Page 109 of Wildest Dreams

“It was a joke,” I ground out tightly. Row had no right to tell me who to fuck. But he had expectations from both of us, and he’d been nothing but generous and loyal to me and Rhyland. “You know? Funny ha ha.” I rolled my eyes.

“It wasn’t fucking funny,” Row informed me, “and there was no ha ha.”

“She’s not your daughter,” Rhyland said evenly, and I noticed he wasn’t denying the fact that his dick really had been in my mouth at least a hundred times since I moved in downstairs. “Even if she was,” Rhyland continued, a note of darkness in his tone, “I don’t take well to your overbearing behavior. She can fuck whoever she wants, whenever she wants. And if we happen to want to fuck each other, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

The temperature dropped about a hundred degrees in the limo. Bile burned a path up my throat.

“Unless you’re into watching,” Rhy drawled, bored. “I’m a charitable man and a sworn extrovert.” He winked.

Row launched himself at Rhyland. Cal and I, who were bracketing Row from each side, pushed him back to his seat. But Rhy looked about ready to fight him, and that scared and thrilled me in equal measures.

“What are you saying?” Row spat, back in his seat, panting hard.

I knew this wasn’t the right time or place to break the news that we were hooking up—if there even was a right time to say it—and decided to steer the conversation to safer waters.

“He’s just telling you to tuck the crazy inside. You’re being hella overprotective,” I snorted. “Seriously, chill. Rhy and I got chummy because of the fake engagement thingy. Of course your behavior grinds his gears.”

“Just remember, that ring isn’t real.” Row pointed to my engagement ring.

The words punctured my soul and poured all the hope and happiness out. I’d gotten used to the weight of it on my wedding finger—to the way it sparkled and shined when I worked at the bar scrubbing toilets, doing dishes, pouring drinks.

“I know,” I said quietly.

“Stop being an asshole.” Cal swatted her husband’s thigh.

The place we were going to was called the Forbidden Fruit Club, a decadent hot spot in the East Village. Tate had crowned it as his family business, which made little sense, since it didn’t appear he had any living family members and he usually spent his Christmases working.

“The Forbidden Fruit Club.” I tasted the name in my mouth, happy to change the subject. “Why did the owner decide to call it that?”

“It’s a twenty-four-hour-operation joint,” Tate explained, and I think it was the first time he’d acknowledged me directly in the entire three years we’d known each other. He was icy and expressionless, and there was something frightening about his eyes. They were so dead I couldn’t even figure out their color. “In the mornings and afternoons, it’s a place for finance people to fuck their lowly staff. Kind of a hotel, but with a restaurant and a happy hour. At night, it turns into the place with the best DJs in the world, crafted cocktails, and enough drugs to sink the Titanic.”

“It sounds like a horrible place.” I made a face.

“I know. I love it.” He wasn’t being sarcastic for a change.

“You said the owner is family. Who is it?” Rhyland cut into our conversation, and I wondered if he was jealous. I wanted him to be. Even though I recognized how pathetic it was.

“Like family,” Tate corrected. “And it’s a secret. I am actually quite good at keeping those. Right, Coltridge?” A sinister smile slashed his face.

I remembered Rhyland telling me after our hookup at Row’s restaurant that Tate’s date had caught us. Tate hadn’t breathed a word to anyone. Now was the first time I noticed.

“Whoever he is, he’s making a great buck,” Row mused, back to nuzzling into his wife’s neck.

“They sure do,” Tate said.

RHYLAND

The Forbidden Fruit Club looked like hell’s waiting room.

Everybody was a fucking heathen. Women ground against obvious Mafia dudes in three-piece suits like it was the fifties. Semi-familiar models in waitress getups weaved in and out of the crowd holding trays laden with fifty-buck cocktails. There were VIP pockets surrounding the huge dance floor, each manned by a bouncer and bracketed by red velvet ropes. The floor was black and the ceiling high, with neon-blue lightning cracks for lighting, though there weren’t very many of those at all. It was almost pitch-black, probably to cover for the sinister things that went on.

As soon as we walked in, Tate was ushered to a VIP table behind a rope. Apparently, he really knew the owner. I didn’t want to know what the fuck that meant—my nerves were already shot from the exchange with Row. I didn’t even fucking knowwhy. The expiration date for this affair was fast approaching, and Dylan looked ready to murder my ass if I outed us.

“This is your celebration, Coltridge.” Dylan pierced through my brain fog, sliding a blue cocktail my way from across the table. “Celebrate!”

“You’re usually the king of the dance floor.” Row flashed me a dark scowl—the only expression in his arsenal. “Yet here you are sulking the night away. What’s up with your ass?”

“Yes, Rhyland. Please share with the table.” Tate’s lips twitched into something that resembled a smirk. I’d never seen him smile, let alone laugh.

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