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Ian groans, shaking his head, sandy blond hair flapping against his forehead. “I know nothing. Change the subject,” he says like he’s ordering himself. I open my mouth to demand answers, but he says quickly, “Hey, Emery, do I give gay vibes?”

“What?”

Ian chuckles, blushes and shrugs all at the same time. Meanwhile, Zane comes back and says he can’t find Warren.

And I realize then that Dillon is no longer in his seat.

Emerson

“Why are you glaring at that woman?” Zane asks, amused. He’s always fucking amused, but especially when I’m pissed off. My annoyance and anger greatly tickles him.

Ian looks over his shoulder, then back at me. He sighs, shoulders drooping. “Shit, man. I thought you were looking at me like that. What did she do? The redhead, right?”

Who did she do is the question.

I narrow my eyes, scanning around the bar again, and choose to ignore both of my brothers. It’s been over five minutes now since Dillon disappeared, longer since Warren did. I haven’t seen either of them.

Or the damn bartender.

I tap my empty glass with my nails and fidget in my seat. This entire day can go to hell. I woke up with a headache, had to spend all morning calling clients to reschedule because of a water main break that forced the salon to close for the day.

Then the cupcake.

Replaying the way his blue eyes looked so intense yesterday. His breath fanning against my burning cheeks. The way his lips moved…

I cough, shaking my head to try to rid my brain of the memory for the hundredth time today. I don’t know what the asshole was playing at yesterday, but I’m not participating.

I’m not.

Because playing with Dillon will do nothing but get me burned. Again.

Poison Ivy is starting to look worried. You’re a bad date.

Does Not Exist: She’ll be fine

You better not be fighting with Warren

Does Not Exist: How many times do I have to tell you to mind your own business, baby b?

“I’m going to find Warren,” I say, already turning to slide off the barstool.

Ian is texting someone on his phone, peeking around with blushed cheeks every few seconds. I catalog that away to investigate later before checking the empty seat next to the red-headed woman one more time.

I move through the people lingering around the bar, waiting for someone to take their orders, but once I get by the pool tables, the crowd thins out. For a Friday night, it’s not too busy, which probably means that there is a fight happening tonight. McAllister’s does more than sling beers and serve food, after all.

I scan the faces by the pool tables, check the bathrooms and shadowed corners. Nothing but a bunch of old men who look like they stopped having a good time forty years ago, and young guys chasing a bad case of Saturday morning hangovers in the bottoms of shot glasses.

Don’t make me come down there

Nothing.

I pocket my phone with a curse and weave my way to the one spot I didn’t check. The stairs down to the basement are tucked away in the back corner. There is no flashing, neon arrow letting everyone know what’s down there. The heavy metal door at the bottom does a good job of keeping the sounds locked inside with the heathens that feel it necessary to rip each other apart.

But everyone knows.

I have no clue how Griffin gets away with his little underground fighting world, but he does.

I stop in front of the bouncer, who is perched on a stool, blocking the way down.