She reached the rope and paused just behind a pair of overdressed influencers trying to flirt their way past Shepard, the mountain-sized man guarding the stairs.
“C’mon, baby,” one purred. “Just a peek.”
“We’ll make it worth your while,” the other added, running her fingers down his arm.
Shepard shook his head. “No pass, no entry.”
“That’s what we’re offering,” the first one said, biting her lip. “A very personal kind of?—”
Enough!
Kiki reached out, gently pressing her index finger to the base of each woman’s back.
You really, really need to use the ladies’ room.
They stiffened, blinked, then clutched their stomachs in unison.
“Oh my god, I have to go— Move it!”
The two bolted, shoving their way through the crowd, their faces pale.
Kiki bit back a laugh and stepped forward.
Shepard narrowed his eyes. “No entry without?—”
She touched his arm. Her mental voice was gentle but final.
You will let me enter. I have a pass. After I enter, you will forget you saw me.
His jaw slackened, then he nodded slowly. “One going up,” he said into the mic at his shoulder, already unhooking the velvet rope.
She gave a brief smile and took the stairs. Her steps were steady, but each one felt heavier than the last. She pressed a hand to her stomach as it knotted. Her mind was racing with anxiety.
How do I convince a man to disappear for his own safety?
How do I tell him he’s in danger—without sounding like I’m the threat?
Kiki knew what shecoulddo, of course. But it was one thing to affect his mind as a goodbye, a onetime severance that would keep him safe once and for all. It was another thing to do it to him again. As if he was her plaything.
Just the thought made her feel sick.
No, once was a regrettable necessity; twice was too much. He knew her. This would affect him. So, no. She would just have to reason with him.
She had no idea how she was going to get him to believe her.
At the top landing, a towering man in a crisp black suit opened the lounge door with a puzzled frown. She glanced at his name tag: Rhys.
“Welcome to—” his eyes dropped to her black jeans, black hoodie, and black ankle boots, “—uh, the VIP lounge.”
Kiki offered a bland smile and swept past him into a den of opulence and ego.
The lounge oozed luxury: black and red velvet walls; gold trim; and deep, rich leather booths glowing under soft amber light. Celebrities lounged like gods among a few privileged mortals. Scents of rich cologne, cigars, and perfume wove with the music into a sensory assault.
Her gaze found him instantly.
Nikos Aeto.
Corner booth.
