The Red Room (The Cursed Ones #1)

ONE

Three days before the full moon

The music . Dancing .

Losing yourself to a new song under the shifting lights of the room.

This is the Los Angeles nightlife. It’s electrifying. Some might say intoxicating, in more obvious ways than one. And yet, I’m stuck outside the hottest club, standing on the wrong side of some felt fucking rope. Here I wait, clad in a cocktail dress a size too small, bunching in all the places I’d rather not draw attention to. Twenty-five, embarrassingly single, and barely able to afford the cover charge of Volk should the bouncers up front decide I am no longer at risk of tainting the gene pool.

I move closer to the rope, counting off the three small steps forward in my head. With only two more people ahead of me, a combination of anxiety and excitement coils in my stomach. Sure, I want to get in, but am I really thrilled by the idea of sitting at the end of the bar alone sipping some overpriced vodka tonic?

No, I can’t say I am. Getting out of the coldest night on record might be what’s exciting, and I’d be willing to bet the string of people behind me blowing hot air into their hands would be apt to agree.

While Volk itself appears to have gone through major renovations, the rest of the street is in dire need of a facelift. Every other building within view looks vacant, and most of the streetlights are either broken or off altogether. Trash lines the gutters. The street is full of cracks and potholes. Why would they open a club here of all places? More importantly, what about this club has so many people fighting to get inside?

The line moves again, leaving me front and center. I half expect the other shoe to drop and a max-capacity announcement to be made. It doesn’t, thankfully enough, as icy clouds break from my mouth and plume off the bouncer’s suit blocking my path. He doesn’t notice, at least, I don’t think he does. He keeps a keen eye on the large crowd, which seems to now wrap around the corner.

I check my phone and can’t help but roll my eyes. Half past eleven. Of course. Why shouldn’t I wait in line for almost two hours? It didn’t matter how much time and effort I put into readying myself for the night. I’m not skip the line material, and even though I’m used to it by now, it doesn’t make the punch to my self-confidence sting any less.

Court: You make it in yet?

I scoff and more clouds rush to the large bouncer’s torso. Not yet : I respond, my insides screaming something else entirely. Us normal people don’t get to ride the express lane. I am where society expects me to be. Where I belong, I guess. In the cold, patiently waiting for my turn.

I’m next : I text back, tuck my phone away, and peer up at the man towering above me. “Busy night?”

The bouncer glares down at me, somehow ignoring the music and steady thumps pounding the sidewalk. He simply nods in my direction then returns his stern gaze to the ever-growing line behind me.

“Are you here alone?” he asks, his voice heavy with concern or judgment. I can’t tell which. There’s the hint of an accent, but I’m having trouble placing it. When he said “here,” it didn’t quite come out that way. Ear. Are you ear alone?

I glance down at the sidewalk. “No, uhm. My friend is already inside.”

The bouncer leans in close and eyes me for a moment long enough to send an uncomfortable shiver up my spine. “Stay vith your friend,” he says finally, his accent thick and low. “And stay away from the red room.”

Pins skirt across my arms, leaving goose bumps in their place. Nausea and maybe something else, some terrible feeling, twists my stomach. “What’s in the red room?”

He stands upright, his eyes fixing on the crowd behind me. “Next,” he announces and unclips the rope.

I start to walk by him and pause briefly. Below his earlobe is a tattoo, a crescent moon with a small cloud at the center. An odd tattoo. Not one I’d picture him having. It seems as out of place as me walking toward the front doors of this club. There is something about what he said that stands out to me, though. Stay away from the red room. Is this some exclusive part of the club I’m not allowed in to? No, it didn’t feel like he was giving a weird restriction where I could or couldn’t go. This felt like … a warning.

As soon as I reach the doors, he reclips the rope, and the rank-and-file clubgoers clamor at the front. Courtney never mentioned anything about a red room when begging for me to come here tonight. Certainly didn’t let me know how long it’d take to get through the line spanning an entire city block. She only gushed about the hot entrepreneur she was meeting here for the third time.

Red room , I repeat in my head. Unable to think of anything else but a door opening to reveal some grand party the rest of us normal people aren’t invited to. It isn’t surprising. Most clubs have a special VIP area for celebrities and high-profile guests . Sure, I was one of many waiting in line but does that mean I can’t even catch a glimpse of how the one percent enjoy their night out in LA? Safe to assume the answer is yes . I shake off the nervousness coursing through my body and open the large doors of Volk. I am definitely going to regret this.

Fog flows at my knees and whips to the streets in one quick gust, casting an eerie mist over those still waiting for their turn. Unease settles somewhere low in my rib cage. I’m in. That means the hard part is over, right? I scan the packed club. Nope. Definitely not. Turning back, the Volk doors slam shut, blowing my curled brown hair away from my face.

Great.

Just. Fucking. Great.

Getting in here was one thing, but I have a sneaky suspicion what comes next will be more exhausting than standing in a line long enough to lose track of the time. Men circle the women on the dance floor like sharks smelling fresh chum in the water. There isn’t a line at the bar, that would be silly. It’s simply a wall of people blocking anything behind it from view. Christ, there’s even a game of snake leading to the only two bathrooms in here. I was right before. I am going to regret this.

I’m inside : I text her, craning my head for a better look. Music thumps steadily, pulsing through each of my limbs. Lights flash in sequence with the beat, highlighting the club’s patrons in individual strobes. There’s no way I can find her, not when I only see the shadows of each face in Volk change in bright colors so sporadically. Courtney is in here somewhere, that’s for certain. My only hope now is she will check her phone and see I finally made it inside.

I take a seat at the far end of the bar, carefully smoothing the dress down my hips. It’s tighter than I expected it to be and far more revealing than anything I’ve worn before. “Thanks Court,” I mutter to myself, remembering how she insisted I wear it tonight to get back out there . Volk is not the kind of out there I imagined. Sure, the dating apps are a bust, but spending an evening worrying about how the back of my thighs look in a club at max capacity? Probably not the best idea she’s ever had. But I digress. Here I am. Out there , and this dress only manages to make me more uncomfortable than the judgmental stares I get when eating something other than a goddamn salad.

At the bar : I text again and observe the crowd. She might be in there somewhere, swimming with the school of intoxicated fish and intertwined with Roman, I think his name is. Court swore she wouldn’t ditch me for him tonight, but now? I’m not so sure.

The bartender takes notice of me while shaking a cocktail. He glances at the empty chairs on each side of me, and despite how he diverts his attention quickly, it’s difficult to miss the flash of pity in his eyes.

“Vhat’re you having?” he asks, raising his accented voice above the music.

“Surprise me,” I say and look down the long stretch of bar reaching for the other side of the room. What little confidence I had in my appearance back at my loft is swiftly replaced with sheer diffidence. Designer dresses. Hair to match. Bodies to envy. No, I will stick out like a scuff on their red-bottom shoes in a way no one would want to stick out .

“Here,” the bartender says and presents the drink on a coaster. He waits a moment, and when I don’t respond, he leans in. “Twenty.”

I can barely suppress the scoff from escaping me. Twenty dollars? Who the hell can afford one drink here, let alone a second or third round? “Uhm, what is it?”

He braces his hands on the bar, and the sleeves of his button-down shirt bunch at his elbows. That’s when I see it. On the inside of his wrist is a tattoo. It’s small, but easy to notice the same design as the bouncer outside. A moon. A sharp curve leading to a cloud formation covering the middle of it. Maybe it was some weird initiation all the employees had to do during orientation? But who would make their employees tattoo themselves? Why would they make their employees tattoo themselves?

He sucks the stagnant club air through his teeth and glares harder. “It’s a White Russian.” White comes out vhite , and although he’s smiling now, something about the grin he gives me is off-putting.

I sift through my clutch, counting off bills in my head. “Oh, really? I’ve never had one before.” That was a lie. My first and only White Russian was at a frat party in college. Needless to say, I wasn’t invited back after I puked on the couch. The floor. And for my grand exit, I managed to blow chunks all over three different pledges. Not my best night.

Twelve. I flip to the next bill. Thirteen. Fourteen … shit. I don’t have enough. I can’t even afford the drink sure to taste like vomit. The blood drains from my face, and while I can’t be positive, I’m guessing my cheeks are bright red. “I—uhm. I—”

“There you are!” someone interrupts from behind, and before I can turn around, Courtney wraps her arms around my neck.

I sigh out something otherworldly. Maybe it’s embarrassment, maybe it’s gratitude. Whatever it is, I don’t need to respond to the bartender’s outstretched hand anymore. Courtney is here now, and if I know her as well as I think, she’ll take care of me. Well, whatever guy she has hanging off her arm like some lost puppy will.

“What’d you get?” she asks and sits at the empty seat to my left. There’s a man behind her, and as she sits, he steps forward, almost closing the distance between him and his prize.

I purse my lips. “White Russian.”

She covers her mouth and recoils. “Uhm. Gross. Why would you do that to yourself?”

“Twenty,” the bartender repeats and crosses his arms.

Courtney rolls her eyes. “Okay, dude. Calm down. I’ll have a shot of Belvedere.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “Do you want a shot?”

I glance down at the White Russian seemingly staring back and shake my head.

Courtney turns to her new accessory. “You want anything?”

The man, mid-forties if I had to guess, displays the water bottle in his hand, and takes a sip. His hair is short on the sides but the top is long enough to notice the gray mixing in with his natural brown. Attractive, sure, but feels less like a suitor and more of a parent-chaperone at a winter formal. What Courtney sees in him is still up for debate, until the bartender asks again for payment, and she turns to him once more.

“You got this right?”

He smirks and tilts his head back playfully. After a moment, he retrieves his wallet and pulls a black card from it. “Put their drinks on my tab,” he says.

The bartender takes his card, obvious irritation in his features, and brings Courtney the shot. He slams it down and some spills on the bar top, but she doesn’t notice. She’s too busy beaming at Roman.

The bartender folds his arms over his chest like it’s his natural resting position. All it does is make him look like a prick. “Anything else?”

Courtney and Roman shake their heads, and after a quick glance at them, I lean forward.

“What’s the red room?”

His eyes widen for a moment long enough to catch. He composes himself and says, “I ave no clue vhat you’re talking about.” With this, he walks to the center of the bar, leaving our trio alone at the far end.

No clue? Surely he knows what the bouncer warned me about. It has to be some club secret. Maybe some pleasure room they have in the back for discretion. Something worse?

“What was that about?” Court asks, bringing the shot glass to her nose and sniffing it. “What’s the red room?”

I sip from my own drink, immediately regretting it. “Something I heard about.”

Confusion settles on Courtney’s small brows, and she scrunches her face. “Do you know about a red room?” she asks Roman and he shakes his head, just as clueless. A quick shrug of her shoulders and Court slams the vodka, leaving little translucent drips at the bottom. “Let’s dance!”

I sigh and raise the White Russian to my face, dreading the next sip. “I’m going to … finish my drink first.”

She pouts her lip and pulls me toward the dance floor, but after some resistance, she eventually departs for the stage, Roman trailing her like a golden retriever.

What am I supposed to say? No, Courtney, I don’t feel comfortable enough sitting at the bar, let alone dancing in a dress I’d never be caught dead in? She wouldn’t understand. None of the friends I had growing up did. The constant reassurance they gave didn’t help when all I saw in the mirror was something vastly different. No, I’ll sit here and draw the least amount of attention I can. Even if it means nursing a drink I can’t manage to swallow.

A woman approaches the bar a few chairs down. Her long blond hair is straightened and falls gently over sun-kissed shoulders. A tight black dress flourishes around her ample hips and complements the matching Louboutins she taps impatiently. While waiting for the bartender’s attention, she curls a long strand of hair away from her face and behind her ear.

No. No, no, no. I turn my head and face forward, not daring to give her another glance. In the mirror I see my own reflection, and despite the makeup I spent way too long applying, now all I see on my face is panic.

“Natalie?”

Great. Just fucking great. Veronica Tate. I turn toward her, putting on what I believe is a friendly expression. “Hey …”

“It is you!” She closes the gap between us and wraps her slender arms around me. “Oh my god.”

The idea to shove her away, hell, to even bash her pretty face on the bar, tempts me. I settle for a few pats on her shoulder. “Yeah. It’s me. How have you been?”

Veronica pulls back and scans me, starting from my cherry-red heels to my dress, and finally settling on my bewildered face. I know what she’s doing. It was the same thing she did every day before first period. Tallying up all my flaws. Judging every single aspect of my appearance.

I don’t know what to do.

Christ, I don’t know what to say.

Had I imagined bumping into someone from high school, Veronica Tate of all people, I never would’ve left the loft I can barely afford.

“Me? Fantastic. Just got back from Italy. Have you been?”

I grit my teeth. “Nope. Can’t say I have.”

She flips her hair to the side and the long blond strands almost whip into my cheek. “The best food I’ve ever had. You’d love it.”

The jab knocks the wind from my lungs and strangles the words I wish to scream at her. There’s food , she was probably thinking. You obviously love food. Visit the Colosseum? No, no. Can’t you tell? I traveled thousands of miles for the food. I grab my glass, pushing aside all doubt whether or not I’d rather drink it or decorate Veronica’s face with it.

Someone approaches her from behind and places a hand at the small of her back. He’s tall, taller in fact than the bouncer outside, which seems impossible. His hair is long, close to mine in length, and drapes down each strong shoulder like chestnut streams. The jaw line under his thick beard is undoubtedly sharp and defined. What I take notice of the most though, the thing I can’t manage to look away from, are his eyes. They’re light brown, almost golden, and unnaturally bright in the shadows of the club.

“Who’s your friend,” he asks Veronica in a low, gravelly voice, the hint of an accent apparent. He doesn’t smile, only lifts his eyebrows curiously.

She brings her palm to his face and kisses his cheek. “Her? Oh, just a girl I went to high school with. We used to have a nickname for her. Ugh, I forget. What did we used to call you, Natalie?”

I clench my teeth and nearly crack the glass in my hand. “I—I don’t remember.” Of course, I remember. Sort of difficult to forget a thing you cried over for hours each day. How they wrote it on your locker in permanent marker and screamed it at you every time you passed them in the halls. Fatty Natty. Something I’d never forget despite multiple couch sessions and the significant progress I made fighting off the skeletons filling my own closet. When it boils down to it, no matter how much I’ve changed, I will always be Fatty Natty .

He leans forward, extending his hand in my direction. “It is nice to meet you, Natalia. My name is Nikolai Vostik.” When I give him my palm, he bends over and places a peck, his eyes never leaving mine. The spot where his lips meet my skin burns hot in an instant and cools equally as fast.

Blood rushes to my face and tremendous heat wraps around my neck like a large fist is choking the life from me. I can’t manage to break from this strangulation, not even enough to utter a single response.

He stands upright, a large grin showcasing a perfect row of teeth. “Alek,” he says to the bartender. “ Day yey vse, chto ona khochet. ”

He nods to Nikolai while pouring a large bottle into three separate glasses.

“What?” I mutter. “What did you say?”

Nikolai stares at me again, his intense eyes piercing through the darkness of the room. Another smile, this time wide and unusually bright. “Have whatever you’d like. It’s, how do you Americans say? On the house.”

On the house? As in, his house? His club? I try and ask but the words fumble somewhere between my stomach and throat. This chokehold, this thing I can’t quite seem to shake, only worsens the longer he stares. It has me bound to a barstool, unable to do anything but look back at him.

“It was nice to meet you, Natalia. I hope to see you again.”

I nod, biting my lip, while Veronica does little else than glare in my direction. Her mouth hangs open, and her eyes reduce to tiny blue slits. This is an expression I’ve never seen from Veronica Tate before. One I didn’t think possible. She’s actually fucking jealous. Jealous of someone she considers beneath her in every way. Someone that dresses worse than her. Whose hair wasn’t combed to perfection. She is jealous all right. Jealous of … me .

“Come, Veronica,” he says and nods toward the stage. “We’re leaving.”

She does as he says and departs with one last snide glance at me. They walk toward a door near the center of the room, his palm never leaving the small of her back. When he opens it, the inside lights shine outward, illuminating half the crowd. They pay Nikolai no mind and continue dancing to the overpowering music filling the club. I watch them enter the room, and the slight hairs on the back of my neck prickle to attention. The walls. They aren’t the same as the rest here. Certainly not the same dark gray of the bar. They are painted red. A bloody, arterial red. That must be it. The red room. The one the bouncer warned me not to go in. Now I’m the jealous one, sitting here alone at the bar while Veronica is taken back to this exclusive part of Volk. My chest deflates like a car tire and sure as hell feels just as heavy. I should’ve thrown my drink in her face when I had the chance.

Nikolai pauses at the doorway and turns, his glowing eyes finding mine. He grins at me, even tilting one eyebrow upward. When he reaches for the door handle, something appears from the cuff of his blue button up. I’ve seen it enough times to recognize the mark. It’s a tattoo. A crescent moon tattoo matching the ones on the bartender and bouncer. It isn’t surprising he bears the same mark, although his doesn’t look nearly as fresh. We stare at each other for a moment, him a confident smirk, and me, looking around to be sure I’m the one he’s actually looking at.

Then, the door slams shut and dead bolts.