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Pulling the door closed behind me, I turn left, heading for the main part of the club. I won’t actually go out onto the floor, but maybe I’ll be able to see Dex and flag him over to me.
Outside the office, music pulses through my body. No way anyone could have heard us, right?
I haven’t made it far when an angel appears in front of me. No, wait, she must be a dancer dressed like an angel. The tiniest sheer white bikini set glitters over her boobs and her apparently hairless downstairs area. Her long blond hair barely moves—actually nothing on her moves. Not a jiggle or wiggle anywhere as she stalks down the hallway in five-inch white iridescent boots that stop right below her knees, like this is her own personal runway.
So blinded by the angel, I didn’t notice there’s a devil trailing behind her. Decked out in a shiny red version of the angel’s outfit, wild red hair, and black boots. At least she looks like a mortal. Her boobs wobble and threaten to bust out of her tiny top and her thighs jiggle with every step she takes in her black platform stilettos.
I attempt to move out of their way, pressing my back to the wall, but the girl in white stops short in front of me. The girl in red almost smacks right into her and grabs her friend’s arms to catch herself.
“The hell?” she drawls in a high-pitched whine.
Angel girl pins me with her freakishly light-blue eyes and gets so close to my face, the scent of her cinnamon breath and coconut perfume threatens to gag me. “Who the fuck are you?” she asks in a slow, raspy voice.
This must be the one Jigsaw called Sleepy?
My internal alarms clang, but I still default to my “nice girl” persona. Maybe too nice. Like an idiot I stick out my hand for her to shake. She’s so damn close, I have to awkwardly scrunch my shoulder almost to my chin to do it. “Oh, hi, I’m Emily.”
“Well, Emily,” she sneers, “Dex has more than enough women to keep him occupied. Take your frumpy butt back to whatever lab you crawled out of.”
Wait, does she know I work in a lab or is that supposed to be a general insult? And frumpy? I tug at Dex’s flannel that I’m still wearing. It hangs loose and sloppy over my leggings, the sleeves falling far past my fingertips. Not my most fashionable look, for sure. But I thought it presented a nice freshly fucked appearance.
Dammit. Why aren’t any snappy responses leaping off my tongue? Something clever will probably come to me later tonight when it’ll do me no good.
I lift my chin and stare straight into her freaky eyes. “I’m Dex’s girl.” Dex made it sound like those were magic words that would rescue me. Angel girl seems to be immune to their power.
“News to me.” She tilts her head toward her friend who so far has been watching us with a bored look on her face. “Swan is Dex’s girl, right?” she prompts.
My stomach drops.
Dex had sounded surprised, maybe even annoyed, when Ravage told him Swan was here. Was that because he was worried we’d run into each other?
No. He’s told me a million times to visit him whenever I wanted. Why would he do that if he had another “girlfriend” here?
Devil girl rolls her eyes as if this entire confrontation is a waste of her time.
It’s definitely a waste of my time.
“Porsche, stop,” a soft voice to my left demands.
I glance over and it’s the woman of the hour.
Swan.
She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “Leave Emily alone. Go chill. You’ve got an hour before you’re needed out front.”
“Swan, girl, I told you. You need to fight for your man.” Porsche tilts her head toward me. “You can’t expect the spirits to do all the work. You have to help them out.”
Spirits? Did I hear that right?
“Go,” Swan says with more heat behind her voice.
The angel and devil trot away. Hopefully down to hell.
Unfortunately, now I’m left alone with Swan. And the last conversation we had was rather unpleasant. I’m not in the mood for a repeat.
I cross my arms over my chest, refusing to let her intimidate me. Although, standing here in Dex’s shirt and my ratty leggings while she’s dressed for a night at an exclusive club—a sparkling gold dress with the middle cut out of it to show off her concave stomach and flawless skin—I feel like a possum who escaped the curbside trash bin.
“Ignore them,” she says once we’re alone. “They…have the wrong idea.”
“Do they?” I snort. “Because it felt similar to the lecture you gave me at Lincoln’s party.”
Her face pinches. Guilt? Remorse? Or something else?
“You’re wearing Dex’s shirt,” she says.
“Uh…” I stare down at the soft, warm, green and black flannel. “He wasn’t a fan of the outfit I showed up in.”
