Page 77 of Faithful

But the world doesn’t laugh at me for calling another guy something so tender when, in the eyes of that very same prejudiced world that continues creating monsters like Gavin Watson, he’s anything but.

Instead, Kai writhes in my arms a little to align our bodies to his liking and speaks in a voice that’s half breath, half whisper. “I can totally deal with that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Silence ensues and we stand like this for a while with the glittering cityscape at our feet.

“Hey, you should get dressed,” he says all of a sudden.

“What for?”

He spins to face me. “We’re going out.”

“Isn’t that the opposite of being careful?”

“Relax. It’s a safe place,” Kai says reassuringly and then brushes his lips against mine and nudges me in the direction of the bathroom.

9 INK

An hour later, a black SUV picks us up from a discreet entrance behind Planet Hollywood and takes us to a hotel down the street.

In light of everything that happened yesterday, Bodhi has assigned Kai a personal bodyguard.

I’m not sure where he found the dude on such short notice, but his name is Rourke and he’s a former marine with a shaved head and a massive spiderweb tattoo on his neck, and he rides with us in the back seat.

Needless to say, I feel kinda important.

Thanks to the fact that I belong to the Watson clan, I’ve been in a limo more times than I can count, so the combination of secrecy and opulence isn’t anything new to me.

What’s new is Kai’s hand grasping mine in front of another person.

I mean I know Rourke probably signed a hundred-page confidentiality agreement and nothing he sees will be leaked to the press or spoken of anywhere ever, but the unease is still there lurking in the shadows, whispering shit in my ear about the goddamn consequences.

We are dropped off somewhere at the rear of a massive structure that is not discreet. There’s a long line of cars just like ours–big and expensive and possibly bulletproof–streaming through the narrow alley toward the valet. The access to the alley is cut off by a line of steel barricades and a sea of security guards, and we are stopped and checked by a guy in a uniform before the driver is given a go.

Kai is quiet, his grasp on my hand tightening as we are ushered out of the vehicle and to a small door.

My wrist is stamped. So is Kai’s.

“Is he going with us?” I jut my chin at Rourke, who’s right behind us.

“Apparently,” Kai says through gritted teeth, shooting his glorified babysitter a glare. He then turns to face the dude and stabs his finger at his chest. “Don’t fucking hover, asshole.”

Rourke gives a noncommittal grunt.

We file into the dimly lit corridor where a girl with silvery hair checks our IDs and the stamps we just received, then secures neon pink bands around Kai’s and my wrists. Rourke gets an orange one. I assume this is because he can’t drink since he’s on the job. Or maybe they color-code here for other reasons. Who cares?

There’s music, the muffled sound of the beat bleeding through the walls, some top forty pop song that’s been on the radio since the summer.

“This way, please.” The girl motions toward the closed door at her left and one of the guards (Jesus, how many are there? It’s like someone hired a private army) lets us through.

Inside, the place is huge and filled with moving bodies. It appears to be designed as a warehouse of sorts with an industrial feel to the interior that includes suspended cages with people in them and fire-breathing dancers on small podiums scattered across the space.

And the light show is amazing, strobes of teal and pink and yellow. Almost too pretty to be of human creation.

I’m overwhelmed by the visuals and need a second.

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