“No! You told me you were taking me out!”
I hear him growl behind me, but he takes my arm and escorts me onto the elevator.
To my surprise, Ethan holds my hand as we hit the sidewalk, leisurely strolling toward the club. I’ve never seen him relaxed like this. It’s unsettling. Aside from Patrick and another bodyguard shadowing us, it’s like a regular date.
The club is in an eight-story brick building, renovated to show off all the gorgeous gothic-style windows with a line of partygoers that wraps around the block. Spotlights are flashing, bouncing off nearby buildings and sending a beam into the night sky, like Batman’s. The people waiting to get in grumble as we walk past them but they shut up instantly from a glare from the bouncer at the stand.
Still gripping my hand, Ethan leads me through the crowd on the first floor, glaring at anyone who dares to get too close. There’s an elevator near the back guarded by another bouncer dressed in black.
“Mr. MacTavish, a pleasure to see ya tonight,” he nods his head respectfully.
“Thank ya, Kevin. This is my bonnie bride, Sloan.”
“Ma’am, nice to meet ya,” he says, escorting us onto the elevator. It swoops up to the rooftop and when I step out, Edinburgh gleams in all its night-time glory on one side, and the Atlantic Ocean glimmers under the moonlight on the other.
The rooftop is lined with potted trees and banks of flowers laced with white lights. The bar in the far end is an enormous old wooden monstrosity with four bartenders racing back and forth, flipping bottles and flirting with the guests. The stage is set up for optimal viewing wherever you happen to be, and the band is belting their way through one of my favorites, “I Think I’m Paranoid” and I scream with excitement, pulling Ethan toward the dance floor.
He can dance. Of course, he can, because there is apparently nothing Ethan can’t do well. He’s pulled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of that white dress shirt and his muscular forearms and all those colorful tattoos just make him hotter. It takes me a minute to realize that he’s cleared a perimeter around us, and when one flailing, thrashing guy gets too close, Ethan puts out his arm and clothes-lines the poor man.
“No one’s gettin’ near your ribs, baby,” he says sternly. My ribs are a little sore, but I’m having fun, completely carefree fun and I ignore the ache.
There is no end to the hotness of my new husband. And tonight? I’m kind of enjoying flaunting it. When girls dance too close, eyeing him hungrily, I make sure both of our wedding rings are visible until they give up. I didn’t think he noticed until I glared away the third interloper.
“You’ve no reason to be jealous, baby.” He nuzzles kisses on my neck until I giggle.
“I have to use the bathroom,” I say, “is there one on this level?”
“Aye, I’ll walk ya over.”
There’s a line to get in, not much of one but all the girls stop chatting and fussing with their hair to stare at my giganticScotsman. “I can find my way back to the bar,” I say. “Really, you don’t need to stick around.”
His full lips twitch as he glances at the staring gaggle of girls and he kisses the top of my head. “I’ll check my messages in the hall, then.”
“He’s a fine-looking one,” the girl in front of me says, staring at his broad back. “Well done, sister.”
I’m torn between laughing and snorting and something comes out that sounds like both. “He is,” I agree.
After making my way out of the bathroom, I get turned around a bit, heading the wrong way down the hall. I’m about to give up and turn the other way when I see a couple in front of me. She’s staggering on her high heels and she can’t quite keep her head up.
“Hey, do you need help?” I recognize the signs, she looks drugged, not drunk. We were taught what to look for at Club Vice, though you’d have to be suicidal to slip a dose of ketamine to anyone in a Mafia club. The few who tried it weren’t just thrown out; they lost all their fingers first. At least, I think it was just their fingers.
Speeding up, I try to catch them before they make it to the back staircase.
“Hey!”
The girl lifts her head and I see her bloodshot, vacant eyes. The man is older, maybe late forties with a clenched jaw and a tight grip on the girl. He’s not happy to see me.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to step between them, “Because you don't look well, my friend.”
“Sod off.” The man steps closer and I’m mildly nauseated by the stench of cigarette smoke and body odor. “This is my girlfriend, she’s just had too much to drink.”
“I’m not talking to you,” I snarl. It occurs to me that this would be a good time to have Ethan’s reassuring presence, but I don’t dare go back for him. I don’t know this club well enough and I could lose them. “Hey, I'm Sloan, what’s your name?”
“I…” she’s swaying, trying to focus on me. “I’m Ste…” she dies off, looking confused.
“I think you should come with me,” I say, “let’s get you looked at.”
“She’s fine, ya fecking bitch! Feck off before I make ya,” the man hisses, stepping so close that his rancid breath washes across my face.
