Chapter 2 #2
We sit there, her thumb stroking the back of my hand, neither of us speaking. We don't need to. My grief, her longing, the empty spaces our fathers left behind. All of it passes between us in silence.
I don’t know what keeps her from chasing her happiness, but that can be a conversation for another time.
"I have to tend to the members." She slides off the stool, smooths her dress, and slips the professional mask back into place over raw emotions lurking behind her lashes. "You'll be okay?"
"Always."
The look she gives me says she knows better but loves me too much to call bullshit to my face. I watch her go. Her red hair catches the violet light as she weaves through the lounge. I understand how a person can silently drown in emotions, but I can’t save her when I’m already going under myself.
I lift a hand and the handsome bartender drifts over, another dirty martini in hand. “Here you go, gorgeous.”
“Thank you.” Damn, that man makes life look easy.
Two sips into my second martini and my phone buzzes against the marble. A message from the dating app.
Here. Where are you sitting?
Right. The whole reason I'm at the Gilded Key on the worst day of my life.
I type back my location, set the phone face down, and straighten on my stool.
Shoulders back. Chin up. My reflection stares at me from the infinite mirror behind the bar, pale blonde hair still scraped into its low bun, black dress, and red-rimmed eyes I can't do a damn thing about.
Whatever. He just needs to be warm and willing and gone by sunup. The bar is low. Subterranean, even.
And yet...
A tall man rounds the corner of the bar and I catch his reflection in the mirror before I turn.
When I do, ugh. My stomach drops. This night just went from shitty to freaking pathetic.
My blind date has on a wrinkled button-down that is half untucked from dark slacks that look like he slept in them.
His black tie hangs loose around his neck to the point of dangling.
I take my eyes off the clothes to find his jaw shadowed with patchy stubble, like he thought about shaving, gave it a go and then decided fuck it.
Bloodshot eyes scan the bar until they land on me, and a sloppy grin stretches across his flushed face. He rakes a hand through flat brown hair and misses the piece sticking up at the back.
Stabs of regret shoot through me. This is my knight in shining armor. Wonderful.
He drops onto the seat Lavender just left, and the smell hits before his ass hits the leather. Bourbon, sharp and stale, layered over cheap cologne and the sour bite of sweat soaked into fabric.
Kill. Me. Now.
"Well." He rakes his gaze over me. Chin to chest and back. Slow, deliberate, and utterly graceless. "You look like a stuck-up housewife in that black dress and black heels. Where's the lingerie? This is a sex club, sweetheart, not a PTA meeting."
Acid spills across my raw nerves. My fingers tighten around my glass.
I only wanted a single night. I wanted a stranger's hands and a few hours of oblivion.
Damn it.
I should have known better than to swipe right on a man whose profile picture was a mirror selfie in a gym bathroom. But his abs were so cute.
He reaches across the short distance between us and clamps sweaty digits around my thigh.
"Come on. Loosen up." He nudges my drink aside and flags the bartender, who takes one look at him and doesn't move. "Let me buy you a real drink and we can get out of here."
I shift my leg away and angle my body toward the bar. "I have a drink."
"Don't be like that." He closes the distance between our stools. His knee presses against mine and he leans in until his bourbon breath rolls hot and stale against the side of my neck.
Gag me.
Every hair on my nape stands straight. His hand lands on my thigh, clammy fingers digging into the muscle through the thin fabric of my dress. My scowl must read as encouragement, because he squeezes with a possessiveness that makes my skin crawl under his grip.
My molars grind together.
The energy of the lounge shifts.
My date's hand is still on my thigh, but every nerve ending in my body redirects to the lounge entrance. The music hasn’t faded, but the conversations from the surrounding society members do.
Members at nearby tables shift, pressing into banquettes, making themselves smaller.
A woman two stools down gathers her clutch and slips off her seat without a word.
I watch her take a side door that leads to higher levels of the club.
Okay, that’s odd.
I pull my gaze from the emptying lounge and look toward the entryway.
And that is when I see him.
Samuel “Bones” Payne.
Every inch of his six foot four inches fills the entrance.
He wears a tailored black suit that stretches over broad shoulders and a perfectly formed board chest. Long dark hair is pulled into a tight knot at the back of his skull.
Silver threads through dark hair at his temples, catching the amber neon.
Oh, fuck.
A trimmed dark beard frames a jaw cut from granite, and beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt, the edges of ink climb his neck. His hands hang loose at his sides, scarred knuckles visible even from here. The thick ridges of the scars catch the light.
He’s a brawler. Or at least he was at some point.
Dark brown eyes move over the room, slow and steady. I watch as every person they touch drops their gaze to the floor.
Then they land on me.
Electricity skates over my senses. It is like ice on overheated skin.
I can’t describe it any other way. My breath holds and so does my heartbeat.
The air between us crackles with an electric charge, that has the fine hairs on my arms lifting for the second time tonight. But this isn't in revulsion.
Lord, save me because the heat pouring through me right now is all about the way this man enters a room. And that’s a very bad thing for a man with a killer reputation in every sense of the word.
Everyone knows his name and his occupation. He’s one of Chicago's top underground mafia kings and a walking orgasm waiting to happen.
That last part I would never say out loud, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
He moves toward the bar with unhurried steps and the members in the lounge seem to have no problem clearing a path for him that leads directly toward me.
“Hey. What the hell are you looking at, woman?” Rough hands latch onto my chin and yank my attention away from the crime lord and back on my drunk date.
“You belong to me. I don’t need you having the hots for another man when you are supposed to be my fuck bunny for the night.”
I throw his hand off me. Disgust scrunches my face while my throat gets a revisit of the martini.
I swear my drunk date only stops short of whipping his dick out and measuring it on the stool because he can’t stand without falling over.
But I can’t focus on him for long. Not when the mobster’s scent replaces the bourbon currently burning my nostrils.
Warm, exotic, and raw male. I inhale deeply.
“You’re far too beautiful to entertain rats and their clumsy attempt at getting you in their bed."
I shift my body on the stool to face him, entranced by the smooth flow and dip of his words. His voice is pitched low just for me, and the rough edge of it rolls warm down my spine.
Heat creeps into my face. For a second I feel a wave of embarrassment at the blush hitting my cheeks. “I have to admit, today has not been one of my finest.”
My hands tremble so I wrap my fingers around the hem of my dress and hope he doesn’t notice. Beside me Drunk Dude’s face is an angry shade of pissed off.
I guess the guy is utterly clueless or so drunk he doesn’t realize what he is doing. Or he has a death wish. Either way, he straightens on his stool, puffs out his chest and bellows, "Hey, buddy, fuck off. We're in the middle of something."
From the deep scowl on Payne’s face, that was the wrong thing to say to the mobster.
He grabs for my arm, but his beefy, sweaty fingers never make contact.
Samuel catches the man's wrist mid-reach and tosses it aside. He makes it look effortless, like brushing lint off a tailored sleeve.
"You have to ask permission before you can touch a lady."
Samuel’s tone says he’s not open to discussing the issue.
My date's mouth hinges open. His gaze swings to the shadows behind Samuel where two men have materialized out of the dark. They’re just as big as Samuel and the bulges near their sides say they are armed.
Samuel nods once toward his enforcers.
The bodyguard gathers my date up and escorts him toward the exit without a single flinch of resistance.
Surprisingly. I guess he wised up once he was lifted off the stool by a man the size of a vault.
Around us, the lounge has completely cleared out. Banquettes sit empty. Glasses are abandoned on low tables. The room belongs to Samuel and me.
I open my mouth to tell him I had it handled, but that would be a lie.
“You make it a habit of saving damsels in distress?” My God, could I sound any cornier?
The tilt to the corner of his lip tells me he’s not totally turned off by my line, but what else do you say to a mobster who just tossed your date out the door and wants to take the empty stool at your side?
Suddenly it’s very hot in here.
I think that is my cue to say my goodbye. I can thank him at the door and walk away with whatever's left of my dignity. A drink and solving one minor life issue was supposed to take my mind off the bigger problems. Apparently life can never be that easy for me.
I slide off the stool and step sideways, angling out of his orbit. A light touch at my elbow draws me up short. His warm fingers barely caress over my skin, and still every muscle in my body goes still.
"Please join me for a drink." His head tilts, just enough for the amber light to catch the silver at his temples and the trim of his dark beard. "I’d hate to see your evening end on such a terrible event."