Page 100 of Remy

“I’m sure if you know him well enough you already have his number. Give him a call or send a text. He’ll message back if he’s interested.”

The kid discreetly pulls a cell from his bomber jacket and holds the screen at a weird angle. Is he taking photos of me?

“I lost his number.” I shrug. “Is there anything I can tell you to prove I know him? I drove his Bentley on the weekend. He took me to his uncle’s penthouse in the city. Salvatore even came to my house.”

The bouncer sighs and waves forward the group of guys behind me. “Sweetheart, you’re not dropping personal information about him that isn’t already common knowledge. So unless you take the hint and drop the psycho stalker vibes, I’m going to have to ban you from the club.”

I’m the psycho?

I swallow down my agitation and take the ID he hands me as the sleazy guys trample over my personal space in their race to see who can offer up their license first. “Will you at least tell him I’m here?”

Big and Burly continues with his job. Scanning the IDs. Instructing on the facial recognition process.

“Please,” I beg. “It’s important.”

“Yeah, whatever. What’s your name again?”

Shit.

Is it possible these men also answer to Lorenzo? Could Salvatore find out I’m disobeying him? I’m sure I could talk my way out of getting in trouble for being here and running into Remy by accident. But specifically asking for him?

“Umm… tell him it’s Pyro.”

Big bouncer guy shoots a look of mirth at the young guy, who’s too busy typing into his cell to notice.

“Okay, Pyro. If I see the boss I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you.” I’m nudged toward the club entrance by more of the encroaching assholes. “I really appreciate it.”

Neither bouncer acknowledges me. They don’t even look in my direction.

I walk into the enclosed entry, the thudding beat of music pounding harder as I continue into the hall, check my coat, and forge past the automatic doors into the darkened, sprawling interior. It’s a kinetic playground of gyrating bodies on the dance floor in the middle of the room, with polished marble bars gleaming from either side of the building, a small crowd of people lined in wait as mixologists work their magic.

I stand on the tips of my slowly thawing toes and spy Ivy and Allison waiting to be served at the closest bar. I approach, waving until I gain Ivy’s attention.

“I’m going to take a look around,” I mouth, twirling a finger near my head in a circular motion.

She nods and holds up her phone in a gesture I assume means to keep my cell close in case I can’t find her again.

I give two thumbs up, then revert back to mission mode.

I skirt the dance floor, the air around me filled with a blend of laughter, heavy bass, and impending drunken mistakes.

VIP sections line the perimeter of the room, shielded with draped deep purple curtains to offer secrecy for God knows what that happens behind them. Waitresses flitter around offering table service, the trays they carry ladled with glistening alcohol bottles.

I approach a beautiful blonde woman in a scantily clad club uniform and force myself to pretend I’m the most sociable person on the planet as I blink kind eyes at her. “Excuse me,” I yell over the music.

She pauses, beaming an I-work-for-tips smile.

“Is Remy working tonight?”

The warmth in her expression falters. “I don’t know. You should ask one of the guys.” She strides away, not forthcoming with what guys she’s referring to.

I try another woman, and another, both giving equally dismissive responses before I resign myself to the daunting prospect of asking another male for help.

If I don’t get Remy’s number I’m going to be stuck on this neurotic, spying spin cycle until the sleep deprivation kills me.

I drag in a deep breath and stand taller to do another visual scan of the club. It’s a mass of sensory overload. Multicolored lights dance across the walls, casting everyone in an ever-changing glow. A DJ stands on a raised platform in front of the moshing crowd, commanding his dancers with one hand tweaking his equipment while the other punches the air to the beat.

---