Page 101 of Tempted By the Devil

I rush through before he can ask any follow up questions.

The brain-busting bass hits me first. It’s the deep, pulse-pounding beats from the music that make me pause even before making it to the dance floor.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard music so damn loud.

Maybe Rafael would be right to claim I don’t belong here.

A few minutes in, and I’m already over the crowds and noise. If I were in my twenties, I might find it easier to let go and dive into the scene. As a thirty-four-year-old woman, all I want to do is find the nearest barstool for a seat andmaybeorder a drink to sip on slowly.

I push on anyway.

The crowd is so hype that they’re thrashing and dancing until sweat leaks from their pores. They don’t care that they bump into each other or that they’ve lost the people they’ve come in with. None of it matters as the party atmosphere takes over.

I’m the most alert person around.

My gaze bounces from face to face, scouring the crowds for any clues.

Some guy palms my ass and I turn around to shove him in the chest.

“Touch me again and it’s an elbow to the face next,” I shout over the music.

It’s enough to make me leave the dance floor and gravitate toward the sidelines of the large club. On the second floor is the VIP section, where I’m guessing coveted guests like Rafael would be able to go.

The question is, would they object to me venturing up there? Would it be insanely dangerous if I took the chance?

“Probably,” I mutter under my breath.

Even I’m not that crazy… or am I?

I remain on the ground floor, searching for a different in.

My opportunity comes when I’m outside the restroom and catch a group of friends talking about seeing stars. They’re giggly and can barely walk straight as they rush back onto the dance floor.

I take the hint and wander into the women’s restroom.

The inside is like most club restrooms, with a couple of the stalls occupied and some women in front of the sink mirrors reapplying their makeup.

And then there’s the woman in a bomber jacket hanging around the paper towel dispensers.

I casually stroll over to the last sink where she’s only a few feet away and twist on the faucet to wash my hands. She’s pale with dark hair and a tattoo on her cheek, leaning against the tiled wall like she has all night.

She probably does.

I’m lathering my hands with soap when a pair of women approach her and the exchange happens in the reflection of the mirror.

They hand her cash. She hands them some kind of golden liquid substance in vials.

It’s that quick and wordless.

They hurry off and she pockets the cash.

It occurs to me that I could approach her, but I’ve never purchased a drug in my life. The only times I’ve ever smoked weed were in college and it was my boyfriend at the time providing it. Something about approaching a dealer in the bathroom of a club feels… even riskier than I’m willing to go.

Before I can even make up my mind, the woman’s phone rings and she heads for the exit.

After a second or two, I move to follow her out of the restroom. She’s already long gone, swallowed up by the sea of club goers.

I sigh out of frustration and search the crowds for my next lead.

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