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I assumed it was home but judging by the car coming to a stop outside of a thumping club, that was not the right answer.
“Mac, you don’t have to do this.” Rex reaches around the seat and squeezes his brother’s shoulder.
“Thanks, shark nuts, but I need a fucking drink.” He’s out of the car as soon as the statement leaves his lips, Rex turning his attention to me.
“There’s a bag for you in the back. Get changed. Meet me at the bar.” And before I can protest, he’s jumping out of the car, too.
Why isn’t Ian going with him?
“Ma’am.” Gruff and fucking huge, the bodyguard clears his throat from the open door, a duffle encased in a hand big enough to make the bag look like a child’s toy.
I meet Ian’s sight in the rearview mirror because something just isn’t sitting right with me, but when he nods approval, I accept the outstretched bear paw and plop ever so eloquently out of the car.
Not.
“This way, Ma’am.” Hand to my lower back, the oversized polar bear leads me away from the line at the door to the side of the building. Built into the brick is a stairwell guarded by yet another gargoyle who greets us with a jut of his chin and unclasps the red rope to permit us access.
Guess I could get used to no lines ….
My polar bear of a companion wrenches open the large metal door and lets out the pulse of the populated club.
And by pulse, I mean the heavy thump of bass. The voices of patrons, both singing and shouting to be heard over the music.
The further into the crowd we fade, the more the music overcomes me, vibrating off of my skin and making me itch to get back to Rex.
It’s alluring in a way that makes my heart race and my groin come to life.
Is that moaning I hear?
I shake my head to clear it as my body responds like I’m back at the photo shoot with Rex for the first time and all I can think about is getting him naked.
“In here.” Polar bear gives me a gentle press to my lower back, urging me to a door he’s not following me through. “It’s a private ladies’ room. Don’t set anything on the floor.”
All I can do is nod because honestly, I might have to touch myself in order to calm my shit a little bit before I emerge back into the public.
Slipping inside with a light sheen of sweat blossoming on my skin, I drape the bag over the hook and slide the lock in place.
The bathroom is … dingy at best, with cracks spiderwebbing the single mirror over the broken sink both of which seem to be held together by stickers.
Writing spans most of the walls, different numbers to call for a good time, and initials of lovers more than likely gone by. I shake my head and spot the seemingly clean toilet I’m still not going to do more than hover over, thankful the floor is sticky enough to give some traction to my heels when I do.
This doesn’t seem like the place for a rockstar ….
After a kick to flush and a quick wash of the hands, I feel around in the bag Polar bear had me bring in here and nearly shit when thin tabs brush over my fingertips.
Fucking sequins.
I’d know that feeling anywhere.
A grin plasters itself to my face when I pull out my newest creation, finished just yesterday, and a pair of strappy metallic heels that shine green when you look from one side, purple or blue from another.
I squeal. I can’t help it.
Because the shoes match the dress perfectly.
Ripping off the old outfit, I slide into my new dress and revel at the feel of the silky material against my sensitive skin.
This one, though, has a neckline down to the navel, a nonexistent back, and a terrible tolerance for panty lines.
