Chapter 14
Gazing up at the glowing bulbs that surround the marquee, I regret saying yes to this.
To meeting Martinez and further blurring the lines.
To meeting his friends and potentially giving them and him the wrong impression.
“God, what am I doing here?”
The whispered words leave my mouth as I step into the line wrapped around what used to be the grandest theater in this city about sixty years ago. Today, The Amethyst Opera House has been converted into a bar and pickup spot known as The Jungle.
The few times the girls and I dared to venture inside, it definitely lived up to its name.
I’m near the entrance when a text comes through.
Det. D. Martinez: Sorry, running late. Be there in a few.
Perfect. Again, I’m regretting my decision to come here, but as I pay the cover charge and follow the pulsing lights and base inside, I suppose this means I’m waiting it out.
The bar calls out to me, so I start that way, admiring what the club’s owner has done with the place. The building’s interior still echoes with traces of the old theater, but what remains somehow feels fitting. It’s what I imagine this place would look like if the world ended and nature reclaimed what’s rightfully its own.
Thick, green vines hang ornately from dark fabric that covers the ceiling, giving the impression of being beneath a dense canopy of trees out in the wild. Brightly colored murals of exotic birds cover much of the wall space, and a large waterfall sends a powerful torrent rushing from the third-story balcony down to an enclosed pool on the lower level, backlit with turquoise light that feeds the illusion of truly being far from civilization.
The rows of seating have been removed, and the stage where countless performers once graced theater-goers with their talent is now being used as the VIP section. Dark green booths arranged in cozy half-circles around circular, bamboo tables are arranged across the space. A thick, brass rail laced with vines has been bolted to the floor to protect tipsy patrons from faceplanting onto the lower level, and footage of a violent rainstorm with flashes of lightning is being projected onto the back wall. At either side of the stage are staircases roped off and manned by suit-clad security guards. They’re stone-faced and in their zone, ready to block—and maybe even tackle—anyone who might try to get through without the proper wristband. While I imagine it’s considerably less chaotic up there, I’m good as long as I can get a drink.
I approach the bar and wait my turn behind the couple who walked up before me. The bartender is a tall, thin blonde wearing the same leopard-print pattern as the other workers, but she’s exceptionally skilled, making the complicated cocktail she’s mixing look like nothing. My gaze flits up toward the two-story balcony, and the place is packed to capacity, bodies tightly packed in as they vibe out to the throbbing bassline.
“What can I get for you, sweetheart?”
I turn to the sound of the bartender’s wispy voice.
“Cosmo, please.”
“Coming right up.” She smiles, then turns to reach for a bottle of vodka. I watch the crowd again while I wait, scanning as I wonder where the hell Martinez is.
Light shimmers off my sequin dress, making it pretty damn hard for me to miss, but I check my phone anyway.
Nothing.
No missed calls
No missed texts.
Layla: So…?
I place my phone back inside my clutch after hitting send on the admittedly passive aggressive message. Then, I pay for my drink as I settle against the edge of a stool. I’m not afraid or uncomfortable being on my own, and I’m no stranger to drinking at bars alone, but I’d definitely choose to do so someplace a bit more lowkey than this. Meaning, I’m out of my element, and being with Martinez and his friends was supposed to make that a bit less obvious, but they’d have to actually be here for that to work.
“This seat taken?”
I spin toward the sound of a deep voice, meeting the gaze of a tall blond guy standing a bit closer than I’m comfortable with. Judging by the tie loosely knotted around his neck, and the dress shirt rolled to his elbows, I’m guessing he’s just left work and looking to blow off a little steam.
I glance toward the seat in question and can’t think of a response that wouldn’t make me sound like a bitch, so I concede.
“No, it’s open,” I answer, and he doesn’t hesitate to fill the space beside me.
In my peripheral vision, I catch him staring. First, at my legs. Then eventually, at my breasts.
“So, are you… alone?” he asks, and I shoot him a hard side-eye.
I see you, sir, waving your red flags early.
I get it, a guy needs to double-check that he isn’t infringing on someone else’s territory, but he should maybe choose his words more carefully. Asking if I’m alone just sounds like he’s trying to see how much work it’ll be to drag me to his lair to dismember me.
“I’m with friends,” I lie, but his casual nod means he bought it.
I take a sip and peek at my phone to see just how late Martinez is now. Twenty-five minutes and counting.
Nice.
“Place looks pretty cool, don’t you think?” The guy leans in a bit, so I’m able to hear him over the music. “My grandmother actually used to be an attendant here back in the day.”
I raise my brow, pretending to be interested. “You don’t say.”
“Yeah, she said there’s real gold in the paint of the crown molding. Makes it seem like a waste that the guy who owns the place covered the ceilings.”
“I guess, but like you said, it looks pretty cool.”
“Oh, yeah, for sure,” he says with an earnest head shake, and I’m already over this conversation.
Another body lowers into the seat on the other side of me, but I don’t dare make eye contact for fear of getting myself roped into yet another riveting conversation.
“I’m John, by the way.”
“I’m Layla, by the way,” I shoot back, and he laughs.
He lays off for a bit while I sip again, but the moment my glass lowers to the bar top…
“So, you’re here with friends, huh?”
I nod, growing increasingly frustrated with Martinez’s irresponsible ass for leaving me here like a fucking sitting duck.
“Yup. They’re on the dancefloor somewhere.” I cast a searching gaze across the crowd as if I’m actually looking for someone.
“It’s cool. I’ll keep you company until they get back.”
Awesome.
He orders a drink despite looking like he might’ve already had a few too many, and I fill the gap in unwanted conversation by sending Martinez another text.
Layla: Dude, what the fuck?
Martinez: You have every right to be pissed. I’ll explain everything. Be there in fifteen. Tops.
I make up my mind then and there, if he doesn’t walk through the entrance in the next ten minutes, I’m gone.
A thought pops into my head. Unfortunately, it isn’t my own thought. It’s his—The Widowmaker’s. He’d made it a point to highlight how little Martinez values me. Granted, he used the cheap taco joint I was taken to on a date as the example, but it goes so much deeper than that. Like now, tonight, as I sit in a building full of strangers, alone, vulnerable, no idea where the hell Martinez is or what was so important that he’s left me hanging.
I’m the one looking after you, taking care of you when you aren’t even aware. The one who’d drop a body for you simply because it’s a fucking Tuesday.
I shake off the sound of that impossibly deep voice that haunts me and focus when my new “friend,” John, speaks again.
“Your dress, it’s… nice.” His eyes slide down to my tits like before, and as I realize he’s getting bolder, I tense, remembering the can of mace in my clutch. For his sake, I hope he wrangles it in.
He glances out toward the crowd again, then his eyes—red and glassy—lock with mine.
“You know, Layla, I’m starting to think you weren’t completely honest with me.” He pauses and his expression turns serious. “I think you’re alone tonight.”
Yep, he’s going to be a problem.
I look him in the eyes and breathe deep, making sure he knows I’m not intimidated.
“Listen, John. I’m gonna level with you. I’m not interested in… whatever it is you’re trying to offer, so you’d be better off moving on. Maybe someone a little drunker than me.”
He frowns, and I’m guessing this is the part where he calls me a bitch for bruising his ego.
“Are you always this much of a bitch?”
A laugh slips from my mouth because I called it. “Only after seven,” I answer, downing the last of my drink.
He stands from his seat, maybe thinking his height will check me into submission, but working with the band of brutes at the department has made me immune to intimidation.
“Keep it up, and I’ll haul your ass to the bathroom and teach you why you shouldn’t mouth off so damn much.”
I can’t fight the snarl I shoot his way. “Fuck off, John.”
I smirk again, enjoying the way his name sounds paired with the other words. Just kind of rolls off the tongue.
Fuck off, John.
Apparently, I’ve gone too far. It’s evident when he grabs my wrist just as I’m about to raise my hand to ask the bartender for another Cosmo. My knee-jerk reaction to his touch is to snatch out of his grasp. Then, my second reaction is to reach for his drink and splash it in his face.
Beads of pungent liquid drip from his chin, and we’ve only drawn the attention of a small crowd due to the dim lights and loud music that has most people distracted. John’s initial shock gives me just enough time to hop off the stool and start backing away. But my steps halt when I slam into a solid body before I’m able to make it to safety. I gasp and it feels like time’s frozen as I peer over my shoulder, glancing up at the silhouette behind me—tall and imposing.
My initial thought is that he’s with John. Like, his equally creepy accomplice or something. But then I change my mind on that. All because the dark scowl on the stranger’s face makes it clear he’s not exactly Team John. It takes me a moment to look away. Yes, because I’m still scared shitless, trying to sort out what exactly is going on. But also, because the new stranger is… attractive.
Very attractive, actually.
The colorful lights beaming down from the rafters play on the contours of his jaw as it flexes, emphasizing the rage in his turbulent, gray-blue eyes. They’re piercing against tan skin and dark brows, and I don’t think I’m wrong to assume he’s seen some things, and maybe done some things. Whatever the case, there’s no chance he’s been even remotely innocent in a very, very long time.
His dark hair is trimmed and tapered on the sides, but at the crown, it’s disheveled and sexy, falling into his face a bit. It’s got that wild, I-don’t-give-a-fuck look that probably only requires him to quickly run his fingers through it after a shower. Meanwhile, every woman he’s crossed paths with today has probably felt butterflies fluttering between her legs.
I usually categorize men one of two ways. They’re either pretty or rugged. But somehow, he’s both. As I soak in this moment one millisecond longer, a word comes to mind that describes him perfectly.
Disarming.
There’s something raw and unsettling about his presence, but I can’t quite nail down what it is exactly that I’m feeling. I just know my pulse is racing faster now. Even faster than when I thought I might be in danger.
Hell, who’s to say I’m not still in danger?
The fabric of a black shirt and dark, tailored suit jacket seems to melt over his shoulders, chest, and biceps. Just above the open collar where he’s left two buttons undone, dark ink bleeds over his skin in a shape it takes me a moment to identify. The spindly legs of a large spider stretch toward his throat and jaw. The rest of the body disappears beneath his shirt, and I swallow deeply to gather myself. I’ve gotten sidetracked from the real issue at hand.
Fucking John.
I face him again, with what feels like the human equivalent of a loaded sentry gun now posted behind me—this stranger who seems to have come to my rescue.
“Are we good here?”
John frowns at the question. “And who the fuck are you?”
My chest heaves, and I get the sense that the walls are starting to close in on us.
The stranger takes a step closer. We aren’t touching, but I feel his heat warming my back, making me uncomfortably aware of him. “Who I am depends on your next move,” he warns. “I can either be some guy you ran across in passing. Or… I can be the guy who sends your sorry ass home to his mother in pieces. Your call.”
A chill races down my back. I’m positive he isn’t serious, and his threat is completely empty, but there’s an air of promise that makes his words just believable enough.
John passes a gaze toward me and then scoffs. “Fucking bitch. You aren’t even worth it.”
He grabs a napkin from the bar, then walks away, blotting liquor from his chin and chest.
Swallowing, I turn toward the stranger, only to find that I can’t even meet his gaze. I’ve never been this overwhelmed by someone before.
“Are you okay?”
I revel in his deep voice a moment before answering, first with a nod. “I’m fine. Mostly, I’m just annoyed.”
I keep to myself that only half that annoyance is aimed at John. The other half is being reserved for Martinez. Who, after this, I’ve decided is completely fucking dead to me.
“You’re shaking,” the stranger points out. “Let me buy you another drink. Something to settle your nerves.”
He doesn’t even wait for an answer before turning toward the bartender, ordering two vodka sodas. Ironically enough, next to a Cosmo, it’s my favorite.
“Where are my manners? I haven’t even introduced myself,” he says, facing me once the bartender leaves to fix our drinks. “Damien.”
The name pings inside my head, and I note the way he stares. As if awaiting some sort of reaction.
“…Layla.”
My eyes are drawn to the subtle curvature of his full lips as he smiles.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says, and I can’t seem to find it within me to respond.
Instead, I draw in a deep breath, silently praying Martinez doesn’t waltz his ass in here and ruin the moment.
“That was quite the threat you made a moment ago,” I say, finally willing myself to speak.
Damien laughs and, God help me, it’s by far the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.
“It got the point across,” he answers, and I nod again.
“Clearly. Poor John couldn’t get away from us fast enough after that.”
That smile lingers on Damien’s lips as he places a drink in my hand, then takes one sip from his own glass before placing it on a napkin. After, his eyes flit right back to mine.
“Not sure I’ve seen you here before.”
Now I’m the one smiling. “Are you here that often? You don’t strike me as the type who’d drink and party his life away.”
I clear my throat right after speaking, unsure of whether he’ll read too much into that and take offense.
“I left my partying days behind when I graduated college, but when I do get out to… stretch my legs, it just so happens this is the place I do it.”
My eyes are drawn to where he presses the glass to his lips while he takes another quick drink.
“Then… maybe I’ll have to stretch my legs here more often, too.”
His quiet laugh makes me realize I actually said that out loud. It’s too late to take it back, but when he passes this loaded stare my way, I’m not sure I want to take it back.
I tense when my phone vibrates in my clutch, and I set my drink down.
“One second.” I partially dismiss myself from the conversation when I face away from the bar, shielding my phone screen from Damien. The last thing I want him to see is me and Martinez going at it like we’re a couple or something, giving him the wrong idea.
Det. D. Martinez: Sorry, babe. Couldn’t decide which shirt to wear. Be there as soon as I can.
Layla: At this point, don’t even fucking bother.
I drop my phone back inside my clutch, then Damien has my full attention again. Except, he’s just settled the bill with the bartender, and as he tucks his wallet into the back pocket of his slacks, I’m surprised by my disappointment when it becomes clear he’s leaving.
“Going so soon?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but who the fuck am I kidding?
His eyes land on me, and I wasn’t ready for their depth and focus.
“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” he says, flashing a subtle smirk that has my thighs clenching involuntarily. “While you were on the phone, I wrote my information down on the off chance that you’d like to keep in touch.”
He slides me a folded napkin, and I squeeze it tight in my palm.
He steps closer, towering over me. I know I should back away when he reaches toward my face to cup my chin, but I’m as still as a statue, letting him touch me.
“Just promise you won’t make me wait too long.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and manage to give a quick nod. “Noted.”
He gives another half-smile, then he’s gone.
I down the last of my drink, taking in a mouthful of ice to cool me off, because I’ll be damned if he doesn’t have me burning alive. From the inside out.
I wouldn’t have been bold enough to ask for his number, so having him offer it makes things so much simpler. And I have to laugh at his warning not to keep him waiting, because the harder task will be not reaching out too soon.
I smile a bit as I think about how this all fell into place, and then I open my palm, unfolding the small napkin he slipped me. Heat flashes to my cheeks, and I’m unashamedly giddy at the mere thought of seeing him after tonight. But then that excitement is immediately dashed by what my eyes land on next.
Not his name.
Not seven digits.
Not any of his social media handles to look him up later.
Instead, I’m staring at an array of ink that has my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach.
Ink drawn in the shape of a spider web.