I notice the pocket square, and it’s an exact match to the color of my gown. Of course, he coordinated our outfits, another way for him to claim me. Wherever we’re going tonight, he wants them to know I’m with him.
“Hm?” he mutters but I don’t answer him. Easton continues in my direction and stares down when he finally reaches me. “Don’t ask questions you don’t really want the answers to.”
His mouth is close to mine, his breath hot on my lips. I turn my head away from him with my hands balled into fists at my sides. Easton pushes out a breath, and my hair blows in response.
“You’re beautiful by the way,” he whispers against my neck before kissing me. It’s gentle and barely noticeable. Then he takes my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “Are you afraid of me, Arloe?”
I drag my eyes to him, and he leans back to stare at me.
“Yes.”
He smirks. “We’re late.”
And with that, he pulls me away from my door and onto the elevator where we ride to the bottom in silence. It’s dark out, but the temperature is still warm and inviting. In front of my building is the car I’ve grown to hate. We approach the passenger side of his Bugatti, and it unlocks the moment we’re close to it.
I look around, not sure what I hope to see. Maybe I want someone to save me, even though I know that’ll be pointless. Then I’ll have another murder on my conscience, not that I was responsible for the other guy, I’m sure whatever landed him in that position was the fault of his own. Cars ride by, music playing loudly from their speakers, stealing my attention.
I jump at the feel of his hand at the small of my back. Glancing up to him holding the door open for me, but I don’t thank him and I lower myself into the seat. I watch him walk to the driver’s side of the car.
The tiny bit of quiet I had a second ago is replaced by the noise from outside, but silences again after he’s positioned behind the wheel. I try not to look at him, pointing my gaze out the front window. The engine roars, nearly deafening me.
I shake my head, cursing under my breath. “Stupid car,” I mutter, not expecting him to hear me, but he does.
Easton darts his eyes to me, and from my peripheral, I see a smirk tug at the corners of his lips. He shifts into drive and speeds off into traffic. I try to pay attention to where we’re going, but a few minutes into the ride, I lose my bearings.
The drive is silent for a beat, the quiet feeling loud to me. It’s the adrenaline. The unknown and the attraction I have to him, even knowing I should stay far away.
The car finally crawls to a stop in front of a red-brick building with a neon-purple sign that flashes its name: Delirium. People line the building waiting to enter, and each one looks as elegant as the next. All of the men don suits and ties as the women by their sides are draped in expensive dresses. Not necessarily what one would expect, pulling up to a nightclub. But then again, everything since Easton has walked into my life has been unexpected.
I continue to study the place as Easton exits the vehicle, rounds the front of it, and opens my door. He extends his hand to me, but I reject it, standing on my own and waltzing to the door.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t let you in,” the husky, bald bouncer says, not even greeting me.
“Excuse me?” I cross my arms over my chest because suddenly I feel small without Easton, when before he was the one who made me feel this way.
“This is a couples only event. No singles tonight.”
Before I can open my mouth to say anything else, Easton steps behind me and snakes a hand around my waist. “She’s my date.” His voice is deep, clipped, and serious, leaving no room for questions from me or the bouncer.
The man nods and steps aside, sweeping his hand in front of him. “My apologies, Mr. Ciccone.”
Easton dips his head in return and pulls me closer to his side, then leads us into the club. The once soft music is now blaring, and flashing lights dance off the walls. The room is filled with bodies out on the dance floor and lined along the bar. But we don’t stop there. Easton drags me toward the far corner and lifts back a heavy curtain that hides to a doorway. He punches in a code, and the lock clicks, then he opens it, escorting me down a narrow staircase to a second level.
The first thing I notice is a giant display that sits in the middle of the dance floor with a spotlight shining directly on it, showcasing a drink I’ve never even heard of. The bar stretches across the length of one entire wall, and thick purple floor to ceiling curtains hang along another, and what I’m assuming are bathrooms across from that. The music dulls, and a velvet voice booms over the speakers.
“Ladies, gentlemen.” The man onstage looks around the crowd. “Thank you for coming out and celebrating with us. It’s been a long time in the making, but we’re pleased for the launch of Fuerte, a brand-new whiskey, exclusive to Delirium. Now, let’s give a big round of applause to Iman Rook. Without him, this wouldn’t be possible.”
As the applause starts, the spotlight shining on the display moves to the left of the room and lands on the man I was almost certain Easton and his brother killed. His eyes are various shades of purple, and his lips are a little swollen and split. An indication of everything I saw that night.
“Question answered,” Easton says, leaning close to my ear as he follows my line of sight to Iman.
“Would it have been so hard to just tell me?”
He shrugs and pulls me along the bar toward the curtains that seem to go nowhere. “What if I would have said yes, we did kill him?” He stops.
I roll my eyes. Another question of mine dodged and met with one of his own. But to be honest, I don’t have an answer for him. I don’t know what I would have done if he said yes. I would like to believe I’d hightail it and run in the opposite direction, but that would be stupid. He would find me. And in reality, I feel my attraction when it comes to him would make me look the other way and not even bat an eye if he did, in fact, admit to murder.
How fucking pathetic?
I’ve been so wrapped up in romance novels that I’m actually starting to think I could love a murderer if it came down to it, just because he’s pretty to look at.
“Well?” he asks, intruding my thoughts like he isn’t already there enough.
A server, dressed in all black, saunters past, carrying a tray of champagne. Easton snags two flutes, handing one to me.
“I don’t know.” I accept the glass and down it all in one gulp.
He takes the empty glass. “My point exactly. Sometimes when it comes to women like you, it’s best to let you come to your own conclusions. See the proof yourself. It’s clear you don’t trust me, yet, and I knew we’d see him tonight, so I figured I’d let you find the answer yourself.”
I hear everything he says, but the only thing that bounces around the walls of my brain is women like you. “What do you mean ‘women like me?’” The words come out harsher than I intend, but I don’t correct myself.
He bites his lip with a smile and shakes his head lightly. “Strong. Independent. Stubborn.” Easton moves again.
He had me almost swooning in the first half, but if all my reading of alpha-assholes like him has taught me anything, it’s that men like him are douchebags. They’re hard and unapologetic, strong and ruthless, and most of all—they will kill for what they love. Even if that isn’t Easton, the only way I’m going to get through the night is picturing him as such.