Chapter 7
Dylan
“Dylan, are you even listening?”
I jerked my head up and found four heads angled in my direction. Jordan was eyeing me with a look of bemusement while the others – River, Max, and Hunter – wore identical grins.
“Yeah,” I muttered, balancing my elbows on the table and dropping my head in my hands. “Dragon born, big problem.”
I waved a listless hand at Jordan. “Continue.”
Security meetings were a regular affair, but Jordan had called this one early after my tango with the potential dragon shifter the other night. Usually, it was just Jordan, River, and me – the other two irritating additions were an unpleasant surprise.
As if to back up my convictions, Max batted her lashes in my direction. “Someone’s distracted, does this have anything to do with your beloved?”
I considered kicking her dainty little shin under the table but no doubt Hunter would return the gesture tenfold. I stuck to leering instead, netting my fingers and propping up my chin. “No Maxine, this has nothing to do with my foster human. Also –”
I turned to Jordan, pointing a condemning finger at the two unwanted guests. “What are they doing here? This is supposed to be a security meeting.”
Jordan shrugged, leaning back in her chair to watch us bicker. “They’re on lunch break and the office is crowded today. I let them tag along.”
Max smirked in victory and I reconsidered an under-the-table kick. As if she’d read my mind, Hunter caught my eye and pursed her lips. I kept my boots firmly planted on the ground.
“Anyway,” Jordan continued, straightening her blazer. “Rooting out these dragon shifters should be top priority. Their presence complicates things, so we need to stay vigilant.”
“Do you think you can manage that, Dylan?” Max pretended to swoon, laying her hands over her heart. “Lovesick as you are?”
I bared my teeth at the preening vampire. “Max, if you care at all about that cashmere scarf you might want to be careful what you say next.”
Max gasped, clutching her scarf like an old woman would clutch her pearls. “You wouldn’t dare! ”
“Try me.”
“All right!” River intervened, slamming her palms on the table. “Dylan, don’t threaten Max’s wardrobe. We’d have a ‘fashion emergency’ on our hands. And you –”
She twitched her gaze over to Max. “Stop making fun of Dylan’s crush.”
My burgeoning grin was quickly replaced with horror. “Excuse me? Crush?!”
River ignored my exclamation, speaking over my stuttering protests. “Look, you need to get close to Amara to figure out her father's secrets, but your feelings on the matter are about as subtle as a sledgehammer. She needs to know she can trust you. So, take her to dinner.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry – what?”
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Jordan chipped in. “I own a restaurant downtown, you could take her there – on the house. Show her a good time. It might help you both chill out a little.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. “This meeting has deviated from its intended purpose.”
“Aw, come on,” Jordan pressed on. “You need to drink, she needs to eat. le petit-ma?tre is a very accommodating restaurant. And it might do you some good to spend time together outside the apartment.”
“Plus, it’ll give us something to gossip about,” Max chimed in.
“Maxine needs some fresh material,” Hunter added. “River is weird and Jordan is happily married. You’re the next best bet. But your social life, or lack thereof, has been pretty dry lately.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I drawled, rolling my eyes. “Fine, I’ll take her to dinner. But if it goes horribly wrong, I’m holding all four of you responsible.”
Le petit-ma?tre was as high class as it gets. I was not one for romantic evenings at fancy establishments but there I was, sitting across from Amara at Jordan’s vampire-friendly restaurant, picking at the tablecloth and avoiding eye contact at all costs. Amara hadn’t been able to hide her surprise when I approached her about dinner, but she’d agreed to go anyway.
The restaurant was a tasteful mix of modern decor and old-money charm, with intimate dim lighting that cast a warm glow over each decadently laid table. Amara looked as beautiful as ever, all dolled up in a petal-pink evening dress. The Cinderella sleeves draped just off her shoulders, revealing every inch of her sweeping neckline. She seemed happy enough, if a little uncomfortable, skimming the menu and twirling a strand of hair in her fingers. Occasionally her eyes would dart around, taking in the opulent surroundings with a slight grimace.
We’d been sitting there for around twenty minutes and Amara had barely typed any kind of conversation. I rigidly took a sip of my “wine” – what the restaurant called ‘old vintage’ was cleverly disguised blood to cater to the vampiric visitors that frequented the place. The collar of my suit was chafing and I shifted uncomfortably, tugging at it to alleviate the itch.
I stifled a sigh as I set the glass down. This wasn’t my style. I felt like a fraud, dressed up and trying to play a part that didn’t fit.
Noticing my pained expression, Amara typed into her phone and the mechanical voice spoke. “Nice place.”
I forced a smile. “Jordan has fancy taste.”
She nodded absently, her fingers tracing patterns on the tablecloth.
Dinner passed in a haze of polite conversations and awkward silence. All of my false bravado went right out the window in such a luxurious public space, and I found myself growing stiffer and stiffer as the night wore on. I tried to keep the conversation going, but every topic seemed to fizzle out after a few short sentences and my foot tapped rapidly under the table.
I missed my boots. Without them, I was almost the same height as Amara and that bothered me more than I wanted to admit. But I didn’t have any footwear that would fit with my suit pants save for a pair of black sneakers. I noted, with faint satisfaction, that Maxine would have had a heart attack if she knew I’d paired them with such a fancy suit.
By the time Amara had finished eating – more spaghetti, to my complete bafflement — I was on edge and itching to get going. Amara seemed eager to leave too, and she kept a stiff posture all the way out the door, only relaxing once we’d stepped out into the street. The air was cool and refreshing after the stifling atmosphere of the restaurant, and a light rain had begun to fall.
When I moved to flag down a taxi, Amara stopped me, typing on her phone. “Can we walk? I’d like to look around.”
Dinner had been awkward enough, and a taxi ride home sounded just as painfully tense, so I was happy to oblige her.
We walked side by side, shoulders brushing occasionally. Despite the rain, the streets buzzed with vibrant life. Neon signs reflected and warped in the puddles on the sidewalk and street vendors hawked their wares under makeshift canopies. The aroma of cigarettes and street food mingled with the scent of fresh rain and exhaust fumes.
People moved around us in waves, tourists and locals alike. I caught snippets of conversations, punctuated by the occasional car horn and rumbling hum of traffic. Music spilled from open doorways in a medley of genres. I noticed Amara looking wistfully at a street performer lovingly caressing the keys of his saxophone.
Her head was flicking left and right as we walked, sending her curls flying. She would slow to inspect some greasy street food, pause to peer through the dark maws of the city’s nightclub entrances. I realized that something as simple as walking through the city was a novelty for her, a taste of freedom. No wonder she hadn’t liked the restaurant. Don was a wealthy man with equally expensive taste – she’d probably spent all her life frequenting fancy establishments just like that.
Halfway home, the rain began to pick up. Big, splashing droplets quickly morphed into a downpour and we hurried to take shelter in the doorway of a nearby club. Amara lost her footing as we ran, and I snaked out an arm to grab her waist, yanking her upright and against my body.
For a moment we stood there, soaked to the bone and breathless.
Amara was pressed against my chest, gripping my suit jacket, wide eyes bright and glinting in the street light. The sleeve of her dress had slipped right off one shoulder and her wet hair was pasted to her neck. Rivulets of rainwater trailed a path down her collar. My eyes followed them further down her chest.
Amara blushed, a soft pink creeping across her cheeks. Slowly, she detangled herself from my grasp and we stepped apart. I rubbed the back of my neck, quietly collecting myself and blinking rainwater from my eyes. “Uh, we should probably get out of the rain now.”
Amara giggled nervously and nodded, allowing me to guide her off the sidewalk and into the nightclub. The humid air of the club hit me like a fist. We pushed past bodies, Amara taking shelter under my arm as I shoved sweat-slicked dancers out of the way. At the bar, I waved down a bartender and ordered a drink for Amara, hauling out a stool for her to sit on.
We settled in our seats and Amara pulled out her phone. This time, she typed into her notepad and slid the cell over to me so I could read her words. “I haven’t been to a club in years, it’s so lively.”
I chuckled and typed back. “Yeah, it’s been a while for me too. Jordan and River used to drag me out all the time, but I was never very good at the socializing part.”
Amara’s drink arrived and she sipped pensively before typing into her phone again. “I used to go out with my sister, Aliyah. She was a social butterfly. I was more of a stand-in-the-corner-and-watch kind of butterfly.”
More typing from my end. “Sounds lonely.”
“Sometimes, sure. But she always found a way to include me.”
I hesitated for a moment before typing again. “Where’s your sister now?”
Amara gave me a small, sad smile and looked down at her drink, toying with the straw. Clearly, she didn’t want to talk about it. In a way, I could relate.
We sat together in silence for a while and I caught her looking wistfully at the writhing bodies on the dance floor. I leaned closer, my shoulder pressed to hers, and reached for her phone again, typing. “Do you miss it? Music?”
Amara’s expression was pained, seemingly ashamed of being caught longing for something like the dance floor. She typed back. “Of course. I lost my hearing in my teens, it was a hard transition. Music and dancing is something I miss the most.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did it happen?”
Amara twisted her hands in her lap before typing a response. “An explosion at my high school. One of my father’s rivals wasn’t happy about Don stealing some of his best clients, so he wanted to hit Don where it hurt. He miscalculated on two fronts though. It didn’t kill me. And even if it had, Don probably wouldn’t have cared.”
“Fuck,” I said out loud, twisting in my chair to look at her. A hot spike of rage blazed through me, my hand on the bar table instinctively curling into a fist.
“That’s… Never mind.” I focused on my fist, slowly opening my fingers again and smothering the urge to pummel Don Leone into the ground. I drummed my nails on the counter instead. “You’re a better daughter than Don could ever deserve. I hope you know you’re worth more than what that piece of shit thinks of you.”
Amara stilled for a moment, her eyes alarmingly glassy when she met mine. But she didn’t cry. Instead, she reached out a hand and gently touched my cheek. I froze as she cupped my face in her palm, tenderly brushing a thumb over my bottom lip. Amara held my stricken gaze for a beat, before dropping her hands back into her lap and hanging her head.
My cheek felt warm where she’d touched it, and my body blazed hot. Seeing her sad did not sit well with me.
I checked my watch. And then I had an idea. I gently reached for her hand, tugging her off the bar stool. “Come with me, I want to show you something.”
Amara scrutinized me with uncertainty but allowed me to lead her out of the club and back into the street. The rain had eased to a damp drizzle and I pulled off my suit jacket, chivalrously laying it over her bare shoulders instead. We walked the damp streets for a while, before arriving at a grimy pool bar, my favorite hole-in-the-wall spot. From the outside, it didn't look like much – identifiable only by a glitching, neon sign on its last legs that read Last Resort Pub & Pool Bar.
The air inside was hazy with smoke, the walls adorned with faded posters of rock stars from a bygone era. I led Amara past the aged pool tables, and she brushed her hand over the green felt as we breezed by. We were not there to play pool.
At the back of the small bar, a band was gearing up to play, tuning guitars and testing mics from a tiny stage constructed of wooden boxes and carpeted amps. I could feel Amara’s questioning eyes on me while a small crowd began to gather. Her hand was still tentatively clutching mine, and I gave it a squeeze and then pulled her closer to the front of the stage when the set started.
At first, Amara looked confused, and maybe a little upset when the crowd started moving and the guitarist played a riff she couldn’t possibly hear. But then, as the beat vibrated beneath our feet, and the bass boomed loud enough to feel it in your bones, her expression changed. A wide smile bloomed across her face, her eyes lighting up as the pulse of the music reverberated through the building. She couldn’t hear it, but she could sure as hell feel it.
As the crowd pressed in around us, Amara was jostled into my arms and I pulled her closer, with a hand on her hip to keep her steady. She threw her head back, bright-eyed and smiling as the vibrations of the bass thrummed through our bodies. It was a wild kind of dancing, all flailing limbs, flying hair, and a surge of flesh and bones moving as one.
It was easy to work up a sweat, and we did, bodies swaying to the heavy beat, hips colliding as the crowd crushed together in a heated fervor. The floor was slick with spilled beer and I tightened my grip on her waist to keep her from falling, fisting the fabric of her dress. Amara coiled an arm around my neck in response. Her other hand gripped my button-up, and her hair whipped around her head as we threw our bodies in time with the beat.
My lips brushed her ear as she clung to me, and the closeness, the vibrant energy, and the sheer joy on her face made my heart race. That same electric connection sparked between us, drawing a line of fire straight down to that sensitive spot between my legs. It was fast-paced, reckless, and intoxicating. It was the first genuine smile I’d ever seen on her face. And it was beautiful.