"That's level two membership, miss." His brow arches, playing along, and there's a flicker of genuine amusement beneath the professional polish.
I actually laugh at that, which feels wrong given the night I'm having, but here we are. "Good to know. I'll add it to the bucket list if I survive the week."
He passes me a black cloth and gestures toward his cheek. “You’ve got a little something there.”
I huff out a breath. “Right. You never know how a romp through the woods will leave you.” I toss him a wink that I swear has a hint of color hitting his cheeks.
“Ready for your signature?”
“I like this no questions asked thing you’ve got going on.”
I sign my name in the guest section with fingers that tremble only slightly, grateful that he doesn't question my clothes or my disheveled appearance or the fact that I clearly don't belong anywhere near this place looking the way I do. The leather-bound book accepts my scrawl without judgment, and a woman in a sleek black evening gown materializes beside me like she's been conjured from the shadows themselves.
"If you'll follow me, miss."
The Scarlet lounge unfolds before us in shades of deep crimson and glimmering gold, every surface designed to seduce thesenses. Low music pulses from hidden speakers, something sultry and inviting that seems to wrap around my bones and settle somewhere deep in my chest. Beautiful people lounge on velvet furniture in shades of red and burgundy, sipping cocktails that catch the light like liquid jewels, their laughter tinkling through the perfumed air.
Bodies move together on a dance floor that gleams like polished blood, hips rolling, hands wandering, mouths finding necks and ears with the kind of casual intimacy that suggests everyone here knows exactly what they came for. A woman in a dress cut down the middle to her navel runs her fingers along the chest of a man in a charcoal suit as they pass me, her laugh low and throaty, his hand sliding possessively around her waist. Another couple presses against a pillar near the bar, so tangled together I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
This place drips with sensuality the way my uncle's study drips with cigar smoke and the threat of violence. It's soaked into the velvet booths and the dim lighting and the way the bartenders move, slow and deliberate, like even mixing a drink is an act of seduction.
My journalist brain kicks into overdrive despite the heat creeping up my neck. I catalog everything, filing away details like weapons I might need later. The Malone exposé is my priority, but a side piece on Chicago's most exclusive underground club? The kind of place where sin wears silk and secrets trade hands over champagne? That's the seasoning that gets an editor's attention. That's the kind of story that could land me a desk at the Tribune instead of another rejection letter. A job I’d kill for.
Figuratively, of course.
Security guards the exits, mountains of muscle stuffed into black suits, earpieces curling up the side of jaws that look like they've taken a few punches. And by the looks of their knuckles they’ve given back worse. The VIP section hides in the shadows above, and through the dim lighting I catch glimpses of figures draped across furniture like Roman emperors deciding which offering pleases them most. Then there are the men on the floor, the ones who cut through the crowd without ever being touched, bodies parting for them like water around sharks. They don't walk like they own the room. They walk like they own everyone in it.
This isn't just a club. This is a headquarters wearing designer clothes and dripping in diamonds, and I just walked through the front door covered in dirt and desperation.
The hostess deposits me near a cluster of empty tables with a kind smile. "A waitress will be with you shortly."
Then she disappears back toward the entrance, leaving me exactly where I want to be. Alone.
I'm scanning the room for Sloane when a blonde tornado in a red dress spots me from across the lounge and starts pushing through the crowd.
"Jesus Christ, Onyx." Sloane grabs my arm and pulls me into a booth in the corner, and the movement sends pain radiating through muscles I didn't even know I had. She's five feet of blonde bombshell in a red swing dress and matching lipstick, her vintage rockabilly aesthetic completely at odds with the modern sleekness of this club. But that's Sloane. She walks into any room looking like a 1950s pin-up girl who got lost on her way to a car show, and somehow makes everyone else look like they're the ones who dressed wrong.
My body is a symphony of complaints. Shoulders screaming from the climb. Thighs burning from the sprint through the woods. Feet aching from the walk to the highway. The scratches on my arms pulse with heat, and somewhere beneath my ribs, my heart still hasn't figured out that I'm not running anymore.
I collapse into the velvet booth and my body practically groans with relief. The cushion is soft, impossibly soft after concrete and tree bark and the cracked vinyl seat of a stranger's truck. For one dangerous moment I want to curl up right here and let the exhaustion drag me under.
"You look like you've been dragged through a hedge fund manager's nightmare and out the other side."
I huff out a laugh. “Something like that.”
Sloane leans forward, eyes narrowed, her winged liner sharp enough to cut glass. She's the kind of woman who never leaves the house without looking like she stepped off a vintage Coca-Cola ad, and right now those baby blues are fixed on me like I'm a problem she's determined to solve. "What the hell happened?"
She slides in across from me and fixes me with a look I've seen her use on lying exes and contractors who try to overcharge her. "Talk."
"I can't tell you everything."
"Then tell me something, because you show up looking like a raccoon who lost a fight with a lawnmower, you won't let me send a car, and your eyes are jumping to every shadow that moves." She leans forward, her blue eyes sharp despite the drinks she's clearly already had. "What the hell happened, Onyx?"
I weigh my options while a waitress glides past our table, her tray balanced perfectly on manicured fingertips. Sloane doesn't know what my family really is. She thinks my dad is some boring finance guy with a nice house in the suburbs and my uncle is his slightly uptight business partner. I've kept it that way on purpose. Plausible deniability. Protection for her.
But right now, I need help more than I need to protect her from the ugly truth of where I come from.
"My family isn't what I told you they were."
