“Let’s go.”
Like that, he’s ready.
What I wouldn’t give for his control.
He angles himself in front of me on our approach to the door. It’s open, though the club won’t heat up until much later when the real monsters come out to play, the kind who drink blood and laugh about it.
We’re the unwilling monsters. It doesn’t matter. We will still fit in here.
Security at the door lets us in and dips his head like it’s permission. On the floor, the supernaturals have already begun to mingle near the bar. Most of them cluster in small groups, their bodies curving toward their partners or over their drinks.
A throb of base pulses through the room almost too low to hear. You have to feel it.
Come midnight, this place will fill wall-to-wall with bodies and desire.
The thought of it sparks an ache in my abdomen.
It’s not just vampires here. There are other shifters—sylphs and wendigo. Trolls and even a phantasm in the corner, flitting near the stage before solidifying to order a drink.
Was this where RJ and Aimee came to track down their gossip?
And it worked.
“We’re standing out for the wrong reasons.” I grip my elbows and shrink in on myself.
“What? Would you feel better with something in your hand?” Grayson leans close, and the awareness of him scalds down to my bones.
I shiver at his nearness, at his scent, which this place only amplifies. Shadows in the corners are welcoming, the ceiling high enough to give the illusion of space. A dais takes up one wall, instruments prepped and waiting for tonight’s headliners.
And Grayson is speaking to me again. Not forgiveness, but maybe something better than resignation.
I nod, my throat dry and working compulsively. “I’m parched.”
Grayson nudges me toward the bar. We wait behind a dryad until the bartender acknowledges our turn with a nod.
It’s a risk to drink here or do anything to let down our guard a little bit. We’re at Club Mera to see if we can borrow a car from someone who won’t rat us out or have worried parents wondering where the vehicle went.
We need to be inconspicuous.
We need to disappear.
Yet the first sip of whatever drink is on special tonight warms me to the pit of my icy stomach. The alcohol thaws whatever it touches and for an instant, I squeeze my eyes shut, forgetting the weight on my shoulders.
“You look like you’re enjoying that,” a smooth male voice cuts in. “Pleasure looks good on you.”
I glance up, startled, then furious. I let my walls down for even an instant. I never marked his approach.
This is strike two.Or more.
I’m letting things slip.
The loc-haired surfer-looking dude has pointed ears and smells like some kind of shifter all the way to his sandaled feet. A puka shell necklace is draped across sharp collarbones.
“You want to dance, pretty girl?” He offers his hand.
Grayson cuts between us with eyes narrowed and wild. “No, she doesn’t.”
Surfer Shifter sneers. “I didn’t realize she needed a mouthpiece to answer for her. This song has a wicked beat. Let’s grind to it.”