Page 84 of Fake Game

My attention snags as the couple before me flash their phones at the bouncer, some sort of passkey on their screens. The bouncer nods them forward and gestures to the back of the bar. I watch as they bypass all the other patrons and head for another deep red door in the back, scanning their phones again before disappearing.

Shit.

Nerves begin to prick at my skin as I worry about being let in.

“ID?”

I dig around in my purse for my driver’s license, holding it out between two nails. The guy angles it up, flashing his light on it before giving me a once over. Once he deems my ID to be passable, he hands it back without a word.

“Thank you.”

I try to feel confident as I make my way to the bar, picking a stool off to the side and hidden from anyone who might walk in. It’s like I’m in my own little oasis.

“What can I get for you, darlin?” The bartender slides a glass of water and a house cocktail list in front of me. It only takes me a quick glance to land on something.

“The Broken Bombshell, please.” I present my credit card to her.

“Open or closed?”

“Closed.”

She nods, taking my card and the cocktail list.

I pick up the glass and take a healthy sip of cool water, my body finally calming down and no longer on high alert. Something about this place feels safe.

The red door in the back opens again, two men and a woman exiting this time. The men each give the woman a kiss on hercheek before walking out of the lounge, but the woman doesn’t follow. She takes a seat at the far end of the bar, and I watch as the bartender pours her a glass of whiskey without a word. She’s stunning, with long dark hair and smoky eyes. The dress she is wearing has a cutout on both sides, revealing a plush hourglass figure.

She catches me staring, and frowns slightly, tilting her head to the side as she rakes her gaze over me. I fidget with the edge of my dress, worried that she can tell I don’t belong. For a second, I think she’s about to come over, but a man stops next to her and leans to whisper in her ear. Her eyes widen, some sort of realization glossing over them as she continues to look at me, before a serpentine smile spreads from her red lips. She turns to smooth out the man’s tie, murmuring something to him, and then flicks her wrist back to the red door.

He gives her a nod, walking past and scanning his phone before disappearing behind that damn mysterious door.

“One Broken Bombshell and the check.”

My daze is shattered as I blink down at the coupe glass filled with a blush pink liquid and topped with a rosemary garnish.

“Thank you.” I quickly scribble out my tip and pocket my credit card. I hold out the little clipboard, working up the courage to ask the bartender, “What is that red door?”

A knowing smile crosses her features as she takes the check from me. “If you have to ask, you don’t need to know.”

That’s a little dickish.

I pick up my cocktail and take a sip. The smoky mezcal blends with the fresh strawberry puree and a hint of rosemary. It helps soothe some of the annoyance I’m feeling—but annoyance is better than panic.

When I raise my eyes back to the mysterious woman, I find her chatting away into her phone. Her gaze is still on me, and Ihave to bite back the instinct to run my fingers through my hair or smooth down my dress.

There’s something unnerving about her, like she recognizes me. But it’s not the same as when people recognize me from my streams or viral content; she looks at me like she knows me personally.

Minutes pass, and even once she has finished her phone call and begins talking to yet another young man who sidles up next to her at the bar, she doesn’t stop glancing my way. I’ve been bouncing between watching her and that damn red door, but I still can’t put the pieces together. The best I’ve come up with is that there might be some high stakes poker room in the back—like the one I’ve heard Parker and his friend go to in Vegas.

I’m thinking about this way too much. I should really just go home and call it a night.

I down the last of my drink and pull out my phone, clicking on the rideshare app. The nearest available ride is…

Fifteen minutes away.

Of course it is.

My finger is millimeters away from clicking the confirmation button when I catch the woman moving. My eyes fly up, tracking the foxlike smile that stretches across her red lips as she stares just past me.

---