24. Two Days Until Bonding
Chapter twenty-four
Two Days Until Bonding
Laurel
Carrson stands shirtless in his room. I come to a halt at the sight of all that sculpted muscle. The vine and rose tattoo encircling his bicep shifts as he yanks his belt free of his tuxedo pants. The buckle clips the edge of the dresser before tumbling from his hand.
Normally, I’d go to him. Kiss the dark ink representing the sister he’s still searching for. Run my hands over the skin he’s taught me to treat like an extension of my own body.
Tonight, I stop inside the doorway.
I don’t know whether I’m allowed to touch him that way anymore.
Carrson doesn’t acknowledge me. He steps out of his formal pants, then bends to fasten a narrow leather sheath around the inside of his calf. He picks up a dagger from the dresser and slides the blade inside.
I want to ask whether he’s expecting a knife fight at a brothel, but his expression convinces me this isn’t the time for jokes. The weapon disappears under the jeans he pulls on next. He zips and buttons them without looking at me.
“I’m leaving,” he says, his voice flat, his expression carefully blank. Every emotion controlled. “The Brothers are going to the club. Like I told you.”
“Sounds good.” I reach behind me and lower my zipper. The dress slides down my body and puddles on the floor. Cool air reaches the exposed burn of my brand, offering the first relief I’ve had all evening. Since my dress has a built-in bra, I’m left standing in my underwear and heels.
Carrson’s fingers stop on the final button of his jeans.
His eyes find me and remain there through one full breath before he turns toward the dresser.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
“All right.”
I step out of the dress and pass close enough for my shoulder to brush his arm. He shifts away before the contact becomes a caress.
“Don’t.”
The single word stops me faster than if he’d raised his voice and yelled.
“Don’t what?”
“Touch me like we’re fine.”
His back remains to me, the muscles along his spine held rigid.
I focus on my jeans, tugging them over my hips. “I didn’t say we were.”
“This isn’t retribution.” The words come out clipped. He takes a button-up shirt and shoves his arms into it with enough force to strain the seams. “I’m not going because I’m angry with you.”
I get my shirt out of the drawer and slip it on quickly. “But you are mad at me.”
“Furious, but that’s not why I have to go.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You don’t believe me.” He drags a hand over the back of his head, mussing his hair. “I told you about the club before any of this happened.”
“I remember.” I reach up and pull the pins from my hair. They strike the dresser with soft metallic clinks, like pennies tossed into a wishing fountain. I tip my head back and comb my fingers through the curls Sam shaped with a curling iron. They loosen over my shoulders and spill down my back.
Carrson’s eyes follow one spiral as it slips across my shoulder before he forces them back to my face.
“I’m still keeping every promise I made.”
“I know.”
His mouth compresses like my trust upsets him, maybe because I didn’t give it to him earlier when I hid the brand. His fingers are on the buttons of his shirt. He leaves the top half undone, revealing an unfairly attractive glimpse of defined chest.
I bend to pull on my socks. Carrson’s eyes drop, staring at my ass, then jerking toward the ceiling.
I grab my phone and shoot a quick text to Sam.
I put on my jacket, and Carrson finally looks at me. “What’re you doing?”
“Coming with you.”
His gaze moves from my jacket to the phone in my hand. “What?”
“To the strip club. I’m coming, and so are the Sisters.”
He looks at me as though I’ve answered him in Pig Latin. “You can’t.”
“Why?” I ask innocently. “Is there a bylaw prohibiting women?”
“Well, no.”
“Then I can.”
“But Sisters and Mothers don’t go. Only outside women and sometimes...” He stops.
“Yes?”
His nostrils flare with his next breath, obviously regretting he brought it up. “Mistresses.”
“Perfect. So women are allowed.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It sounded remarkably similar.”
I grab my purse and head toward the door.
“There are requirements,” he calls after me.
I turn. “What kind of requirements?”
“For women who go.” His eyes move over my jeans and jacket. “They have to dress a certain way to fit in. The club will make you change into one of their outfits.”
“Oh.” I consider that. “Okay.”
I walk into the hallway.
Behind me, Carrson remains silent long enough that I know he’s recognized his mistake.
Then he curses quietly, and his footsteps follow.
He keeps his distance as we walk down the back stairway.
I look for Silas but don’t see him among the waitstaff that hustle through the kitchen doors.
I glance at my watch. It’s close to one a.m., but music continues to pump out of the ballroom, and through the doorway I can see the strobe lights flashing.
The sound of talking and laughter has only gotten louder as the night goes on.
“Will your father be angry we’re leaving the party early?” I ask Carrson.
“I don’t give a flying fuck what my father thinks right now,” he spits out, refusing to look over.
“Okay, then,” I say, not bothering to argue. I don’t want to go back to the party anyway. Don’t think I have it in me to fake happiness and pretend I don’t notice how Carrson flinches when I take one step closer, how his body keeps pace with mine while the rest of him stays somewhere I can’t reach.
Before us, about thirty Brothers and Sisters stand in a loose knot, arguing, while four sleek black limousines idle behind them, their taillights staining the exhaust fog red.
A Brother named Wesleyson breaks from the crowd when he sees us. “Carrson. Thank goodness. The Sisters have this wild idea that they’re coming with us to Sinners.”
“It’s not wild.” Samantha steps forward. “We have as much right to go as you do.”
“But you’ve never come with us before,” another Brother, Stretson, argues. He stands beside his Bonded, Juliette, a pretty Sister with hazel eyes and a bright laugh. She plays the flute and some nights I hear her practicing, the notes lilting, dancing on the evening breeze.
She leans against him and looks up through her lashes. “Come on, baby. It’ll be fun.” Her fingers walk up the buttons of his shirt. “Maybe it’ll give me some new ideas.”
Stretson stares down at her, then back to the group.
“I’ve changed my mind.” He wraps an arm around Juliette’s waist and pulls her against him, making her laugh. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had, Sam.”
“Don’t give me the credit.” Sam tosses her hair over one shoulder. “This was Laurel’s plan.”
The argument stops.
Thirty faces turn toward me at once, and I have to resist the urge to step back. It reminds me of the night I met Carrson in the backyard of Ashford House, after he’d killed Trent, the Jackal drug dealer. All those men looking at me in unison, waiting to see what happened next.
A Brother named Tipson ambles out of the crowd, his attention traveling over me with interest.
“Laurel thought of this? A trip to a strip club?” He comes closer. “Is this why you’ve been hiding her away, Carrson? You want to keep all the fun to yourself?”
He reaches toward me as though he intends to brush a curl from my shoulder.
Carrson catches his wrist before he can make contact.
“There are twenty-seven bones in your hand,” Carrson says. His voice is low, almost conversational. “Eight carpals. Five metacarpals. Fourteen phalanges.”
He applies more pressure and Tipson’s knees buckle.
Tipson claws at Carrson’s hand with his free one. “Chill, man. I wasn’t going to do anything. I was joking.”
“I’m not.”
Carrson bends the wrist another degree. Tipson falls to one knee on the stone, making a whining sound in the back of his throat.
No one moves. All the faces around me are calm, unsurprised. They’ve seen this Carrson before.
“Touch her,” Carrson says, “and I’ll start with your fingertips. By the time I reach your wrist, you’ll never hold a fork without remembering me.”
Tipson tries to pull free, but Carrson holds him until the amusement leaves his face and panic takes its place.
Carrson releases him.
Tipson stumbles backward, cradling his hand against his chest. Carrson doesn’t follow. He only watches until Tipson lowers his eyes.
“What’s the decision, Carrson?” asks Wesleyson, breaking the tension. “Can the Sisters come with us?”
“Why should I care?” Carrson’s eyes find mine, but they’re a void, dark and empty. “I’m not in charge of what they do.”
To prove his point, he looks at my chest, right where the brand is hidden by my shirt.
“Perfect.” Sam and the rest of the girls push past the boys toward the limos. “Let’s go!”
There’s a lot of shuffling over by the limos, negotiations over who’s riding together. Arguments break out when one limo has too many people and another not enough. Giggles and grunts ring out as everyone climbs over one another, piling into the long bench seats.
“Jesus, Abbie, move over,” Tipson complains. “You kneed me in the nuts.”
“Gross,” Cicley says.
She uses Tipson as an excuse to scoot closer to Brentson, who she has a crush on. I know because she’s told me approximately five hundred times how dreamy his green eyes are.
Carrson’s next to me but pressed into the door at his side like touching me might set him on fire.
I turn toward Sam and try to lose myself in everyone else.
Soon, we’re all singing along with the radio, dancing in our seats.
Sam brings out a flask of whiskey, and it gets passed around.
I take a gulp, drinking too fast. The alcohol burns down my throat, and I choke.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carrson’s hand rise with his fingers splayed like he’s going to pat me on the back, but then it falls and he tucks it back in his lap where it closes into a fist.
I turn up the song and sing louder.
By the time we reach the stretch of road lined with strip clubs, warmth has spread through my limbs. My lips feel faintly numb, and the tension in my muscles has loosened enough that I can almost pretend I’m having fun.
Bright lights outside the window catch my attention. I press my nose to the glass, my mouth hanging open in wonder. Neon curls around old brick facades. Bulbs chase one another along theater signs. Music spills from open doorways, jazz colliding with bass, laughter with the clink of glasses.
Casinos, restaurants, and bars line both sides of the street, their marquees glowing in red, gold, and electric blue, but none of them are as big or as impressive as the two buildings facing each other on opposite corners.
On the left, Sinners rises in a blaze of red neon and gold trim, the letters written in a wicked curling script crowned by a glowing devil’s tail and pointed horns.
The building itself looks like a cathedral built for temptation, with arched windows, crimson velvet visible through the windows, and a marquee promising indulgence.
Across the street, Saints answers in white and pale gold, its sign glowing with a halo over the "i" and a pair of illuminated wings spread wide behind the name. It’s just as grand, but colder in its beauty. The front has soaring ivory columns and soft light, like purity polished into a performance.
They stare each other down, devil against angel, Beaumont against Ashford, each daring the other to give in first.
I’d expected someplace sleazy. Hidden behind dark windows and a discreet sign.
Instead, they’ve built monuments to sin.