Page 58 of Forget Me Twice

Tipping the screen towards me, I blink at the sudden brightness and scowl when I see that the display reads11:37pm. That means I lost just over three hours. As I shove it back into my pocket with a curse, I try to remind myself that I might not have even had hours to lose, if the drugs had done their job properly.

When I checked the dance floor with Wren, I had to consciously ignore the undulating surfaces and ghostly after-images thanks to the drugs, but I do know I didn’t see Sloane anywhere.

In fact, there doesn’t seem to be any other Prefects, or either of the teams up here. Have they gone back down…or up?

I’ve yet to see what’s on the third floor.

As my eyes go to seek out the stairs to the next level, my attention is snagged by another similarly narrow and darkened hallway—this one on the exact opposite side of the open space.

Just inside, a tall, darkly-dressed figure leans against the wall, arms crossed, their face and shoulders completely shrouded in darkness. The pulsing lights don’t reach that opening either, and there’s something almost menacing about the way the shadows there seem to drape around their lurking occupant.

I can’t make out who it is, but now that I see them, I’m almost positive that their eyes are also on me.

The longer we stare at each other across the room, the greater my curiosity becomes. I’m not entirely sure whether it’s a symptom of the drugs still lingering in my bloodstream, or if it’s just my usual troublemaking urges, but I’m suddenly overcome with an insatiable need to seek this person out.

With a groan, I launch myself away, staggering a little as I do. Luckily, I manage to catch myself with a steadying hand on the wall, right before I faceplant.

Shit.

It’ll be hard enough navigating this club while high off my fucking face—let alone in six inch heels.

Blood rushes to my head and my vision swims as I bend down, but I grit my teeth and focus on removing my shoes, one at a time. Once they’re off, I lean one hand back on the wall for support, breathing heavily and gripping the pair of Louboutins in the other.

No wayam I leaving these babies behind.

I’m determined to inch my way around the room until I can reach the other hallway, so I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I find that using the walls as a guide helps me skirt the edges of the crowd quite quickly; the cold, flat surface passing under my palm helping make the floor feel more stable beneath my bare feet.

As I draw closer, the shadow straightens, dropping their arms to their sides with fists tightly clenched. A single step forward brings them just close enough that the lights from the dance floor now cut a slant across their face. My labored steps come to a halt.

Emerging like a paralysis demon in a nightmare, is Atlas Rhodes.

Fittingly, he’s dressed all in black, with a dark button up shirt and ripped jeans. His long tresses are pulled back at the base of his neck into a messy bun. Whenever the smoky beams now bounce off his face, his eyes seem to flash aggressively.

The music continues to pulse between us, the smell of liquor, cigarette smoke and the arousal of dozens of grinding couples hanging thick in the air. One moment seems to stretch into eternity, and the weight of his attention becomes almost painful to bear.

Christ, he’s beautiful to look at.

The thought slips in unbidden, just as he breaks our stare-off, spinning to stalk back into the darkened hallway. A twinge of panic sparks, needing to keep him in my sights before he can slip away like Hades back down to the Underworld.

Just where are you going, Hades?

With a jolt, I rush after his retreating form—all thoughts and plans for the rest of my night at The Gatehouse pushed firmly to the back of my mind.

I’ve got a Rox Boy to hunt.

* * *

The bone-deep throbof the Guardhouse’s industrial bass ebbs away as we reach the end of the passageway.

After a sharp corner, we are met with a set of stairs and without pausing, Atlas leads our descent. The stairwell is similarly lit by black lights, and decorated by loud neon murals, half-smoked roaches and cigarette butts.

Several rotations later and the stairwell empties out onto an old metal platform that stretches out into the distance. My brain is still foggy but I feel like we’ve ventured down far enough that this must be the basement level.

He obviously knows that I’m following him, but Atlas never once looks back at me. He’s keeping pace half a dozen steps ahead of me, outlined by the low glow of the pendant lights that form a long strip above us.

His fists are shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders set and stride determined.

Soon enough, the only sounds are my short, expectant breaths and the echo of our footsteps on the aging catwalks.

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