Page 32 of A Game So Reckless

And leaves me there.

I watch the broad expanse of his muscled back beneath his black T-shirt as he walks away.

No. Walks is the wrong word. It doesn’t hold enough space for the way Darragh moves. All malevolent purpose, all barely contained power. Like there’s a bomb inside him that’s about to go off.

He looks like he’s about to kill somebody.

Who’s Mateo?

My heart stops.

My legs shake, though I’m proud of how fast they move as I take off running down the alley.

But, Christ, this is not the outfit for chasing Darragh. I’m going to break an ankle at this rate. I pause, just long enough to rip off my shoes. And then, I keep on going, shoes and purse dangling from their straps in my hand. I think about dropping everything, but then figure if I need a weapon, at least I could shove the heel of a shoe into one of Darragh’s eyes.

I careen out of the alley and turn the corner. Heart spiralling out of control, lungs heaving, I frantically scan the scene.

It takes me less than a second to spot Darragh. Unlike me, he’s not running, so he’s not too far ahead of me yet.

He’s taller and broader of shoulder than every single person in the long line up. The group of people waiting to get into the club seem to be split into two camps: those who openly stare at Darragh and mutter complaints as he bypasses the queue, and those who avert their eyes. I’m not sure if the latter camp knows who he is, or if they’re just sensing the predatory danger that seems to pour off of Darragh in heavy, dark waves. Either way, they’re definitely the smart ones.

One bold and unfortunately stupid man close to the front of the line steps out of place and attempts to block Darragh’s path.

“Hey, man, what the fuck do you think you’re-”

Darragh cuts him off by grabbing him, one-handed, by the face. Literally. By the face. Like he’s grasping something as small and easy to handle as an apple.

Holy hell, his hands are even bigger than I’d realized. His right palm swallows the man’s features, his fingers extending like tarantula legs along the man’s cheekbones and hairline.

The worst part is, Darragh doesn’t even stop moving. He just keeps walking forward, sending the man tripping and stumbling backwards with the force of the motion. After a few steps, Darragh gives the man a final, furious shove and sends him crashing into another trio of people. The whole group falls bowling pin-style, and when I get closer, I see the man’s nose bleeding profusely as he attempts to disentangle himself from the various limbs of the people Darragh pushed him into.

Darragh reaches the bouncer at the door. “Mateo?” is all he says.

The name is a syringeful of adrenaline straight to my bloodstream. I’m sprinting as hard as I can, barely noticing the sharp slaps of my bare feet on the pavement.

“Just went inside,” the bouncer says. He jerks his chin towards the door. Darragh’s already moving through it by the time I get there. I reach for the handle to follow, but the bouncer stops me.

“What? No!” I cry as the bouncer grabs my arm and pulls me away from the door handle.

“You left the line.”

“Let me go!” It comes out as a hoarse scream. I probably look like a lunatic, but I don’t care. I’m not about to let Darragh murder someone in front of me again. Especially if it’s because of me.

But the bouncer ignores my screams. He’s used to dealing with drunk girls making scenes, I guess, because he doesn’t even blink as he hauls me bodily away from the door.

The resulting panic is nearly blinding, blazing a white-hot trail from my brain down my spine. All I can see is the closed door getting further and further from reach. The door that both Mateo and Darragh are now behind. I don’t know whether to scream or fight or try to run right out of his grip. I’m about to swing my shoes and purse at the bouncer’s face in a desperate, violent bid at escape, when the door at the centre of my pulsing tunnel vision suddenly slams back open.

And now it’s not the door I see, but Darragh. His face, specifically. Jaw ticking. Eyes laser-focused on me. Those eyes go to the arm the bouncer is squeezing in his hand, and they flare with something terrible, something dangerous, something that knocks the breath from my body.

“If your hand is still on her by the time I get there,” he says with terrifying softness, taking rapid strides towards the bouncer and me, “then you will fucking lose it.”

The bouncer freezes. So do I, so stunned am I by Darragh suddenly turning around and hauling ass right back out here when he’d seemed so single-mindedly determined on his previous path. Darragh is only about three steps away when the bouncer’s brain finally registers what’s happening. His thick fingers fly from my arm as if my skin has the power to scorch.

With no one holding on to me now, I bolt, heading once more for that door. If Darragh reaches for me, I don’t see it. My hand wraps around the handle and yanks. I don’t stop once I’m inside. I sprint right past the coat and bag check area and into the heart of the club.

Music pulses so loudly, is so saturated with bass, that it feels like a second heartbeat. My head pounds, my chest throbs with the rhythmic rise and fall of the beats. Dancing bodies writhe in darkness all around me. Sporadic, shifting lights show me nothing but ghostly fingers and blurred faces.

It’s impossible to fight my way through the knot of people in the centre of the room. Giving up on that, I move to the perimeter, where a small set of steps takes me to a higher level that rings the club. Tables and booths block my path, as do couples making out and scantily-clad servers carrying trays of drinks.

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