Page 86 of Craving Dahlia

As we reach the far side of the club and still haven’t found a table, my senses are on overload from so much stimulation. Tommy spots a high top where a couple of guys stand with drinks, their eyes sweeping the crowd. Compared to the other tables, this one’s not nearly as overloaded.

“Mind if we join you?” he asks, pulling Mirabelle along with him.

The guy gives her a sweeping gaze and grins. “Sure! I’m Ben. This is Jackson.”

John manages to get the table a pitcher of some neon blue cocktail he calls Sex in the Driveway and pours us each a glass. As soon as the drink hits my tongue, a burst of sickly sweet flavor invades my senses, and I shiver as I swallow it down. That’s a hangover in the making.

“I’ll get the first round of shots!” Mirabelle shouts over the music, and a moment later, her petite frame vanishes into the crowd.

With a few shots in me and the music surging through the club, my muscles start to unwind, and I can loosen up. Rather than joining the mass of people on the dance floor, we form our own little party near the table, avoiding the crush of the crowd and the humidity of collective body heat that tends to fog up my glasses. It doesn’t take long before I’ve worked up a sweat, and I pull my long hair—the natural dirty kind of blond, rather than Mirabelle’s bleached platinum—up into a ponytail to get it off my neck.

“I think we need more shots!” Annie shouts, leaning over the table from where she’s dancing up against our new friend Jackson.

“It’s my turn to buy,” I say over the music.

“You want help carrying?” Claire offers.

“No, I’m good!” I spent most nights and weekends of high school and college working at restaurants and bars to pay my way through school, so I know how to carry drinks.

What I could use help with is getting close enough to the bar to place the order. The Dungeon has gotten even more crowded since we arrived, and a solid wall of towering clubbers separates me from the bar running the length of the dance floor.Five bartenders work the space, constantly in motion as they sling drinks, but the line never seems to die down. Every time a person leaves, three more take his place. I consider elbowing my way through the crowd, but at five foot three and a hundred twenty pounds, I doubt that I’ll be a match for anyone I try to move.

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I look around the crowded club, wishing I could find a better alternative—and my eyes catch on the VIP area that sits off to one side. Its designated bar is much smaller, manned by just one bartender, but he actually looks on the brink of being bored with less than ten people crowding his space.

A velvet rope blocks the stairs. The sign standing next to it very clearly designates the area as VIP Only. I look back at the wall of people between me and the main bar, and know I have to at leasttrysneaking up to the VIP area—it’s just to order shots. I’ll be in and out before anyone notices I’m not where I belong.

My pulse kicks up a notch as I approach the stairs, my stomach quivering with the thrill of knowing I’m about to break the rules and could get caught. The music fades as I walk, unleashing the faint ringing sound I regularly wake up to on Saturday mornings after a night at the clubs. I resist the urge to pop my ears now that they’re no longer being assaulted, and I try to act like I belong as I reach the red velvet rope.

With a quick glance to make sure no one’s looking in my direction, I snatch the hook, and in one fluid movement, I slide past it, reaching behind me to reattach it without drawing attention to myself. Then I slip closer to the first landing where a bachelorette party is in full swing. The girls cheer wildly as the bride dances in her white mini dress and costume veil, getting sloshed on champagne. The rest of the girls are dressed in black to ensure she stands out on her big night—in my dark attire, who’s to say I don’t belong with them?

With that mindset, I move quickly up the stairs, passing four more landings of VIP parties before I reach the bar. As I near the top, I catch a pair of blue eyes following me, and my stomach flip-flops.Did he notice me sneak in?It’s better to keep pretending I belong unless someone says otherwise, and I quickly focus my attention on the bartender, avoiding the sharp blue gaze.

Pressing my glasses further up the bridge of my nose, I lean my elbows onto the edge of the bar and give the bartender a flirty smile to hide my tension. But as I wait my turn, my fingers go to my ponytail, and I twirl a lock of hair—my go-to fidget when I’m nervous.

“What can I get you?” the lean clean-shaven bartender asks, planting one hand and an elbow on the gold-streaked black marble counter so he can look me in the eye.

“Eight shots of tequila please.” I release my hair, tossing it back over my shoulder as I force my smile a bit brighter.

“What kind?” he asks, his gaze openly assessing me.

“Oh, uh, the house brand is fine.”

I know I’ve messed up as soon as his eyebrow quirks. Obviously no one drinking in the VIP section would settle for shots of house tequila. I should have thought of that sooner.

“I mean, whatever you would recommend,” I throw in, waving my hand like I don’t know my liquors.Please just don’t give me Clase Azul or anything else that expensive.I make good money at Keen Edge, but I’m not ready to be shelling out hundreds of dollars for eight people to take one shot.

“Sure, can I just see your VIP wristband?”

His dark eyes flick toward the hand I just waved, and my stomach knots.Shit. I’m busted.

“Oh, yeah. I, uh, think I left mine at the table—” I hedge, taking a step back.

“That’s alright, Aleks. She’s with me.”

The deep masculine voice is thickly accented—Russian if I had to guess—and it sends a shiver down my spine, releasing goosebumps across the back of my neck.

Whoever stepped in must be important, because the bartender straightens quickly, his expression immediately compliant. “Of course,khozyain.”

As he turns to make the order, I release my breath, relief rushing through my chest. I turn to face whoever came to my rescue, and my heart skips a beat when my eyes meet the same sharp blue ones that were watching me on the stairs. They belong to a man at least fifteen years older than me—nearing his forties I would guess, based on the hint of gray at his temples. The white stands out against the rest of his black hair, which is cut short and swept back from his face. Even dressed in a crisp charcoal-gray suit, something about the man looks rugged, almost dangerous. His chiseled features match his strong jaw covered in salt-and-pepper stubble. The sharp tips of a tattoo peek out above the collar of his black dress shirt and crimson tie, adding to the edge I sense even if his style is clean and polished. Only his lips are soft and full, and they quirk into a subtle smirk.

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