She climbed back into her car and rubbed her wet face hard with the palms of her hands. And for a while she just sat there peering into the mist, her police lights still strobing into the storm. But the child did not reappear.
Pink dress? About four or five years old? Shit. No kid would be out in this weather, alone. Especially not dressed like that. And how could she have heard that whisper over the crash of waves and howl of wind? Angie realized her hands were trembling.
Her father’s words filtered into her mind.
The first indication I had that she might be experiencing hallucinations, delusions, came in her midthirties ... We thought it was PTSD, from the car accident in Italy ...
Cold, she told herself. Just wet and cold. And exhausted—worsening insomnia since July taking its toll. She hadn’t slept for four nights straight now. That’s why she was shaking. She flicked off her lights, reengaged the gears, and pulled off slowly, wipers clacking.
A drink. She needed a stiff drink.
She needed to get this shit out of her head. She glanced at the clock on the dash. She’d promised herself she’d tone things down—it’s why she’d booked time off work. It’s why she was making an effort to help her mom and dad this weekend. She’d thought focusing on family affairs might help settle the urge in her. But once the thought had entered her head, Angie knew where she was going. What she would do. In spite of herself.
She’d do what she always did when she hit a bad hurdle, when she needed to find a way to cope—to blow off steam. Just the thought of it made her feel better already.
CHAPTER 3
We all lie ... We all move within six degrees of separation from one another.
Angie knew the instant he walked into the bar that he was the one.
Slowly, she sipped her drink, keeping her eyes trained on him as he sifted through the gyrating crowd—it parted for him like the Red Sea to Moses beneath the sparking disco ball. He moved with a command presence. She could feel the techno thump of the music resonating up her bar stool, and the pulse matched the beat of her heart as she watched him.
He stopped a moment, scanning the bar patrons as if searching for someone. He stood a head taller than the crowd, his shoulders broader than average. Light danced off his hair, which was ruffled and the dark blue-black of a raven’s feathers. His skin was pale. His eyes ... she couldn’t see the color from here, but they were wide set under dense brows. Strong features, she thought, ones that hovered between handsome and interesting. There was an otherworldly air about him, a vaguely worn yet incredibly alert look.
He turned, caught her eye.
A sense of trepidation rustled through her—he didn’t quite belong. Not here, in this club. There was something slightly off about his presence. But this only fueled her interest, her adrenaline. He held her gaze for a moment, and when she did not look away, he started to come toward her seat at the bar. Warning bells began to clang deep inside her mind as he neared. Heat rose in her body. Angie swallowed.
Don’t think. Just feel. Stay in control. Rule # 1: Always stay in control.
The Foxy Club was Angie’s hunting ground. It was located just off Highway 1—the road out of town that led over a mountain pass and up the island. From the outside the Foxy was a bleak, square building squatting on a cracked parking lot. A big billboard with flashing lights promised adult entertainment to motorists passing by. Tonight happened to be “Seventies Disco Night” with “Big Bad John” spinning bass-laden tunes under period disco balls. On the long and narrow stage behind the bar, female strippers in white patent leather go-go boots, tiny thongs, and silver wigs made seductive love to their poles. On this night they were paired with a male dancer who’d poured his muscular body into a tighty-whitey disco suit. He undulated his way between the strippers and their poles, thrusting his hips to the beat and pointing to the sky like something out of the oldSaturday Night Fevermovie ...stayin’ alive ... ah ha ha ... stayin’ alive ...
Yeah. Story of our lives. Just trying to stay alive—to live a little and fuck a few people along the way.
Because, as Angie knew all too intimately, at the heart of all life, and death, was sex. She was acutely aware of how sexual proclivity ran the gamut from “normal,” to deviant, to deadly. And the Foxy showcased sex in many of its forms. It was a place men came to buy it. And a place she could get it for free. Her own personal game of Russian roulette. Her own way of flipping a bird to mortality, the sometimes apparent futility of it all.
Her own way ofstayin’ alive ... ah ha haaa ...
The club’s motel on the opposite end of the parking lot rented rooms by the hour. She’d already paid for one upon her arrival. The lights dimmed suddenly and shifted from hot reds to blue as the song changed. She knocked back the rest of her drink, relieved to finally feel the beginnings of a nice fuzzy buzz. She motioned to the bartender for one more as her target approached her stool.
He smiled, and Angie inhaled, a zing spearing down into her belly. Even better up close. Nice white teeth, incisors a little lower than the rest, giving him a deliciously feral air. Creases fanned out from eyes that were such a dark blue they almost looked purple in this light.Fuck, he’s fucking beautiful.But still a little beat-up looking, just the wrong side of perfect.
Quite simply, he stole her breath.
And somewhere, far off, those mental warning bells started to clang louder—five alarm. And in the recesses of her consciousness she heard the words,Don’t touch.
Not this one. Too attractive to you. Not the profile you’ve set for yourself. Never take one that makes you feel vulnerable in any way ...
“Hey,” he said.
She nodded and took a deep swallow of the fresh vodka tonic that the barkeep had just placed in front of her.Just stayin control. Leave first. Leave early. No names.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he said, bracing his right hand on the bar, leaning across her, his mouth close to her ear in order to make himself heard over the music.
She held up her glass. “I’m good.”
“A dance, then?” He held her gaze. She didn’t blink. Slowly, she set her drink down on the counter and came to her feet, closing the space between them. He straightened up but did not step back. It forced her to look up at him. He was even taller than she’d anticipated. Broader.
