Page 9 of Winning Match
And where did that get me?
Nowhere. Alone.
I shake the thought from my mind and reach for Ale.
He’s there, lending me his arm as I link mine through it like the old soul I am. I glance down at my dress. It’s hardly something women wear to nightclubs.
“You look beautiful,” Ale reassures me, his lips brushing over my ear.
I look at him, but his face is turned toward the bouncers at the front of the line, his shoulders lifted as if to conceal his expression.
I turn to glance over my shoulder, taking in the long wait. Ale dips his head, avoiding looking at anyone, as he steps to the front.
I yank on his arm, mortified to be seen cutting the queue. “Ale,” I hiss.
He shakes his head and murmurs something in low, rapid Spanish, to the bouncer. Like magic, the velvet rope is held open. We’re escorted through quickly and as we clear the threshold, cheers—celebratory cries instead of the insults I expect—ring out behind us.
I turn again but Ale tugs me forward, wrapping an arm around my waist, as we enter the nightclub.
I gasp, my eyes adjusting to the smokey darkness of the club. But in the next moment, a colorful light show begins with women dancing on low platforms and performing acrobatics above the crowd in suspended cages. The music is loud, pulsing in my eardrums and causing the space under my feet to rumble.
I turn in a half-circle, noting the dancing bodies, the colorful tubes of shots that are being tossed back with abandon, the illicit excitement that hangs in the air. It bursts with thrills I never knew existed.
“You okay?” Ale’s voice rumbles in my ear. I feel the vibration sweep my body, as if a live wire danced through it.
I nod and grip his arm tighter.
“I got you, Marli. We can leave whenever you want.”
I turn to look at him over my shoulder and he lifts an eyebrow, waiting for my answer.
And in that moment, I trust him. He doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore. It should alarm me, but the opposite holds true. I feel lighter, more buoyant, and more at ease than I have in years.
“I’m good,” I holler over the bass.
He nods and leads me to a roped-off VIP section. Ale dips his head and exchanges words with two huge, tough-looking men. I should really ask him what he does for a living or who his friend is.
But isn’t this what people do when they have birthday parties? Book out a VIP section of a club or a restaurant?
Ale steps past the velvet rope and threads his fingers with mine. His hand is large and comforting; his skin is warm and centering. I squeeze once and note the muscle that tics in his jaw as he gazes at me for a heartbeat. Desire heats his irises, and I feel his hunger cut through my stomach—needy and intense.
I suck in a breath, the music loud and edgy, as Ale cups my cheek with his other hand. He swipes his thumb along my cheekbone, the motion almost tender. When he drops his hand, he squeezes my fingers twice before tilting his head toward the open velvet rope.
I step forward, look up, and breathe in the new experience.
A slice of life I never considered and now want to hold on to with both hands.
4
Ale
“Ohh, look who’s here! It’s been a minute,” my teammate Luca razzes me as I step past security into the roped-off section of the club.
With my hand still tucked into Marlowe’s, I hug him hello with one arm, slapping his back heartily. “Only you would have a birthday party for yourself.”
“And only you would call in extra security to someone else’s party,” he shoots back, his voice quiet.
When I pull away, I note the edge of concern in his eyes.
