The thought ripples through me like a hot wave. Reckless. Stupid. Exactly the kind of thing that gets women killed.
“Don’t.” He sighs, defeated. “I’ll have security on you before you can take a step in that direction.”
“What?” I spin around, finally noticing what I should have seen the moment I walked in. Security guards. At least four of them. Posted around the lounge like sentries. All watching. All waiting.
Damn.
“Finish your drink.” He grabs a tray as a small printer behind the bar starts churning out an order ticket.
“Can you give me anything?” I take another sip. The cosmo is half gone now and I know I’m running out of time. Five minutes, Alex said. I’ve definitely exceeded that.
“Probably shouldn’t.” He’s loading drinks onto the tray, his back to me.
“Listen.” I lean forward, drop my voice. And then I lie. “My friend is missing.”
My hand goes to my throat. That fucking tell. I force it back down into my lap and hope he didn’t notice.
He noticed.
But instead of calling me on it, he pauses. Sets down the bottle he was holding. Turns to face me, leaning over the bar into my space.
I can smell fresh mint on his breath—like he sucks on the leaves to get through his shift. To cover up the smell of whatever he has to witness up here.
“She was last seen in an alley,” I continue, the lie coming easier now. “With a guy wearing a signature fur coat. I just need a name.”
His eyes search mine. Looking for... what? Truth? Desperation? Proof I’m actually trying to help someone and not just causing trouble?
Whatever he sees, it’s enough.
“Do you know what an NDA is?” he questions, leaning even closer into my space.
“I do.” Intimately. More intimately than he could possibly know. But I don’t add that because I’m not here to share war stories about legal documentation.
“Good. Then you understand—I can’t tell you shit.” He pauses, glances at the corner. The same booth. The curtains still moving even though they shouldn’t be. “But I can tell you he wasn’t with anyone last week.”
I sit back, processing. He wasn’t with anyone. So he was alone. Hunting alone.
“But he has been known to hook up in random places around here,” the bartender adds quietly, almost reluctantly. Like he’s breaking a rule just by giving me this much.
I digest his words slowly, my finger tapping against my thigh. Patterns. Evidence. The kind of thing I’d catalog in a case file if I could actually report any of this.
“Last question.” I lean forward again.
“Make it quick,” he mutters, picking up the tray.
“Who owns this club?”
He pauses. Tilts his head. Something shifts in his expression—almost approval. Like I finally asked the right question.
“Public information,” he says quietly. Almost too quietly. Like he’s telling me something important without actually telling me anything at all.
Then he jerks his head toward the door. Time’s up.
I down the rest of my cosmo—waste not, want not—and slide off the stool. My stomach drops as I stand, that serpent-spine sensation crawling up my back.
Someone’s watching. I canfeelit.
“Really? Two of them?” I look back at the bartender as two enormous security guards start moving in my direction.
