Page 15 of My Big Fat Fake Alien

I dab at the blood with my sleeve, wincing for effect. “Just a scratch. Kinda used to it.”

He nods, his pale eyes assessing me. “We don’t tolerate that kind of behavior here. Let me make it up to you.”

"If you want to make it up to me," I say, dabbing at my split lip, "how about access to the VIP section upstairs?"

Giscard's pale eyes glitter with amusement. "Ah, the exclusive floor. I would be happy to grant you access—if you were married."

My heart rate spikes, but I keep my expression neutral. Damn. Should have seen this coming.

"It's a very special club, for people with special proclivities," Giscard continues, his voice oily smooth. "So I have a rule to keep the degenerates out: Married people only may join the Hellfire Club."

Vakutan curses flash through my mind. This could derail everything. But then an image of Raven flashes in my mind, and suddenly I know exactly what to say.

"Funny you should mention that," I reply, letting a small smile play across my lips. "Because I'm engaged. I'm getting married soon."

Giscard's eyes light up with interest. "Engaged? My, my. You've been holding out on us, Kirk."

"I like my privacy." I dab at the fake blood on my lip.

"Of course, of course. Tell you what—bring your lovely fiancée tomorrow night. I'll make an exception to our married-only rule, just this once."

My stomach clenches. I hadn't planned on involving Raven in this mess. But the chance to infiltrate Giscard's inner circle is too valuable to pass up.

"Deal. Now if you'll excuse me, I should probably get this looked at." I gesture to my face.

"Please, let Area 51 cover any medical expenses." Giscard's voice drips with false concern.

I laugh, the sound echoing through the bar. Reaching into my wallet, I pull out a crisp thousand-dollar bill and toss it onto the polished wood.

"For the damages," I say, straightening my tie. "See you tomorrow, Giscard."

"Don't forget your bride to be," Giscard calls after me.

CHAPTER 7

RAVEN

The skirt of my slutty cheerleader costume barely covers my bottom, by design, as I maneuver through the throng of sweaty, leering patrons. Their comments bounce off me like raindrops on a windshield—something about bounce, something about pom-poms. I’m not hearing it. My mind is elsewhere, stuck in a loop of how to expose Kirk Stevens for whatever the hell he’s hiding.

He’s too much. Too magnetic, toopresent. Even when he’s not in the room, I can feel him. The memory of his kiss lingers like a brand I can’t scrub off. But I can’t just walk up to him and demand answers. Not without risking losing myself in him again.

Nightbird, though. Nightbird could do it. But hacking into his Upper East Side mansion? Yeah, right. I’m not some high-tech spy. I’m a street artist with a can of spray paint and a knack for scaling fire escapes. His security’s probably got lasers and shit.

I’m so deep in my own head that I don’t see the step in front of me. My heel catches on the edge, and I pitch forward, arms flailing like a damn cartoon character.

Strong hands catch me before I faceplant into the polished floor. My heart thuds against my ribs as I look up into those sunset-orange eyes.

“Careful,” Kirk murmurs, his voice low and smooth, like whiskey over ice. “You’re toodelicateto be falling like that.”

Delicate. I almost snort. If only he knew.

“Thanks,” I mutter, pulling away. His grip tightens for a split second before he lets go, and I swear I feel the ghost of his touch linger on my skin.

“You’re distracted tonight,” he says, tilting his head. His gaze sweeps over me like he’s cataloging every detail—the way my breath freezes in my chest, the way my pulse jumps in my throat.

“Just tired,” I lie, forcing a smile.

“Hmm.” He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. “Let me buy you a drink. Something to perk you up.”

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