshing, and paired with the shadowed lights of the club, he allowed himself to let go. Slightly. No longer did he worry about her looking for a chink in his metaphorical armor, but instead he sunk into his other side. The side that got him what he wanted.
“Apologies for giving you the wrong idea,” he crooned, “but I rarely have to smile since my name does all the talking for me.”
“Lucky for me that means nothing since I don’t know who you are, line skipper.”
“I think you’re a liar.”
He assessed her reaction, lashes fluttering against her cheek as she glanced down at his drink.
“And I think you’re egotistical.”
“What’re you gonna do about that?” he taunted.
His usual quiet demeanor was gone. In its place was a rare version of himself. Mikko noted the sharpness of her features, liner darkening the edges of her intoxicating eyes. Her lack of rebuttal annoyed him, her confidence digging beneath his skin—
Snatching his drink from his clenched fingers, she knocked it back.
The emptiness was undeniable in his hand as he watched her throat bob as she swallowed.
Her nose wrinkled at the burn tracing a path down her throat and to her chest, but that was the only indication she gave of her discomfort as she set the glass atop the bar with a clink. Well, that and a skeptical side eye.
“Find you something better to drink than that,” she mumbled before pushing the empty snifter to the edge of the bar top. He realized a beat too late that she’d technically answered his last question. Irritation simmered in his veins.
“Maybe your palette isn’t as refined as mine,” he quipped. It was rude, but his sharp tongue couldn’t help itself, and he had a feeling she liked a little bite.
The woman laughed, her teeth glinting in the lowlight, and Mikko suddenly wanted to know what they felt like biting into his skin—
“While I’m sure most women let you believe whatever you want, I can’t let you go through life thinking that”—she nodded to his empty glass—“is ‘refined’ taste.”
Chuckling darkly, he shook his head once. “And what do you think is good quality liquor?”
Ignoring him, she flagged down the bartender. Her lithe body leaned over the counter, momentarily distracting him, as she motioned for the man to get something else for them to drink. Whatever it was, Mikko wasn’t interested. She was purposefully toying with him, and he wouldn’t rise to the bait.
Except, when a fresh tumbler slid across the bar, he caught it in his awaiting hand.
So much for that plan.
He waited to drink it, mind wholly set on observing the woman before him, curiosity piqued in a way it hadn’t been in years.
Fuck.
That feeling was exacerbated when Mikko watched her pull a crisp one hundred dollar bill from the inside of her dress. The movement had his gaze lingering on the swell of her breasts, an enticing swath of amber skin that had his mind wandering yet again.
And he wondered if the bill she’d produced was still warm; if it smelt like her.
A soft, alluring scent wafted off her hair and skin every time she moved, something that was reminiscent of vanilla.
At its base, though, there was a richness he could almost discern—a dark tobacco, laced in pepper and spiced with rum.
Just one little touch won’t hurt, right? he internally reasoned. One little taste.
“My eyes are up here,” she chastised with a sweet smile—one that grew when he obeyed and fixed his eyes back on hers, “and you’re still acting so mysterious hmm? Clinging to what little bravado you can muster up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said gruffly.
Reaching out, she touched the starched material of his button down, eyebrow cocking in question. The warmth of her fingers sent a jolt up his arm, his spine stiffening. “See, you’re barely giving me anything to work with here.”
Her hand now rested in the crook of his elbow. The layered fabric from his rolled up sleeve shielded him from most of her heat, but not enough.
“I’m here on business,” his fingers clenched the tumbler, still untouched by his lesser refined palette. Her brazen touch was making it hard to think, the faint whisper of her wandering fingertips scattering his thoughts.
Mikko felt the way her gaze assessed him, eyes lingering on the exposed blackout ink covering his forearms before slowly trailing up his front and settling on a smaller tattoo that had to be peeking out above his unbuttoned collar.
CTRL. Or control. There’d been a time where he thought tattooing it into his skin would serve as a reminder, but the direction of tonight was proving his theory wrong.
Most of the time, he hid his tattoos, but he’d gotten comfortable.
Cristiano’s relaxed ways were rubbing off on him, and he feared it’d get him in trouble tonight.
A new song began playing out above the dance floor, the reverb of it rattling through his chest, but the woman leaned in, determined to make her point heard. “Business, huh? Well, lucky for you, I like mysteries.”
His eyes, which had been scanning for Cristiano over her shoulder dismissively, now flicked back down to her. She met his gaze, unafraid at whatever emotion flashed across his countenance.
Dangerous, this is so very dangerous.
Her formerly sunlit whiskey eyes were now colorless in the nearby flashing lights, but he could still read the sinful glint in them.
Her pointer finger traced the edge of one of the flower tattoos on his forearm.
Biting the inside of his cheek, the taste of blood was the only thing keeping a shiver from racing up his spine.
“But unfortunately for you, I have business of my own to take care of—have fun finding a new target, Mikko.”
He cocked his head, a predatory move she cataloged, but still appeared unbothered. Questions gathered on his tongue, especially the one demanding how she knew his name when she’d explicitly stated prior that she didn’t know him.
A liar indeed.
And what’s her name?
With one final smirk and squeeze of his arm, she was off. His eyes dipped down the length of her back, heated gaze lingering a moment too long on the swaying of her hips before the dancing bodies around them swallowed her up.
He growled, grabbing the drink she’d bought him and downed it, choking on the tequila.
What the hell?
A meager cough escaped past his lips as he set the tumbler back down—an action the bartender noticed with a grin, quirking a brow when he teasingly held up a lime wedge with a pair of tongs.
Fuck all these people.
Glancing at his watch, he prayed for his friend to appear and whisk him away from such annoyances before he did something rash. Until then, he’d be staring at the dark lipstick stain the mysterious and infuriating woman had left on the rim of his other glass.