3. Sara
Sara
Thumping bass quakes my legs as dancers press in on all sides.
As soon as the bartender handed us our drinks, Angela hauled me out to the middle of the crowd and began rocking her hips.
Five songs later, sweat dampens my entire hairline, and my feet ache for a break.
Not surprising, since I can’t recall the last time I subjected them to the indignity of heels.
Despite all that, I’m having fun. I forgot how much I used to enjoy dancing.
The club is different than I pictured too.
More luxurious and less cheesy. Elegant crimson chaise lounges edge the perimeter of the dance floor, and the pulsing lights that illuminate the otherwise dim interior reflect off gorgeous crystal chandeliers.
Although to be fair, cheesy men seem to be in good supply here.
After batting yet another unwanted pair of hands from my hips, I drift closer to Angela so she can shout in my ear. “Bar. I need another drink.”
Oh, thank goodness. Another few minutes, and my toes might have gone on strike.
I follow as she weaves through the mass of gyrating bodies, bypassing the closest bar to approach the one near the back wall.
Plopping onto one of the two free stools, she flags down a bartender in a black button-down with a name tag that reads, “Caden.” She orders another Jack and Coke for herself and a vodka cranberry for me.
I wrinkle my nose. “I was going to get a water.”
Angela waves me off. “You got the first round, so now we’re even. You can stop after this one and still be fine.”
I suppose. I’m just not usually much of a drinker. I don’t care for that out-of-control sensation.
Understandable, given my past.
I shake that thought off with a grimace. Nope, nuh-uh, not going there. I refuse to let memories of Dante ruin my first night out in I don’t know when. Five years have passed since I last saw him. Since the chain of terrible events that prompted the move to Toledo.
Long enough to have gotten over him.
Determined to banish this frustrating train of thought, I down half the glass.
Today’s the five-year-anniversary of our breakup, otherwise known as, the day a man yanked my heart from my chest, stomped it into mush, and then tossed the mangled remains down the garbage disposal for good measure.
Not the cheeriest of anniversaries, but the date seems permanently stamped into my psyche.
I make a promise to myself, right here and now. This will be the last time I mope over this date or give that man and our history even the smallest fraction of my attention.
Tonight will mark a fresh start.
Angela nudges me and tips her chin toward the back of the club. “Don’t look now, but hottie incoming at twelve o’clock.” Her brow furrows. “Do you know him or something? Because he’s staring at you like you’re the last remaining chicken after the apocalypse.”
I snort and sip more of my drink without glancing in that direction. “Doubtful. You’re the only person I know who’d come to a club like this.”
“Well, I suggest getting to know him. I’d ride that man like we were jockeys in the Kentucky Derby.” She licks her lips with comical exaggeration. “He’s hot as hell.”
Laughing, I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of this exemplary specimen. Given the apparent disparity in our tastes, I anticipate someone a little rough around the edges. Maybe one with a nose or eyebrow ring, goatee, and neck tattoos.
When the man and I lock eyes, my stomach plummets to the floor.
I freeze as the rest of the crowd blurs.
“That can’t be him,” I whisper to myself.
But I’m lying.
Because, without a doubt, the eyes burning into me like lasers belong to Dante Argento.
My ex.
The man who ruined me when he ended our relationship in the most humiliating and painful way possible.
Angela’s face pops into my sight line. “Hey, are you okay? You’re looking a little pale all of a sudden.”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I do know that guy.”
The club spins wildly around me. I always knew that returning to New York might lead to a run-in with Dante or those men, but the chances seemed so infinitesimal that I never bothered worrying. Too many people in a big city, and we ran in completely different circles.
Pressing the glass to my suddenly heated cheek, I crane my neck in time to watch him turn his back and melt into the crowd.
A bolt of pure rage rushes through my veins.
Oh, hell no. Five years ago, Dante vanished from my life without a word, and then some thugs broke into the apartment I shared with Jeremy and threatened him on Dante’s behalf, telling us to leave or else.
I’ll be damned if I let him pull that same stunt again.
If nothing else, he owes me a big fat apology.
“Hang on, Angela. I’ll be right back.”
After sucking down one more gulp of vodka-cran for liquid courage, I hop off the barstool and chase after him.
Dancers envelop me as I plow my way toward the back of the club. I dodge sweaty armpits, wild elbows, and spilled drinks, popping up on my toes periodically to hunt for his dark hair.
My head whirls. Too much body heat from all the people, plus that mistake of a second drink. Once the dizzy spell passes, I spot him veering down a hallway and disappearing behind a door.
I’m not sure what’s gotten into me. In all the times I envisioned meeting Dante again, I never pictured racing after his sorry ass in a techno dance club. I don’t get it. Why stare at me like that, only to turn tail and flee?
A horrifying thought penetrates the fury choking me.
What…what if Dante didn’t recognize me? Maybe he stared so hard because he was trying to place my face.
My gut clenches. Our relationship clearly meant a lot more to me than him, but to not even recall me at all?
Bullshit.
Hissing under my breath, I reach the door and barrel inside.
The dim interior catches me off guard, and I stumble. Where the hell did he go?
I risk a few more cautious steps. “Dante?” No reply, but I sense a whisper of movement in the shadows to my left. “Hello? Are you there?”
Uneasiness crawls over my skin. Okay, enough of this. Time to abort.
A loud slam reverberates behind me, and I pivot toward the door. Someone must have shut it, plunging the room into utter darkness.
Nearby, I hear the rasp of quiet breaths.
My gulp rings in my ears. “Please tell me this club isn’t located over a hellmouth,” I mumble to myself.
Fumbling with my phone, I poke the screen until I find the flashlight app and aim the beam at the surrounding area.
No one’s here. No demons or Dante or anyone else.
I sign in relief. Of course not. Seriously, I really do need to issue a permanent ban on horror movies for the foreseeable future.
I beeline for the exit, but the doorknob refuses to budge. Yanking has no effect.
Locked.
Even as I tell myself it was probably a mistake, a shiver passes over me. Either way, I need out. Angela’s probably starting to worry.
I pound my fist against the heavy wood. “Please, somebody let me out!”
My heart ceases to beat as a warm breeze ruffles the hair on the back of my neck. “After all that, are you really planning to go without saying hello?”
I squeal and spin so quickly, another bout of dizziness attacks my head. Once the world rights itself again, I fix my phone’s flashlight on the person before me.
Not that I require any illumination. I’d recognize that deep, husky voice even in my sleep. “Dante! Are you trying to scare me half out of my mind?”
Beneath the faint glow, his features appear sharpened. Wild. Menace oozes from him, and rage glitters in his dark eyes.
I shake off the wild thought as absurd.
Dante has no reason to be mad at me when he’s the one who threw us away.
If anyone has a right to anger, it’s me.
An overhead light flickers on, and I blink to find Dante near a switch on the wall.
Wait, how did that happen? Just a second ago, he stood right in front of me.
“Come. Let’s sit.”
Dante gestures at a table set for two in the middle of the space, which I gather is some sort of private party area. A small bar lines the right wall, and circular maroon velvet booths speckle the left.
He holds out a chair for me, and I sink into the seat as if I’m dream-walking. A whisper in the back of my head warns me that something isn’t quite right, but I’m not sure what.
Dante sits in the chair across from me.
This whole scenario feels like a bizarre fantasy.
Overwhelmed by the reality of his presence, the fury that initially spurred me into action drains away, leaving only a quagmire of hurt and confusion.
He’s always been gorgeous, but the last few years have matured him in ways that tighten my belly.
Time has stolen the softness from him, the warmth.
As a nurse, I meet a lot of people during some of the worst moments of their lives. Sometimes, I also encounter the ones who put those people in the ER.
Husbands who beat their wives, rapists accompanying their victims, a negligent parent trying desperately to feign normalcy.
I’ve grown quite skilled at finding what lies beneath the facade so many wear from one day to the next.
Still, even with all that practice, getting a read on Dante proves impossible.
His eyes flicker over my form, and all the earlier doubts I harbored about my dress melt away under his gaze. “You look beautiful.”
His dark timbre settles over me like a warm weight. He’s an open flame, and I’ve been left out in the cold for far too long.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.” I almost cringe at the ridiculous line that tumbles from my lips. So much for maintaining my cool.
When the corner of his mouth rises into a familiar smirk, my chest squeezes. I remember how that wicked tilt of his lips promised long hours of laughter and conversation before he’d put his mouth to even better use.
He’s dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a gray shirt that scream designer even to my untrained eye. He told me once that he came from old money but never explained how.
And silly, naive me never asked.