Still, as she disappeared into the backroom, something in my stomach churned.
Mind your business, Kiera. Snooping’s never done you any good.
But when she emerged with a loaded duffel bag and strode over to a side door of the arcade, my curiosity was uncontrollable.
Okay, fine, just a peek.
Keeping an eye to the display case, I hopped down from the counter and crept over just far enough to peek out into the alley. Spencer stood with her back to the door, tapping her foot impatiently with the duffel bag in her hand.
Then, a second later, a woman on a motorcycle roared down the alley, coming to a hard stop in front of Spencer. “What’s good, Spotter?”
I watched the woman dismount the bike, dapping Spencer up with an easy familiarity.
Spencer nodded. “Same as usual. The kids okay?”
“Yeah, you know how it is. That for me?” She nodded to the duffel bag.
“You know it.” Spencer hefted the bag onto the back of the bike, helping her friend secure it with ratchet straps. The two of them moved like a well-oiled machine, and Spencer’s excuse that she was just some hapless employee was feeling thinner and thinner by the second.
And as the woman rolled up her sleeves before hopping back onto the bike, she drove the final nail into the coffin. There, in the center of her forearm, was a winged sword tattoo: the same kind that Spencer and Leo wore on their own skin.
That fucking tattoo is everywhere. But what the fuck does it mean?
My mind swam with questions, but there was one thing I knew now for certain. There was no way that Spencer had branded herself to a cause she didn’t understand. She knew exactly where that money was headed, and she’d just lied to my face about it.
35
DOM
Where the fuck are they?
As my eyes flitted from the crowd to the watch around my wrist, I couldn’t help but snarl.
They must think I’m some sort of fucking sucker to leave me waiting. Like I’m not their best goddamn asset.
The cold glass in my hand clinked against the counter with more force than I’d intended. Behind the grates of the old service window, a man in a black suit appeared, backlit by the warm glow of the ticket office signs above the bar. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”
My eyes lingered just a second on the oblong shape embroidered on his jacket: it almost looked like a smear of paint, except for the negative space carved out of either side that supposedly made it a train.
Stupid fucking symbol. Shouldn’t have to squint to know where I am.
Shaking my head, I slammed back the rest of my bourbon and passed the glass over to him. “No, thank you, Teller.”
He nodded, clearing my empty glass before moving to the next patron. As much disdain as I might have for its design,the symbol was an important one. It identified the Teller as an employee, rather than a patron of the most exclusive underground venue on the East Coast.
Here, every piece of clothing had a meaning. My own navy suit, nearly black, was enough to tell others to stay away. But my open shirt collar told them that if they tried to touch me, that I’d be doing the fucking.
And then there was the gold ring on my middle finger.
Tensing my jaw, I shook my head.Ridiculous.
A promise I wasn’t sure I could keep. I never should have put it on.
Hoping to distract myself from the nuisance she was, I studied the crowd. The dancefloor was a mess of colors and cuts that announced what each patron was here for.
A handful of monogamous couples moved through the crowd together, wrapped in red. A woman in an open-backed green dress swirled under the dancefloor lights as whatever had been slipped into her drink took effect. And a pretty light blue at the edge of the crowd sought a partner for her Sleeping Beauty fantasy.
I couldn’t say I wasn’t tempted. The idea of taking someone while they were asleep was intriguing. Giving into my own excitement despite their vulnerability…
