Page 32 of Unmasking Mayhem
“Holy shit,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against mine, our breaths mingling in the stillness that follows. “What the hell was that?”
I chuckle softly, the haze of lust still clinging to me like a fog. “Just a taste of how dangerous we can be,” I reply, my voice low and teasing, still reveling in the afterglow of my orgasm.
The soft rattle of the door reminds me that while this moment was ours, the world beyond was waiting for us to return. With a disappointed glance, we both know we need to come down from this heady high and face whatever awaits.
“Let’s show them what happens when you play with fire,” I add with fierce determination, grinning as I straighten myself out.
Red smirks, his playful confidence returning. “I like the sound of that, Whitney.”
Together, we step back into the chaos of Club Mayhem—not just as a dancer and an undercover cop, but as players in our carefully crafted game, ready to face everything as allies are born in the flames of desire. Ruining the moment is a new text from an unknown number; I know right away it's Dustin. I hold my breath and open it, shivering with goosebumps as I read his latest bullshit.
You're a bad girl, Whitney. You shouldn't be fucking an undercover cop. I wonder how your friends would take it if they were to find out the truth.
Leave me alone.
I quickly type back, trying to maintain my composure.
He'd better be careful. You never know when he could drop dead; shit happens all the time.
I ignore the death threat on Red’s life, turning back to him with worry and curiosity washing over him.
“Who was that?” Red’s voice drops, coming out deep and scratchy, his eyes narrowing as he sees the change in my expression.
“It’s… no one,” I say, fumbling for a lie that sounds believable while my heart pounds in my chest. I can’t keep him in the dark. He deserves to know what he’s gotten himself into.
“Whitney.” He leans closer, his gaze piercing through me. “Tell me the fucking truth.”
I take a deep breath, fighting against the tightness in my throat. “It’s Dustin,” I whisper, the weight of my words heavy in the air.
Red’s jaw clenches, his body tense as he processes the name. “Your ex? The fucking asshole from the California Bloods?”
“Yeah, and he’s… threatening you.” I can’t hold back the tremor in my voice. “He knows about you. He knows I'm here.”
“Did he say anything specific?” The calm authority in his tone belies the storm brewing behind his dark eyes, a flicker of protectiveness igniting within.
I hesitate but can’t back down now. “He said I’m a bad girl for being with an undercover cop and that… you should be careful because ‘shit happens all the time.’” The words come out in a rush, and I instantly hate how weak I sound.
Red releases a slow breath, processing the threat engrained in his every syllable. “Listen to me, Whitney.” He steps back, the distance between us suddenly feeling monumental. “You shouldn’t be mixed up with this shit. Let us handle it for you. You need to keep your distance.”
I shake my head adamantly, anger flaring. “I’m not going to let him control me! Every time I try, it goes wrong! I won’t let him fucking win.”
Red’s hands grip my shoulders firmly, forcing me to meet his gaze. “This isn’t about fucking controlling you. I care about your safety. I don’t want anything to happen to you, especially with that kind of fucking filth out there.”
His words strike a chord, reverberating through me, awakening a sad truth—I can’t keep dancing on the line of danger while Dustin lurks in the shadows.
“Then... I,” I say, determination flooding my voice. “I want to help you—find him, take him out. You can’t let him threaten me, and I won’t let him keep me scared.”
A shadow crosses Red's features as he hesitates. “It’s too dangerous, Whitney. He’s affiliated with a whole network that takes threats seriously. You saw how they operate.”
“Then we can use me,” I bite back, a fire igniting within me. “We can use what he wants against him. He expects me to fear him. What if I turn the tables? Surprise him?”
He studies me, jaw grinding, tension pooling in the air as he weighs the risks. “And if something goes wrong? You’re not trained like I am. You don’t know how these situations unfold.”
That hits hard—a painful reminder of the gap between our worlds. “I may not be trained, but I’ve faced enough dangers in my life. I know how to survive,” I argue fiercely. “And you’re underestimating me if you think I can’t handle this."
eleven
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