Page 41 of Isaac

I allow my own fatigue to fall by the wayside as I focus only on the task at hand—finishing this fight so I could be on my way.

In a split second, I lunge to the side to distract him, then forward, and execute a swift and powerful move–a spinning backfist that connects with the asshole’s jaw, sending him crumpling to the floor, unconscious. The knife drops to the ground with a clunk.

"Guess you didn't see that coming," I mutter, wiping the blood off my cheek. The adrenaline is pulsing through my veins like an electric current, leaving me breathless as I make my way toward the exit.

I may have won this battle, but I'm only just beginning to scratch the surface of the war brewing beneath the city's streets. And as much as it terrifies me, I know I'll have to delve even further into the darkness if I want to bring the truth to light.

"Welcome to the Underworld, Hawk," I whisper to myself as I vanish into the night, determined to see this mission through, no matter what it takes.

The city lights blur outside the vehicle window as I drive back to the club, my mind still reeling from the narrow escape at the storage unit. The tension inside me coils like a venomous snake, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

I’m ten minutes away from the Strip when a new text message flashes across my phone screen. The unknown number. And it sends that familiar chill down my spine.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white. I refuse to look at it but the temptation is too much and eventually I grab the phone from the cupholder and read the command:

Meet on the roof when you arrive

Definitely Isaac.

The corners of my lips curve up slightly. I don’t know why I smile at the thought of him.

However I have to adjust my course, making a detour before going up to the roof.

When I enter the break room, I scan it carefully, not wanting anyone to see me here right now. I’m technically off.

Satisfied with the fact that I'm alone, I approach my locker and position myself with my back to the only surveillance camera in the room. My hands move with precision as I remove my vest and shove it into the backpack inside the locker. Then I quickly fish out Marina’s passport from the vest’s pocket and slip it into the back pocket of my pants.

It's a delicate dance, ensuring the security camera can't capture my actions. I know not all bouncers working for Isaac are involved in his shady dealings. Having them question me when they see me all cut up or worse—hiding a bunch of passports—will create some serious problems.

Once I've concealed the damning evidence, and quickly used some antiseptic from the first aid kit to clean the wound on my cheek I make my way to the bank of elevators and go up to the meeting spot on the roof of Crown Tower.

Over the past few days, Vegas has been under the promise of an impending downpour, the gray clouds clinging to its skyline like a lover not ready to let go. The long-awaited rain starts drizzling gently, almost non-existently, dotting my skin withcool, barely-there droplets when I set foot through that all-too-familiar door markedRoof Access.

The air thickens with the earthy scent of rain-kissed asphalt mixed with a tantalizing whiff of nervous anticipation of the encounter. Every fiber in my body screams for something. Not caution. Something I can’t comprehend.

Across the damp expanse, against the neon backdrop of the city, stands Isaac, a cigarette dangling from between his lips. Our eyes lock as I make my approach, and the tension between us is a live wire threatening to spark at any moment.

I don’t understand it. Don’t want to.

Wordlessly, I pull out Marina's passport from my pocket. As I hand it over, our fingers brush just like last time we met here.

An unexpected shiver travels through me.

I wonder if this is intentional when Isaac's brown eyes flicker with something I can't quite place. Almost as if he sensed my reaction.

Before leafing through the pages of the document, he exhales a plume of smoke into the stormy air, the raindrops colliding with it before it dissipates.

"Good," he says after checking the passport, his tone unreadable. He slips it into the inner pocket of the leather jacket, then silently extends the pack of cigarettes toward me.

"Thanks," I accept, taking the offer as a tentative olive branch in this dangerous game we're playing.

Isaac’s hand reaches up and he flicks his lighter, lighting the cigarette I’m holding between my teeth. A fleeting mouse click of a moment has us almost cheek to cheek, the space between whisper-thin and electric. I can feel his fingers hovering at my lips, feel his breath on my cheek. Its strange warmth laced with whiskey, an unspoken promise sliding over me like molasses.

What the fuck is going on with you, Dallas?a voice shouts from the back of my mind, but I’m too transfixed by this strange intimacy settling over us.

Is this what it feels like to be accepted into Thoreau’s inner circles?

Or is this something else?

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