Page 6 of By Sin To Atone

I grab the tray and, keep my gaze on one point on the far wall in order not to fall over on my toothpick thin heels, another requirement of the uniform. I cross the room toward table six and try not to see what is happening in my periphery. Alcoves and rooms are offered to members for privacy, but I swear the men who frequent the place like to be watched. Sadly, most are pathetic to look at.

But as I approach my table, I paste on a smile, thinking of the tips, because based on that single dollar deposit and the middle finger emoji, Zeke won’t be paying up and I’m back to square one.

That’s one thing about members of The Society. They tip generously. If you lean deep while pouring their drinks and make sure to swing your ass when you walk away, even better. The two at my table don’t have women with them. I’m at least grateful for that. It’s always a little uncomfortable when they do. But they’re both wearing their masks and cloaks. It’s not unusual but by the time I get to my shift which starts at midnight, most men have shed both. Behind the closed doors and within the windowless rooms of the establishment, what happens at The Cat House stays at The Cat House.

The two stop their conversation as I approach, turning their gazes to me. Something about the action or the two sets of eyes on me, makes me hesitate.

I misstep.

The ringing in my ears starts, a warning.

An omen.

No. It’s not that. It’s the cloaks and masks. It’d make any woman nervous, but I remind myself it’s just grown men essentially wearing costumes, playing some stupid game.

I close my eyes and tell myself to relax. If I just breathe, I can get through it. It will pass. It always does.

When the high-pitched beep lessens, I tamp down the nausea that accompanies it and adjust my grip on the tray. My palms are sweaty. I return my gaze to the men, telling myself to calm down as my lips quiver in my attempt to smile. They both watch me and neither of them smiles. One, I realize, has one dark eye and one gray eye. It’s unusual but it’s the other man, the one whose head is slightly tilted, whose wolfish eyes burn a bright, almost unnatural silver-gray, who holds my attention. Who makes me aware of how loudly my heart beats against my chest.

A shiver runs down my spine, making all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I reach the table and nod my greeting because I don’t think my voice will work. They still don’t return my smile. They just keep staring at me and that same feeling of earlier, of something being off, returns.

Bending down, I set their drinks before them. I take a minute to close my eyes and force another deep breath in. I’m fine. Everything is fine. It’s just been a weird night. I’m distracted and I need to figure out what I’m going to do next, that’s all, because Ezekiel St. James’s response tells me he’s not going to pay. What my dad had on him, it’s not as big a deal as he thought, maybe. Blackmail isn’t how my dad made his money, not his real money anyway. He’s more of a bully than anything else.

When I straighten and look up, my gaze collides with the silver-eyed man and that ringing starts again, causing me to lose my balance and stumble backward. The tray drops from my hand, hitting the table loudly on its way to the plush carpet at our feet.

The man is on his feet lightning fast, hands closing over my elbows searing my skin. His grip is just a little too tight as he rights me.

I look up at him, instinctively wrapping my hands around his forearms as the ground seems to tilt beneath my feet. It’s not real. I know that. It’s just my broken brain. So, I hold on until it passes, and I stare into those strange wolf-eyes that have stolen my voice. My breath. It’s the way he’s looking at me, like he sees right through me, that sends my heart catapulting against my ribs, blood thudding against my ears as the room spins around us.

Danger.

The word manifests as pure sensation, a visceral knowledge.

When I’d felt like something was off earlier, that wasn’t nothing. Don’t I know to trust my instincts yet? It was a premonition. Something coming. Something bad. And that sensation is amplified a thousand times in this stranger’s eyes.

“Gentlemen. Everything all right?” Craven’s voice comes from behind me. The man who has hold of me doesn’t break eye contact. I wish he would so I could breathe. Wish he’d loosen his hold so I could slip away.

“Craven,” the one who was seated, who is now standing, says. “Everything is fine.” He turns to the man who has me, sets his hand on his shoulder. I look at it and see the curving line of dark ink tattooed into his skin, the scaly tail of some creature inked on his arm? It disappears under the sleeve of his shirt.

“Blue can be clumsy.” Craven closes a meaty hand around my bare arm and nausea twists my gut. I hate when he touches me.

The silver-eyed man shifts his gaze from me to Craven’s hand to his face and a coldness, more icy than moments ago, settles into those storm-angry eyes. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. Not a moment later, Craven removes his sweaty paw from my shoulder and the masked man who has hold of me releases me. The instant he does, I put space between us, bending to pick up my tray, pushing strands of hair that’s fallen out of my bun back behind my ears.

“She didn’t spill anything on you, did she, Mr. St. James?”

Mr. What?

The world tilts and it takes all I have not to topple over.

“She’ll be reprimanded if she did,” Craven is saying. He mutters something about borrowing a cane and laughs like it’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said. He’s the only one laughing.

Get your shit together, Blue. Get it fucking together. Even if he’s him, he doesn’t know who I am. He has no idea. How could he?

“Excuse me,” I manage.

The man with the wolf eyes settles into the oversized leather armchair and picks up his tumbler of whiskey. When his sleeve draws back, I catch a glimpse of the expensive watch on his wrist and ink similar to the other man’s twisting around to the back of his hand. I wonder what it is. Why they both have it and what it means. And I’m reminded this is for real. Not a game.

Ezekiel St. James is a member of a secret society and I tried to blackmail him.

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