I stop pacing. “Hisnatural habitat?”
“Yeah,” she says. “See what he’s like when you’re not around.”
I blink. “Are you suggesting we spy on him?”
“Duh.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Lena.”
“You can wear one of my wigs,” she barrels on. “I’ve got that black one that hits your shoulders. Makes you look stupid hot. Pair it with that black leather skirt and boots. I’ll do your makeup. He won’t recognize you.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” I say, even as my stomach flips.
“It’ll be fun,” she insists. “Worst case scenario, we drink and people-watch. Best case, you confirm he’s still hot from a distance.”
“I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into this,” I mutter. “What if he recognizes me?”
She laughs. “Please. Men barely recognize women with different lip gloss.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It should be,” she says. “Now stop overthinking and tell me what time we’re going.”
I groan, already knowing how this ends.
EIGHT
LUCKY
I’ve been checkingmy phone all day, just enough to piss me off. Savannah’s texted back, but they’ve been shorter than usual. Polite. Fine. Nothing wrong with them, technically. She could be busy. She has a life. I know that, but it still bothers me.
I’m at the compound, church just wrapped, and all I want to do is call her. Hear her voice. Ask what she’s up to. See if I can get eyes on her tonight.
“Want to grab a beer?” Riot asks.
I open my mouth to tell him no. Then Ghost grunts his agreement, and Diesel claps a hand on my shoulder. “First round’s on me.”
Fuck. “One,” I say. “Then I’m out.”
They grin like they don’t believe me, and they’re probably right. We take the club entrance into Perdition, the bass already thumping through the walls. The place is packed, lights low, air thick with heat and noise and bodies pressed too close together. It’s a good crowd. Lively. Loud.
I take my usual seat at the table, beer sweating cold against my palm, trying to focus on the conversation instead of my phone sitting uselessly in my pocket.
Diesel’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. I don’t notice why at first. Conversation keeps rolling, music thumps, glasses clink, but there’s a hitch in the rhythm around our table. A couple guys turn in their seats. Someone laughs too loud, like they missed the end of a joke. I glance up without thinking, following Diesel’s gaze toward the bar. “Well, shit,” he mutters. Then I see her.
That gets my attention. I lift my gaze just as two women walk in. At first, it’s just shapes and movement. Dark hair. Bare legs. Confidence in the way they cross the room like they expect people to make space.
The guys around them notice immediately. Heads turn. Conversations stall. A couple of prospects straighten like they’ve been given orders.
One of the women laughs, tossing her hair as they head for the bar. And then something tightens in my chest. Because there’s something familiar in the way she moves. In the way she tilts her head when she talks to her friend. In the way she scans the room like she’s clocking exits and people at the same time. My grip tightens on the bottle.
She’s wearing a wig. I can tell. Darker. Shorter. But it doesn’t hide the shape of her mouth. Or the line of her jaw. Or the way she shifts her weight onto one hip like she owns the damn place.
“No,” I mutter under my breath.
Diesel snorts. “What?”
I don’t answer. I watch her step up to the bar, her friend leaning in to say something that makes her laugh again. The sound doesn’t reach me over the music, but I know it anyway. Savannah. So this is what she’s been doing all day. I take a slow pull from my beer, eyes never leaving her as a guy at the bar immediately turns toward her, already smiling too wide.
