Page 34 of Venomous as a Snake

The parking lot he stops in belongs to one of the more popular nightclubs. It’s within walking distance of the others, but the parking lot is that business’s property.

That’s where I’ll start.

My jeans and tennis shoes aren’t going to get me in, though.

I pick a burgundy body-con dress and a pair of black chunky heels from my disastrous closet. Red lipstick completes my look.

And I’m out the door.

* * *

I intend to make this trip as quick as possible. But once I’m inside the club, I realize finding this guy is going to be a needle in a haystack type of situation.

There’s no way to move through the packed dance floor without pressing against at least three sweaty bodies. That’s the only path to the bar, though.

I’m not drinking. It’s just the best place to start my search.

The man who broke into my house today strikes me as a drinker. His sandy hair will be hard to spot in the dark atmosphere, and the laser lights only make the search more difficult.

Some other markers that will make him stick out in the crowd are his strong jaw, crooked nose, and wide-set eyes.

I scan the sea of bodies, but really… All the men look the same in flashing green lights.

“What can I get you?” the bartender shouts over the DJ’s music.

“You,” I tease. “And… Do you have a brother? I’ll take him too.”

He smiles, his southern accent flowing into his reply. “I got a brother or two. They aren’t this handsome, though.”

“Shame.”

“They’re all right, but they ain’t chocolate perfection.”

“I came here to meet someone,” I confess. “Now, I’m regretting my choice of company.”

“Let me know if he’s a waste of time. I’ll rescue you.”

I roll my eyes, but give him a too-big grin, oozing false excitement. “I hope he’s not a waste, but who knows?”

I unlock my phone and open the photos app to show him a screenshot of the video feed.

“Have you seen him?”

The bartender’s brow furrows as he studies the picture. “Yeah. Actually, I do remember this guy. That nose is something else, sugar. We were trying to decide if he was a fighter or just misfortunate.”

He’s misfortunate.

But I don’t say that out loud.

“Well, he’s here,” I say. “That’s something.”

“That’s him.” The bartender hooks his thumb to the other end of the bar, and I spot my intruder. “Hope it goes well.”

I nod and wander away, inching closer to the unsuspecting asshole who thought breaking and entering was a good life choice. He passes the other bartender a twenty, takes his drink, and vanishes into the crowd.

And I follow.

Tight black t-shirt.