I’m wearing black leather pants, a red bustier, and strappy black Manolos. As soon as I walk into the club, a couple guys in suits follow me to the bar.
“Hey, gorgeous,” one of them says. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“You sure?” the other one asks. “We’ve got a weakness for blondes.”
“She’s sure.” Nix’s deep voice sounds behind me, and I turn.
“Yeah, okay,” one of the men mutters.
They walk away, and Nix puts a hand on the bar, his body facing me. “So what’s your pleasure…Eva?”
“Sprite.”
He laughs like we’re the only two people in the room. It’s a rich, truly amused sound that’s accompanied by a wide grin.
“Nowthat, I was not expecting,” he says. “Bustier, tats, a pound of eye makeup, and she’ll have a Sprite.”
“I get that you think you’ve got me pegged, Beantown, buttrust me, you don’t.”
The amusement fades from his eyes as he signals the bartender, who walks over immediately.
“A Sprite and a bourbon,” Nix says, not even looking at him.
Nix is holding my gaze, neither of us willing to look away. After a few seconds of silence between us, he says, “Why’d you call me that?”
I shrug. “I can tell you’re from Boston by your voice.”
“I dropped that accent a long time ago,” he says, turning to face the bar.
This is a sore subject for him. It’s clear from the tension in his voice and the way he’s gripping the edge of the bar.
“It’s subtle,” I say. “I’m sure most people don’t notice it.”
“And where are you from?” When he turns to look at me again, the calculating look has returned to his dark eyes. “With a name like yours, I’m guessing you might have picked up on my accent because we’re native to the same state.”
Kennedy. He assumes I’m named after JFK, and he’s right. But I shrug nonchalantly.
“What can I say, Nix? I’m a closed book.”
The bartender sets our drinks on the bar and waves off Nix’s attempt to pay for them.
“Let’s go downstairs,” Nix says. “It’s too crowded up here.”
Like Alex Hassan, Nix tells me what to do rather than asking. I guess powerful men aren’t used to asking. I’d like to tell him to fuck off, but I need to gather all the intel I can get on him.
I lead the way through the kitchen and onto the elevator. When we step in, Nix doesn’t paw me like Hassan always does. I appreciate that difference between the two of them.
Once we’re in the basement, Nix leads me to a couple chairs in a secluded corner. When we’re seated, he studies me, seeming to look for answers he can see written on my face. It unnerves me.
“What?” I ask him.
“Why don’t you like me?”
I scoff. “You mean, why don’t I fall at your feet just because you’re rich and powerful?”
“And attractive.”
