The outside air is damp enough to make my skin feel sticky by the time we reach Spire, but the humidity carries with it the familiar scent of gardenias.
Roo purchased this bar on a whim last year. She’s turned it into the perfect hangout with low lights, high ceilings, and a playlist dangerous enough to incite riots in the streets of the Bay. The drinks that taste like sin, dressed up in citrus garnishes and an expert-level mixologist’s confidence.
It’s the kind of place that remembers you even when you pretend you’ve moved on.
The bouncer lets us in with a chin jerk the second he spots us. He grins as if he already knows tonight is going to be expensive.Roo winks at him, sliding a wad of cash and a note onto his clipboard. It’s her guest list for the night.
I follow in a high-slit skirt I only wear when I need the freedom to move. Glitter catches the light on my eyelids, and my mascara feels heavy on my lashes. But my pulse is steady and my attention is sharp.
I don’t intend to behave tonight.
Not that I ever do when we’re here.
Inside, the bass hits first, rattling in my chest so deeply that it loosens something tight behind my ribs. Bodies move in close proximity until sweat and perfume and intent blend into something alive.
Something familiar.
Blood-soaked.
It feels the same way it did a few months ago.
Before Daniel and the hit and the poor decision that won’t stop harassing me.
And it feels just like it did a few weeks ago, too.
Before stalkers and cameras and surveillance. Before apps with glowing hearts and men who orbit me like I’m gravity.
I can breathe here.
“Two of the usual,” Roo calls to the bartender, sidling up to the bar with a smile that could start wars.
“Still causing problems, Sokolov?” he asks, already reaching for the bottles.
“Always,” she says sweetly.
I raise a brow. “Regular friend, or friend friend?”
“He wishes.” She snorts. “You know I don’t fuck the employees.”
The drink she hands me is red and fizzy, probably illegal in at least three states. I don’t even ask what’s in it.
I never do at Spire because the cocktails are always divine.
We claim our favorite corner booth, velvet worn soft by a thousand bad decisions and better stories. Roo claims déjà vu and laughs at something I said two years ago, in this exact booth, before she bought the business. I laugh back and shake my head, recalling that particular night ending with bloodshed, a stolen motorcycle, and someone’s parrot we had to re-home.
We’re in totally different places in our lives right now.
For one reckless minute, it feels like everything might actually be okay.
At least on the surface.
I don’t check my phone. I don’t need to. My HimLock guys have weighted gazes. I feel them the way you feel a storm before the rain breaks. Pressure on my temples. Static against the back of my neck. They’re unseen, but very much present.
I glance around, casually taking in the patrons as I spy my guys.
One near the entrance where it meets the end of the bar. That’s Silas, probably, posture calm, liquid blue eyes cutting through the room like a blade.
Another by the dance floor. Watchful. Jace, maybe, pretending he isn’t cataloging every hand that drifts too close.
