My tension eases up a bit when I reach the VIP section on the second floor and see that there’s actually space between bodies, and a soft breeze coming from the fans above. And two exits by conventional means—stairs—plus six more by necessity—the windows lining the walls. A large opening in the center, lined by a glass rail, allows people a view to the main dance floor below and the chance to drop a beer bottle onto someone’s head.
Ivy is impossible to miss. She’s the woman standing at the rail, drink in hand, observing the mass of gyrating bodies below like a queen. An ice queen, who dismisses the line of lackluster candidates for her attention with nothing more than a glare when they attempt to strike up a conversation about her tattoos. I know I should go in and save her from them, but instead I watch from my corner for fifteen minutes as she deftly rejects them two . . . three . . . four times, sneering at one who has the audacity to touch her arm.
I smile, feeling triumphant, because she hasn’t rejected me. Yet.
Her eyes are glued to the crowd below, as if she’s not waiting for anyone. But I notice the two covert glances at her phone as well as the single glance at the stairwell closest to the front entrance, which I took to get up here. She’s almost finished her drink, and by the irritated drum of her fingertips against the glass rail, I know that she’s about to ditch me, even though she made a point of making it sound like she had plans to come here anyway.
It’s time to move in.
Her body, already tense, goes rigid as my hands find her hips from behind. I use the loud music as an excuse to lean in and get my mouth nice and close to her ear. “Anything interesting from up here?”
She relaxes against me for a moment, but then snaps, “I thought soldiers knew how to tell time.”
“I’m not a soldier anymore.” Not the kind that she thinks I am, anyway.
She turns to peer into my eyes, her face inches from mine. “Did they kick you out for tardiness?”
It’s an innocent dig, but it drills me right where it hurts all the same. “No, not for that.” That would have been more palatable than how I got discharged.
She eyes me, curious to know more but not about to ask—that’s what I like about her, she can tell when I’m not willing to talk about something and she doesn’t prod.
“Actually, I’m never late. I was standing right over there for the last fifteen minutes, watching you get hit on.” I point to my hiding spot.
Her brow spikes. “You like watching me?”
I chuckle. You have no idea how much. “I guess I do.”
She tips her glass back to finish her drink, the ice shards rattling in her glass. “Jameson and Coke, when the waitress comes back around.” She twists out of my grasp and shoves the empty glass into my chest, holding it there until I take it.
Then she begins walking away.
I reach out and seize her wrist with my free hand, faster than she expected, I think, and pull her back against me. I could hold her against me all night if I wanted to. “Where are you going?”
“You said you like watching me. So you can stand here and watch.” She slithers out of my grasp and carves a path through a group of bodies to an open area. She doesn’t care that she’s alone, as she begins to sway to the beat, in her own world. While I have no interest in dancing, watching her is more than enough to get my blood flowing, the pulse of the strobe lights that I normally hate making her simple movements more electric, more sexual.
I’m here to find incriminating evidence against Alliance, I remind myself. It’s so easy to forget that when I’m watching this creature, but I can’t let myself forget. I already expect Bentley’s call in the morning, and if I don’t have something to give him, those fuckups are going to come in and wreck any chance I have with Ivy. When they don’t find the video in the house—because they won’t; I was thorough—what’s next? Will Bentley at some point decide that I’m not getting anywhere with Ivy and it’s their turn with her?
I don’t trust guys who are motivated by self-preservation. They’ll do anything to cover their asses. And I’m guessing in this case, “anything” could result in one of those low-key, coincidental deaths Bentley mentioned.
She’s lucky she has me here, then. Even though she has no clue.
I’m not the only one who’s interested in Ivy. A quick glance around this VIP area finds men and women alike sharing curious glances as she sways with perfect rhythm, her movements sleek yet graceful. There is something about this woman—a dangerous, unapproachable quality that I find alluring.
Two schmucks to my left elbow each other, each goading the other on. I wonder which poor sucker is going to make a move. It’s a meat market in here, and this crowd of late-twenties and up has come for one reason, and one reason only.
To get fucked tonight, either by booze or bodies. Or both.
I’m not judging. As I watch her hips move, I know I’ll gladly take the latter.
I sense the waitress approach a second before her shouts catch my ear. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Jameson and Coke, and a straight Coke.” I never drink in these types of situations. It dulls the senses, which are already severely challenged in here.
“Anything else?” She bumps my biceps with her tray and she winks, her long eyelashes fluttering. I take quick inventory of what’s on offer—rows of cigars and cigarettes, which is amusing given you can’t smoke them in here; and a selection of Trojans in various varieties. I already know that I won’t need those if I go back to Ivy’s. She has a decent stash waiting. “Not for now. Thanks.”
The waitress disappears with a nod, and when she arrives moments later to deliver our order and settle up, Ivy magically reappears. “Thanks.” Her dark eyes settle on me as she sucks back her drink in a few gulps, leaving nothing but a pile of ice chips.
“Thirsty?”
“Very.” She eyes my glass. “What are you drinking?”
“Rum and Coke,” I lie, because I think she’s the type of woman to take my drink right out of my hand and devour it just to prove a point—that she can, and I’ll let her, because I want to fuck her tonight, and she knows it.
And she’d be right.
But then she’d also know that I’m not drinking alcohol, even though I got her out under the guise that I was going to get drunk tonight.
Her face pinches up. “I hate rum.”
I know. That’s the beauty of doing my own recon. All those trivial, seemingly useless bits of information can come in handy. “Then I guess it’s a good thing this drink isn’t yours,” I say through a smile and a sip.
She hands me her empty glass and then struts back to her spot, the little game she’s playing with me becoming all the more obvious.
That’s fine. I’ll play, happily. As long as she doesn’t stoop to pitting me against any of these assholes in here, because I don’t do well in those kinds of situations and, frankly, I’d be extremely disappointed in her.
Just in case, I do a quick scan of my “competition”—most of them Silicon Valley–type geeks, smart entrepreneurs who will probably make a ton of money and will use that to land themselves a hot wife.
The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly spike.