Page 85 of Craving Dahlia

? Tortured Antihero

? Touch Her and Die

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FatalBonds

Chapter One

Lindsey

“You’ve never been to the Dungeon?” Claire asks, green eyes wide.

Her freckled face looks stricken in the golden streetlights as we stand in the long line of people waiting to get into the nightclub. It extends around the corner of the redbrick highrise, reinforcing the reason for her disbelief—the club is clearly a popular one.

Above us, the tracks for the Purple line cast long shadows across the sidewalk, making the bitter February night that much more frigid. I don’t know how she can look so comfortable in a stylish fleece-lined sweater while I’m shivering in my knee-length teal puffer jacket. I have the hood up to take the edge off the sharp, relentless Chicago wind, but it’s not enough. Beneath my heavy winter coat, my black suede over-the-knee boots, burgundy mini skirt, and three-quarter-sleeve crop top will work for the club, but right now, goosebumps prickle across the exposed skin of my thighs and I have to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering.

“Lay off her, Claire,” Tommy insists, slinging his arm around my shoulders as he pulls me against his side, jostling my oversized ‘nerd glasses,’ as he calls them. “She’s not from around here, remember? Our little marketing genius went toBerkeley.”

I roll my eyes and give Tommy a playful jab in the ribs, forcing him to release me. I like my job, and I’m good at it, but I’m not some kind of savant or anything, even if he enjoys teasing me about it.

I’m grateful that I like my coworkers. Landing my position as a marketing coordinator at Keen Edge Strategies and moving halfway across the country was a big leap. I’m lucky my work family took me under their wing, welcoming me right from the start. That made all the difference. I do still feel a bit like an outsider sometimes—even if I’ve lived here for nearly a year—but I’m okay with that.Why get attached unnecessarily?It’s easier to keep everyone at an arm’s length. Then they can’t disappoint you.

“Yeah, buteverybody’sbeen to the Dungeon,” Claire insists. “You seriously haven’t, Lindsey? Please tell me you’ve at least heard of it.”

“Why would I have heard of it?” I look at the rather unremarkable entrance we’re slowly creeping toward. Only fivepeople stand in front of us now, and I hope we make it inside before I turn into a popsicle.

“Well, you know—” Her voice drops to a whisper as she glances toward the hulking bouncers, as if she doesn’t want them to hear her. “Because supposedly it’s where?—”

“Leave it alone, Claire,” Annie cuts in, releasing a plume of mango-scented smoke from her vape pen with her words. “You don’t need to freak her out over some stupid rumor you heard one time way back when.” She gives me a wink. “Don’t worry, Lindsey, You’ll love it. I promise.”

Curiosity burns in my stomach at what Claire was going to say about the club. I came to Chicago looking for a fresh start, new experiences, and maybe a few unexpected adventures, and it sounds like tonight might be one, but I can’t get a word in edgewise to ask Claire because she and Annie start to bicker. The line inches forward, and when it’s finally our turn, I hand John my ID so he can pass the collection to the burly, tattooed bouncers.

“Hand,” the dark-haired one demands, holding out a meaty palm when his eyes land on me, double-checking that my face matches my ID.

His cold, impersonal gaze sends an involuntary shiver up my spine. He looks mean and strong enough to snap a person in half without a second thought, and I fight the instinct to flinch when his fingers briefly catch mine. Seeming oblivious to my reaction, he stamps the back of my hand, then brusquely waves me inside. I haven’t felt so nervous to get into a nightclub since I turned eighteen, and relief surges through me when the door closes behind me, blocking him from view.

Warm air cascades down on me from the space heater above as soon as I step inside, and I glance down at this weekend’s stamp that I’ll have to scrub off my hand before work on Monday. A red devil smiles back at me, its tongue lolling from itshorned head. I can’t decide if it’s cute or creepy but it definitely matches the vibe of the club so far. As I join my work friends at the bottom of the stairs, Mirabelle eyes my jacket with a hint of amusement, saying without words that I’m ridiculous for needing it. Something I’ve learned since moving to Chicago—the people who live here have a very different definition of what’s cold. They must be born with thicker skin or something.

“Coat check?” She tips her head toward the opening to her right, her wispy platinum-blond pixie cut forming a halo around her head as it soaks up the neon strip lighting.

Reluctantly, I shrug out of my warm jacket and pass it to the raven-haired girl manning the coat room desk. Without a word, she hands me a numbered slip of paper, and I tuck it into my knee-high sock along with my ID, credit card, and phone so I won’t have to keep an eye on a purse all night.

As we make our way farther into the club, music pulses through the floor beneath my boots, and my eardrums throb before we even make it down the hallway. The glossy black marble floors reflect the pinpricks of light that cover the ceiling like a million twinkling stars. Before entering the room, I had assumed the club’s name came from the Dungeon being in a basement, but as soon as we emerge into the massive open space, I see the real reason.

Tufted white leather booths line the walls, curving around luxurious private tables, and separating each seating area is a narrow catwalk with a brilliantly lit floor. Bars encase each strip of walkway like a cage, and behind those bars are scantily clad women with bare-chested men—two or three to an enclosure. The thin strips of clothing they do wear are made of black leather, and my skin warms at the erotic way they dance together. My heart skips a beat when I realize some dancers are blindfolded, others gagged or bound in various ways that restricttheir movements, though they still manage to interact with each other in shockingly provocative ways.

Leaning toward Annie, I raise my voice so she’ll hear me. “Is this some kind of sex club?” My voice cracks, and I hope the loud music manages to drown that fact out. I wouldn’t necessarilymindgoing to a sex club, but I’ve never been to one before and don’t exactly know that I’d prefer to do that with my coworkers—even if they are friends.

Annie laughs, her dark eyes dancing in the dim lighting. “No. The dancers are just for ambiance. Come on.”

She grasps my hand, pulling me deeper into the club as John and Tommy take the lead. The boys manage to forge a small pathway through the crowd to look for an available booth. The place is already so packed, I doubt we’ll get that lucky. Personal space seems to be a secondary consideration as people bump and jostle me along the way. I’m grateful for the body heat at least. With so many people dancing and drinking, the club’s temperature is slowly thawing me.

The golden lighting beneath the dancers’ feet and along the bar fades into a cool blue as we make our way through the crowd. Then it shifts to a sinister red, the slow transition almost imperceptible until I catch the glow on Annie’s bare shoulders. I keep my head on a swivel as I take in the club’s chic yet edgy decor—the lighting behind the bar that illuminates the shelves of wine and martini glasses from beneath. The wall along the back of the dance floor is animated with colorful swirls that move in rhythm with the music.

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