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CHAPTER ONE
Lia
Bass thudded against the steel door. It was an ominous, rapid-fire heartbeat locked underground that closely matched the rhythm of my own. I closed my eyes to breathe in the city — the sharp bite of the coming winter, the sultry tang of cigarettes from the smokers that huddled next door, and the overpowering cologne that came off the massive bouncer guarding the door.
I opened my eyes and mentally vowedyou will let me in, Mr. Bouncer.
But, despite my furrowed brow and grim concentration, I couldn’t believe Mr. Bouncer’s dedicationorthe fact he was using the world’s tiniest flashlight. As I stood there watching, he had the pinprick of light aimed at the ID of an Irish tourist in thegroup in front of us. The tourist’s accent lilted with a joke but Mr. Bouncer didn’t so much as smile.
I released the breath I was holding, my eyes almost watering when the bouncer finally waved the tourist in and moved on to his friend.
Almost there. He’ll let me in. He has to… But maybe Sara should wait out here.
Glancing over at my best friend, I saw that her usual smile had pressed into a thin line and her eyes had narrowed at the bouncer. Just beyond her, one of the Irish guys in the group in front of us gave Sara a hopeful and dopey look which she ignored.
She was a drop-dead gorgeous Korean woman with high cheekbones, flawless golden skin, and a perfect sheaf of black, silken hair. She could turn heads even if she were wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and leggings. However, tonight she’d outdone herself, embodying the wintery night in a silver jumpsuit and a trim leather jacket.
On the other hand, I should’ve tried harder with my outfit. Compared to Sara’s lavishHollywoodlook, I looked like an unpaid extra from an indie film. I’d worn my favorite —albeit paint-splattered — jeans, a beat-up and patched-over vintage air force jacket I’d found in a thrift store in Cambridge, and my combat boots. I’d thrown on a little mascara, but my wild honey-blonde hair had been thrown up in a careless bun, threatening to unravel at any moment.
Sara turned and made a face at me. I knew that look and braced myself for a dose of her common sense to kick my butt into gear.
“Not a good idea,” she hissed. I bit the tip of my tongue and shrugged, watching Sara’s gaze turn ferocious. “Lia. Let’s get out of here before you get your ass booked.”
“You didn’t have to come with me,” I said but my tone was gentle. I appreciated that she had come, after all. Saraalwayscame along, no matter how many times things went sideways or upside-down. She never prevented me from dragging her along on any of my harebrained schemes.
That was probably why she scoffed and tapped a dainty boot at me. “Ididhave to come,” Sara retorted then frowned and added, “I don’t think my fake ID will fly here.”
“Okay.” I leaned into her and whispered, “Why don’t you wait here? I won’t be long.”
“Becauselookat this place!” Sara hissed back. “It’s bookie central.” She nodded at the group in front of us. “These Irish dudes were obviously conned into coming here. You know, I read an expose in theGlobeabout tourism scams—”
“Next,” the bouncer boomed.
“Lia.” Sara caught my elbow. “Please don’t… Let’s just go!”
Her unspoken words pulsed in the air between us:there’s still time to walk away.
“I can’t.” I could feel my sadness leak through my smile. “I need money and this—” I swallowed hard, “this has to work.”
With a sigh, Sara let me go and stepped out of line. She gestured at the wall while I pulled out my fake ID and handed it to the bouncer. He barely glanced at it and waved me right in, to my surprise.
Wondering why that somehow felt even more troubling than if he’d given me a hard time – I didn’t know. But nevertheless, I hurried inside and almost fell into darkness. A second later, the motion-sensor lights kicked on, illuminating each step I took. As I descended, the bass grew louder.
I'd never heard such urgent and hungry music, as if each note was seeking a willing soul to sign itself over. Or maybe it just wanted me.
At the bottom of the steps, a tunnel snaked and curved until I emerged into a large underground bar. Its entirety stretched backward beneath the street and I realized I must have been hearing the sound system through the concrete.
It had the feel of an old speakeasy – from the curved and bricked-over ceiling to the 1920’s-themed attire of the servers, and the sense of being locked away from the humdrum city above. Smoky glass lamps swung over the alcoves of plush, red seats and glossy wood tables around the room's edges. The restof it was filled with the writhing bodies of the drunk, dancing crowd.
As much as I wished the music would snatch me away and just allow me to leave my problems at the door, my reason for coming here was far from leisurely. I was here on business; for information. Pushing through the crowd, I traced my gaze along the fully stocked bar, searching for a particular bottle. It was a bit difficult since the glass shelves stretched to the ceiling but, then again, I didn’t think it would be down here, in the crowd.
Hurrying to the far and empty end of the bar, I scanned the wall. My heart leaped when I saw the black bottle I was looking for, with the lightning bolt on its label. Sauntering up to the polished marble counter, the bearded bartender finished polishing a glass before setting it aside and nodding at me.
He drawled in a thick Boston accent with a slow grin, “What’ll ya have, blondie?”
Setting my jaw to stone, I had to take a moment to keep my adrenaline in check so it didn’t explode in an inadvertent temper… Butfuckif I hated when dudes called meblondie.Finally, I got out, “a Taranis, please. On the rocks.”
His smile slipped, and his pale green eyes narrowed. Suddenly, he imitated a perfect Irish accent, “The Celtic god of storms for the lass, aye?” I nodded, and he swung around, picking up the bottle and pouring three-fingers worth of strong whiskey. “And what does the lass wish to know from a poor wretch such as I?”
