Page 50 of Icebound Hearts

ME: It doesn’t have anything to do with that. I just don’t like the idea of some random fucking predatory jerk hitting on and taking advantage of you.

VIOLET: Maybe I want to be taken advantage of.

My fingers hover over the screen while my heart thuds in my chest. She’s messing with me now, but I don’t think she has any idea all the different ways that message is fucking with me. Or about all the graphic things that are flashing in my mind. It’s probably a good thing I don’t know what’s on that bucket list of hers.

ME: Where are you?

VIOLET: I dunno. Some club downtown. Why?

ME: You don’t know where you are?

That part worries me more than anything else, and before I even realize it, I’m on my feet and heading for the front door. My phone vibrating in my hand again snaps me out of autopilot and freezes me with my free hand on the doorknob.

VIOLET: The bartender’s shirt says Skyline.

I grit my teeth at her reply. At least I know where she is, but I don’t like that she had to talk more to the bartender to figure out the name of the club. Luckily, I know right where it is. I’ve never set foot in the place myself—I’m not the club type—but it’s relatively new and made a big buzz when it first opened about a year ago.

I back out of my text thread with Violet and tap into another one I have with Sarah, one of my older neighbors who’s a grandma and occasionally watches Jake for me.

ME: Hey, Sarah. Sorry to bother you. I know it’s a bit late, but do you have a few minutes to watch Jake for me? He’s asleep and a friend of mine has been out drinking and needs a ride home, but I don’t want to leave Jake by himself.

Thankfully, she replies right away.

SARAH: Sure. Mark is home with the grandkids so I can stay for a bit.

ME: Thank you so much. I’ll be quick.

SARAH: No problem. Be right over.

True to her word, Sarah arrives a few minutes later.

“It’s sweet of you to rescue your friend,” she says as she hugs me on her way inside.

I’m not sure sweetness alone is my motivator, but I smile at her anyway.

“Thanks. She’s downtown so shouldn’t be too long, but you never know with the traffic.”

“No rush. Like I said, Mark’s home with the kids, so I’m a free woman.”

“I really appreciate this. I’ll make it up to you, I swear,” I say and stride outside to my car.

The drive to Skyline feels way longer than the fifteen minutes it actually takes, and when I see how packed the place is and how few parking spots there are, I’m doubly irritated. I end up having to park on the street a couple blocks away, then hoof it back to the club.

The bouncer’s eyes widen in recognition when I flash him my ID on the way inside, but he thankfully keeps his cool and doesn’t make a scene. The last thing I want right now is to have to deal with someone trying to get my autograph or something.

There are so many people crammed into the place that it’s hard to move, much less see, and that’s probably a good thing because it’ll help me keep a low profile. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the bar is probably at the back of the room, so that’s where I head.

While I shove and elbow my way through the throng of people, I spot Callie, Margo, and Becca dancing together toward the center of a sea of people, but Violet’s not with them. That worries me—because there’s only one other place where she’d be, and it’s the last place I want to find her.

Finally, the bar comes into view, stretching across the whole back wall of the main room. Bottles of liquor stacked high on industrial shelving behind the bar flash in the lights spinning overhead, and as my eyes rake down the bar’s length, I spot Violet’s unmistakable blonde hair shining and rush to where she’s swaying on one of the bar stools. The bartender, the same guy she sent me the picture of, is just sliding a fizzing gin and tonic across the bar to her when I get there.

But she’s so tipsy that she misses it. It soars past her and into my hand. She turns on the stool, and when she spots me, her eyes shoot wide open. “Sawyer?”

Instead of responding right away, I lock my eyes on the bartender, who’s watching our interaction warily.

“You really shouldn’t overserve your clients,” I growl at him, and he throws his hands up with a shit-eating grin.

“They order, I serve. Simple as that, man.”

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