“Oh he will be.”
The second night, we didn't stay in the car.
We go inside.
The lounge feels exclusive and predatory at the same time. Black velvet booths curve along the walls, pulling people into the shadows. Gold trimcatches the low light and throws it back in muted flashes. The air hangs thick with perfume, sweat, and expensive liquor.
"Kill4Me" plays through the speakers. Bass rolls through the floor in slow, heavy pulses. It feels like a second heartbeat under my boots.
We slip in through a side entrance Beau has already compromised.
Nobody notices us.
They never do when they’re staring at themselves in mirrored walls and camera phones.
Knox is in VIP, surrounded by bottle service with three bottles already half gone. A clean white line stretches across the glass table in front of him. Two women drape over his body, one straddling his thigh while the other leans into his ear, laughing like she’s being paid to.
His head tips back when he laughs.
Brooke goes rigid beside me.
I step in behind her, close enough that my chest brushes her back.
“He doesn’t recognize you,” I murmur near her ear. “But he’ll remember what he did to you.”
Her jaw tightens. I feel the tension travel through her shoulder.
We stay in the shadows near a structural column just outside the spill of VIP light.
We don't sit, order drinks, or speak to anyone.
Knox sprawls across the couch with one arm thrown over the backrest as if the entire club belongs to him. The girl on his lap drags her fingers through his hair while he bends forward and takes a line straight off the glass table. He doesn't bother wiping his nose. He doesn't even glance around the room.
He has no reason to.
I feel Brooke tense.
“That’s your window,” I say quietly.
She doesn't answer.
“Drugs make him sloppy,” I continue. “Alcohol makes him loud. Both make him predictable.”
Knox’s head snaps up when someone approaches the table. For half a second, his eyes sweep toward the entrance of the VIP section.
Brooke is already watching him. Every movement. Every habit.
I shift closer behind her.
“Tell me what you see.”
“He never looks behind him.”
Good.
“He checks the doors,” she adds, her eyes fixed on him, “but not the corners.”
Better.
