Chapter 16
Sixteen
Quiet settles around me the moment I walk through those VIP doors.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet. The kind that presses against your eardrums after hours of bass-heavy club music. The kind that makes you hyperaware of your own breathing.
I definitely don’t belong here.
It isn’t that I’m not dressed the part—Alex made sure of that. Black dress, heels that could kill a man, enough makeup to look like I have my shit together.
It’s the way I’m standing. The way my shoulders are too tight. The way my hand keeps drifting toward my throat before I force it back down.
The air feels thick. Just inhaling causes my lungs to squeeze. Or maybe that’s the smoke that hangs up here like a cloud—cigar smoke, expensive and heavy, the kind that coats your throat and reminds you exactly how much money is in this room.
Ever so slowly, I make my way toward the bar on the right side of the open space.
Along the left wall are cubicles—booth seating, but make it rich. Deep leather couches instead of chairs, small tables in the center, and thick green curtains hanging from the tall ceiling. Velvet, probably. The kind you want to touch and also know you shouldn’t.
Some curtains are open. Some are closed.
I try not to think about what’s happening behind the closed ones.
What strikes me most is the soundproof glass to the right—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dance floor below. Down there, bodies pulse to EDM that I can feel vibrating through the floor even up here.
Up here? Jazz. Soft, sultry, the kind that makes you feel like you’re in a 1940s noir film except with better lighting and worse decisions.
It’s a paradox. A jazz lounge floating above a nightclub. Old money pretending it doesn’t hear the chaos it profits from.
Swallowing my nerves, I cross to the bar. High-top. Expensive cherry wood that’s been polished until it gleams, and more of that green velvet on the bar stools. Not Kelly green. Smoky green. The kind that promises sin as well as elegance.
I slide onto a seat at the far end—closest to the exit, farthest from the closed booths—just as the bartender walks over. My now empty glass before me.
He’s older. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair styled with the kind of precision that takes time and product. And a mustache. Not just a mustache—a handlebar mustache that would look ridiculous on anyone else but on him just looks... knowing.
Bar towel slung over one shoulder. Brown eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
He leans on the bar, those eyes studying me in a way that makes every nerve ending in my body light up.
He knows I don’t belong here. It’s obvious in the way he just stares and says nothing. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just... assessing.
My fingers twitch toward my throat. Stop halfway. Fall back to my lap.
Instead, I pull Dylan Wells the future prosecutor from somewhere deep in my chest and stare right back.
He tilts his head. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite.
Then he stands up slowly and begins making a drink.
He still hasn’t said a word. Isn’t wearing a name tag. Doesn’t ask what I want.
Just makes the drink with the kind of muscle memory that comes from decades behind a bar. Bottles move. Ice clinks. His hands are steady and sure.
It might very well be the weirdest encounter I’ve ever experienced in my life.
“Cosmo.” He places it in front of me. Not a question. A statement.
Nerves make me want to twitch. To bite my tongue or my cheek. To cover my throat and bolt for the exit.
I don’t. Obviously.
But I want to.
I sip instead. It’s honestly surprisingly delicious—tart and sweet and exactly the right amount of vodka to make bad decisions seem reasonable.
“Now.” He says it in a tone that tells me I’m so busted.
“Listen.” I cut him off before he can kick me out. He gives me an eyebrow raise that is very obviously practiced. Perfectly arched. The kind of look that says I’ve heard every bullshit story in the book and yours isn’t even original. “I know I don’t belong here.”
“You don’t say.” His voice is dry as the vermouth he probably didn’t put in this cosmo.
Fucking smartass.
I roll my eyes because some things really can’t be helped. “I’m searching for someone.”
Again with that ridiculous eyebrow raise.
“Go on,” he prompts, leaning back against the back bar, arms crossed.
My pulse hammers against my throat.
“All I know is he wears a fur coat,” I rush it out, then immediately look around.
No one heard. Just the two of us and the jazz and the smoke and my rapidly deteriorating common sense.
When I turn back, his face has changed completely.
No more amused assessment. No more practiced bartender neutrality.
He looks disturbed. And something else—protective? Worried? Like I just asked about someone’s abusive ex and he’s calculating how fast he can get me out of here before something bad happens.
“You should leave.” His voice is flat. Final. He starts wiping down the counter even though it’s already spotless.
“I haven’t finished my drink.” I pull out cash from my pocket—a twenty, which is either too much or not enough for whatever game we’re playing.
“On the house if you leave.” He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps wiping. Wiping nothing. Avoiding eye contact.
“I’m not leaving.” I drop the twenty on the bar.
He stops wiping. Looks at the twenty. Looks at me.
Then rolls his eyes in a way that somehow conveys both you’re an idiot and I respect the commitment.
“Listen. I don’t know what you’re trying to get yourself into but it’s not him—”
And that’s when he makes a mistake.
His eyes flicker. Just for a second. To a booth in the far corner.
I spin around so fast I nearly fall off the stool.
The booth is closed. Green velvet curtains drawn tight, hiding whoever—or whatever—is behind them.
Except.
The curtains are moving.
Fluttering. Like there’s a breeze.
Only there’s no breeze. The air up here is still and thick and heavy with smoke. No windows open. No vents blowing. Nothing.
Just those curtains, moving on their own.
The ring burns against my chest. Hot. Sudden.
My skin prickles. That same feeling from the murder board.
No. Not doing this. Not here.
My breath catches. The curtains shouldn’t be moving. There’s no breeze up here.
I swallow hard and turn back to the bartender, but he’s already staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“If your mother told you not to touch a hot stove, do you touch it?” His voice is low. Urgent.
“No.” I draw the word out slowly, my brain trying to catch up to what’s happening.
“I’m telling you not to touch the hot stove.” He leans forward, his knuckles white where they’re gripping the bar towel.
“I know not to touch the hot stove,” I tell him slowly, understanding dawning. The hot stove isn’t the booth. It’s whoever is in that booth. “But that’s exactly why I’m here.”
“Then why are you asking me?” His jaw works like he’s chewing words he can’t say. “You already know he’s dangerous. You already know you shouldn’t be here. So why—”
“Who was he with last week?” I press, knowing it will likely get me kicked out. Knowing I’m pushing too hard. Knowing I don’t care.
Fuck it. I’m in here. I’m asking the questions.
Or I could just... go over there. Walk right up to that fluttering curtain and pull it back.
The thought ripples through me like a hot wave. Reckless. Stupid. Exactly the kind of thing that gets women killed.
“Don’t.” He sighs, defeated. “I’ll have security on you before you can take a step in that direction.”
“What?” I spin around, finally noticing what I should have seen the moment I walked in. Security guards. At least four of them. Posted around the lounge like sentries. All watching. All waiting.
Damn.
“Finish your drink.” He grabs a tray as a small printer behind the bar starts churning out an order ticket.
“Can you give me anything?” I take another sip. The cosmo is half gone now and I know I’m running out of time. Five minutes, Alex said. I’ve definitely exceeded that.
“Probably shouldn’t.” He’s loading drinks onto the tray, his back to me.
“Listen.” I lean forward, drop my voice. And then I lie. “My friend is missing.”
My hand goes to my throat. That fucking tell. I force it back down into my lap and hope he didn’t notice.
He noticed.
But instead of calling me on it, he pauses. Sets down the bottle he was holding. Turns to face me, leaning over the bar into my space.
I can smell fresh mint on his breath—like he sucks on the leaves to get through his shift. To cover up the smell of whatever he has to witness up here.
“She was last seen in an alley,” I continue, the lie coming easier now. “With a guy wearing a signature fur coat. I just need a name.”
His eyes search mine. Looking for... what? Truth? Desperation? Proof I’m actually trying to help someone and not just causing trouble?
Whatever he sees, it’s enough.
“Do you know what an NDA is?” he questions, leaning even closer into my space.
“I do.” Intimately. More intimately than he could possibly know. But I don’t add that because I’m not here to share war stories about legal documentation.
“Good. Then you understand—I can’t tell you shit.” He pauses, glances at the corner. The same booth. The curtains still moving even though they shouldn’t be. “But I can tell you he wasn’t with anyone last week.”
I sit back, processing. He wasn’t with anyone. So he was alone. Hunting alone.
“But he has been known to hook up in random places around here,” the bartender adds quietly, almost reluctantly. Like he’s breaking a rule just by giving me this much.
I digest his words slowly, my finger tapping against my thigh. Patterns. Evidence. The kind of thing I’d catalog in a case file if I could actually report any of this.
“Last question.” I lean forward again.
“Make it quick,” he mutters, picking up the tray.
“Who owns this club?”
He pauses. Tilts his head. Something shifts in his expression—almost approval. Like I finally asked the right question.