I pull the glass towards me and bring it up to my nose to sniff it. It smells like Scotch. I doubt they have a poisoned drink on the menu, so it’s probably safe. I’m more concerned about who sent it. It’s too big of a coincidence, right? I take a sip and then swivel around on my stool, scanning the crowd for another flash of pink hair.
He’s here, I can feel it all the way down to my damn bones. I’m not letting him just walk away again. I’ll take this whole fucking club hostage and force them to bar the doors until I find him if I have to. But, fuck, I don’t see him.
I turn back towards the bar just as the little blond bartender is speeding past again with two beers in his hand. I shove my drink aside and crawl halfway over the sticky bar top to grab him, snagging the front of his shirt in my fist. He lets out a startled yelp and spills one of the drinks all over my hand.
“Who was it? Do you have his name? Does he have a tab? Is he a regular?” I demand.
His eyes only get wider at my rapid-fire questions, and I grit my teeth in frustration. Maybe I’ll have to pull my gun after all. Mads appears out of nowhere, bringing his hand down hard on my wrist, forcing my grip to loosen so the frightened little bunny can scramble away.
“If you Morettis keep assaulting bartenders, you’re going to be blacklisted,” he warns, dropping all the riddles and bullshit.
I bark out a laugh and lean back across the bar to sit back down on my stool.
“Good luck with that.”
His eyes darken to the point that even his goofy, crooked hat doesn’t look quite so funny anymore.
“Fucking try me,” he warns, his voice becoming a menacing growl.
Damn, if I had time to obsess over just one more psychopath, Mads might make the cut. I’m tempted to push it. They know who my intruder is, and I’m not about to let him slip through my fingers that easily again. I narrow my eyes and sit up a little straighter, but before I can try again with my demand for answers, a warm, soft leather grip slides up the back of my neck.
Goose bumps rise all over my skin and heat immediately fills my gut, spreading south to stiffen my cock and tighten around my balls.
“Making friends?” The deep, familiar voice that’s been haunting my thoughts for days whispers low in my ear, the hot flutter of his breath dancing over my skin.
Mads’s eyes move between me and the man standing behind me, my intruder, the ghost I never thought I’d find again.
“We good?” Mads quirks one eyebrow and reaches up to straighten his top hat.
“Yes,” I say gruffly.
“Good.” He looks past me again, focusing on the man whose grip on the back of my neck is making my cock throb and my insides melt like butter. “Keep it that way or the Red Queen will have your heads.”
He steps away to get back to his other customers, and I drag my gaze up to the hazy mirror behind the bar. He’s really there, his dark eyes fixed on mine in the reflection, the slightest smirk on his full lips.
“Funny running into you here, slut.”
GHOST
I can see the calculations happening behind his eyes. He doesn’t want to admit that he came here based on a tip from a stranger on the internet, hoping to run into Wildcliff’s most notorious vigilante. And I’m certainly not about to tell him that I orchestrated this whole thing, even if a part of me is dying to praise him for playing into my hands so beautifully, just like I knew he would.
I loosen my grip on the back of his neck, and there’s a flutter of disappointment on his face that I don’t think is just a trick of the lighting or the mirror.
He swivels on his stool to face me. It’s crowded enough that I have every excuse to stand close to him, to move into the space between his spread thighs and smell the faint scent of Scotch on his breath from the single sip he took and the hints of sandalwood in his cologne. I don’t dream about alcohol the way I dream about meth. No, I dream about it the way I dream about those groping, unwelcome hands on me, tangled up in the unwanted memory of the night I died.
I reach into my pocket to grab a hard candy and pop it into my mouth while he watches me with silent curiosity and a littlebit of awe, like he’s still trying to convince himself that I’m actually standing here in front of him.
The familiar, sweet butterscotch taste melts on my tongue, chasing away the tension in the back of my throat that carries the memory of choking on liquor and my own vomit. I drag my gaze over him, trying to figure him out. I clock the bulge near his ankle, and the far more exciting one between his thighs, but the rest of the pieces don’t quite fit with the man who wears silk briefs and waxes his wood floors.
“What?” he asks, glancing down at himself then back up at me.
Damn, he is sexy though, with those hard hazel eyes and sharp cheekbones. He has just a hint of dark stubble on his cheeks that tempts me to pull off my glove and feel the roughness of it under my fingertips. Even now, I can see that submissive spark in his eye, the desperation to know what I find so amusing so he can change it to please me.
Fuck. This Moretti might be more trouble than he’s worth.
“Nothing, I just didn’t picture you as the kind of guy who would go out to a club dressed in sweats,” I confess, crunching the candy between my teeth.
“I wasn’t exactly planning to come here tonight.” He bristles, and I bite back the urge to grin.