Page 80 of Undone

“Follow me.”

The man oozes power and authority. He reminds me of Lucas. But where Lucas is earthy, manly, and huge—this man is refined. Polished, but dangerous just the same in his expensively cut clothes as he leads me through to the bar. People move out of his way as if he’s wielding a sword. He stops in a dark, quiet corner and turns to me. “Here.” From his pocket he takes out a blank white business card. There’s no name. Just a number. “If you ever need anything… call.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend.” He replies, thinly.

“I saw you, earlier. You’re following me. How do I know you’re not a stalker or serial killer?”

His eyes melt for a second. I almost made him lose his stoic demeanor, but he hangs on. “Rog sent me. The man was more a father to me than mine ever was.”

“Rog sent you, or Smith?”

His cold eyes scanned the crowd before they met mine again. “I don’t take orders from anyone. Not even the Prez. Call me Lucille, I can help you…”

“Help me with what?”

“Finding a place… get a teaching job. The museum is looking for a new curator, if you’re interested.”

Anger simmered in my veins. He was lying. If he’s tight with Rog, he is with Smith, too. He’s standing here, offering to help me come back to Chicago?

“So, Smith wants me gone, huh?” I stare at the card with his number for a few seconds then rip it to shreds, watching as the torn pieces flutter to the ground. “I’m good, thanks. I did just fine before I met anyone from Creed. I don’t need any of them—not one of them to help me erase my mistakes.”

“Good for you.” He half-smirks. And if I wasn’t drowning in heartache, my heart might pick-up speed for this gorgeous man. But I won’t be a fool for an alpha male again.

Not ever again.

I walk around him to the ladies’ room, wash my hands, and swipe the sticky sweat off my neck with a paper towel. I was having fun, forgetting myself, and getting lost in the moment.

But just like everything else—that moment is gone now, too. I’m half-drunk, tired, and back to being my depressing self. I pull out my phone, texting Tanya:

Me:I’m done. See you back at the hotel.

I don’t expect a response right away. She’s probably still lost in the music and enjoying her night out as she should. I order an Uber and wait just inside the door of the club. I should’ve taken a coat. Just as my ride pulls up, a thick pea coat settles over my shoulders. I turn, but there’s no one there. I bit my lip, debating if I should try to find him. My nose lowers to the collar.

It smells expensive.

It’s his.

The enigmatic mystery man’s. The ends of the expensive wool trail over the icy ground as I stumble in my heels to the waiting car. I give the name of the hotel and sit back, cocooned in his warm coat. The car moves through the city streets while I wonder what I really want. Thoughts of working as an art curator; attending ritzy galas, fill my head—expensive champagne and men in tuxedos move among priceless art.

My heart sighs.

Instead, it yearns for plaid flannel, pine cones, and more stars littering the sky than you could count in a thousand lifetimes. But with Devon shacked up with Rog, I’m alone most of the time. There’s no nightlife in Springdale besides the bar Rog owns frequented by the MC. Devon has invited me almost weekly but I still won’t go. I don’t want to seem desperate to hang on to a Club that’s ruled by the man who left me.

Sighing, I climb out of the car and into the warm hotel lobby. I make it halfway to the elevator doors when my elbow’s seized.

“Where is she?” Turning, my eyes meet Vito’s. I only recognize him from the FB pictures Tanya posted. He’s not as tall as Smith but he’s built.

His muscles flex under my palm as I touch his sleeve. “Please. You’re hurting me.”

“I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,” His grip loosens. “But my woman is unprotected.”

I roll my eyes feeling my anger surge again. “Tanya’s been clubbing in this city since she was eighteen. She’ll be fine. What is it with men thinking we need to be babysat all the time?” I throw up my free hand, exasperated. Vito’s eyes narrow, his grip once again bruising.

“Let go! You’re hurting me!” I try swinging my arm when a large palm rests on my shoulder; a huge man’s warmth is at my back.

“Enough!” The voice is low and deadly. Vito’s lip curls, but his hand drops from my arm.

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