Page 6 of Raine
Leaning down, I pick up my pair of multicolored black and purple Gucci pumps and slide them on. They’ve always given me a rockabilly feel, and I fucking love them. Taking one last look in the mirror, I reach for my bag, phone, and mask and grab my keys on the way out. Exiting through the door that leads to the garage, I smile when I lock eyes with my pink Porsche. She’s so pretty. Lips — that’s what I named her — pretty pink, like the inside of a juicy pussy.
Oh, how I could go for some pussy right about now.
Sighing, I slip inside the car, the pink and black leather interior welcoming me. Starting the car, I hit the button that opens up the garage and reverse out. The engine purrs like a needy cat while I wait for the garage door to close, and once it does, I slam it into first and gun it down our little street. But just as I’m about to exit, I see Acheron standing outside his gothic-style house, arms crossed tightly across his chest, with an eyebrow raised.
Fuck him.I don’t miss the slight curve of his lip when I give him the middle finger salute, then rubber spits from the back of my tires, and I’m turning out of our street. My darkness feels his, and I hate it. Shaking my head in hopes of alleviating my wandering thoughts, I head to Arcane with a smile on my face and a beat in my chest.
Pulling up to the gate, I wait patiently until Sniper exits the little booth and walks toward me. Sniper has been with us for a while now, and his dark skin, witty humor, and inked body always makes my pussy clench in anticipation. I haven’t fucked him, doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it.
Clicking the button on my door, the window slides down, and Sniper leans in, his cinnamon bark and clove scent wafts in, a whisper of cigarette smoke accompanying it.
“Miss Raine,” he drawls, a grin on his face as he watches me through long lashes, his eyes staying on my face even though I know he’d allow those suckers to dip low if he wasn’t a gentleman or soldier.
“Sniper.”
“Just you tonight?” he asks, and I don’t miss his eyes flicking to the passenger seat.
I suppose I shouldn’t hold that against him; Arrow and I normally come together. Everyone thinks we are an item, but they’re wrong.
“What do you think? Can you see anyone with me, Sniper?” I bat my lashes at him, and his smirk deepens.
“No, ma’am, it would seem you are most certainly alone. Go ahead; I’ll see you on your way out.”
Gone was the flirty man, only to be replaced with the military soldier that he once was. I watch as he dismisses me, his eyes scanning the area, before he hikes an eyebrow at me and points inside the gate. Releasing a breath, I crawl through and park, then jump when I hear the gate clang loudly when it closes. Fuck’s sake. Why am I so jumpy? I know the answer to that question, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
Reaching over to the passenger seat, I grip my mask, holding it in my hand, and admire the pearl-white exterior before I trace the ice-blue tears that transform into the color of blood.
This mask speaks volumes to me, but to anyone else looking in, the holes and art that hide half of my face would mean nothing to them — something pretty to look at and nothing else. They’d be wrong, of course. Although the aesthetic may be pretty and a little melodramatic to some, this mask sums up my life in the most melancholy of ways. Huffing out a breath, I force those emerging memories to the back of my mind and slide it over my face.
I exit the car, not even looking in the mirror, because I know it’s sitting perfectly and probably because I’m a little vain as well. Punching in the code, the back door clicks open, and I walk in, my Gucci pumps sinking into the red carpet as Chloe Adams, “Dirty Thoughts”, blares through the speakers. It’s muffled in this part of the club because this section is reserved for myself and the rest of the Tartarus Mafia clan, making it the safest and most discreet entrance and exit for us.
It doesn’t stop the groupies pooling at the door when we arrive half the fucking time, though. And what I mean by groupies isn’t the generic type of teeny boppers most would think of; no, majority of the time they consist of seedy old men or midlife crisis women wanting to ride some mafia dick. It’s gag-worthy, and not the good type, if you know what I mean.
Opening the door to the club, I’m hit with the scent of sex, alcohol, and debasement, like I’ve never encountered before, and that’s saying something. Pausing, I scan the area, the twinkling blue lights feeling dim as I watch the masked bodies gyrating on each other in the distance.
Shaking the icy feeling from my bones, I lift my head high, run my hand over my face to make sure my mask is in place, and step out, waiting until the door closes behind me before moving into the throng of bodies.
Beads of sweat form on my chest, and I scowl, hoping they don’t mess up my glittering makeup. Pushing through the crowd, I move to the back of the club toward the hidden staircase behind a heavy curtain where me and my brothers meet.
Punching in the code, I open the door, then close it. My eyes linger a beat too long when I look at the steps that lead down to the basement, to the iniquity that resides in the depths of this club. Shaking the thoughts from my head, I step onto the industrial and timber stairs, my heels clunking ungracefully as I ascend them.
When I reach the top, I release a deep breath and walk across the timber floor until I reach the bar. Looking down at my phone, I see I still have a few hours before I hit the stage, but that isn’t all I’ll be doing tonight. I still need to head downstairs and tend to my girls, but before I do that, I need a fucking drink.
Pouring a double vodka, I add some soda water and reach for a couple of wedges of lime. Swirling my deep purple nail inside the liquid to mix it, I push away all the negative thoughts clinging to the edge of my mind and gulp down the drink in one swallow. My mother would be so fucking proud, and as fucked up as it is, it’s probably not a bad thing she’s fucking dead, so she doesn’t have to see the disgrace I’ve become.
The sour thought taints the heady taste of alcohol, and I scowl into the empty glass. Fuck it. I pour another one, and then another. I’m so lost in my thoughts that when warm fingers circle my throat, causing my eyes to flutter close, I feel those fingers as my own. I’d know that hand anywhere — Arrow. His amber, bergamot, whiskey, and leather scent permeates around me, and it eases some of the pressure I was feeling.
“What’s the matter, Princess?” He coos into my ear, his other hand wrapping tightly around my waist, and I lean into it unapologetically.
“Nothing, baby.”
“Liar. You’re wound so fucking tight I could snap you in half.”
I feel my lips kick up. “Promise.”
“Don’t say shit you don’t mean, Raine.”
Drawing my lip into my mouth, I war with whether to let him go or selfishly take him up on his unsaid offer. Making my mind up, I push my ass into him to feel him hard and ready behind me.
