Page 30 of Frozen Hearts
What the hell is a bouncer needed for all the way out here? Is whoever owns the place afraid a herd of drunken sheep will try to bash their way inside?
I titter at my own joke, earning a questioning look from Tara. “What are you giggling about?”
I wave off her question. “It’s nothing. Just some drunken sheep.”
“What?”
“Tara,” the bouncer grunts when we’re within earshot. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
“Me and my girl here needed to let off some steam before the weekend shift begins,” Tara says with a wider-than-normal grin plastered on her face.
My eyes dart from her to the bouncer. He is even more imposing up close, standing well over six feet tall, with a heavily muscled frame that suggests countless hours spent working out. His shaved head, adorned with intricate ink added to his intimidating aura, and as he folds his arms over his broad chest, I notice little white scars criss crossing his knuckles.
“You’re supposed to let Xander know if you plan on comin’,” the man practically growls, features pinched in anger as he narrows his gaze on Tara.
“And would my brother also like to know when I’m on the rag? Maybe he’d like to be kept informed of what brand of tampons I use? Should I text him next time I cry because I’m hormonal and realize I forgot to wash my comfort thong?”
I bite down on my tongue to restrain my laughter at the look of utter horror on the bouncer’s face. “No man needs to know that shit,” he hisses, making Tara beam.
Clapping her hands together, she bounces on the balls of her feet. “Perfect. Glad we got that cleared up. Catch you later, Ro-Ro.” With that, she drags me past… Ro-Ro? and to the door.
“Who was that?” I whisper as she pulls open the door.
She waves a dismissive hand. “That overbearing pain in the ass is Rome. He’s all mean and scary looking, but he’s a teddy bear at heart.”
I’ll have to take her word for it because hewasmean and scary looking.
“What is a comfort thong?” I question aloud.
She snorts. “How the hell do I know? As far as I’m concerned,nothong is comfortable.”
So true.
The near bursting of my eardrums drowns out any further conversation as I’m blasted with ear-splitting screaming and loud heavy rock music. In between beats, I can hear the thud of fists against flesh and pained grunts, drawing my attention across the crammed-in crowd to the large ring situated in the center of the warehouse, where two men are currently fighting like animals. Blood and sweat slick their skin, momentarily captivating me.
Someone jostles into me, and pulling my gaze from the men fighting, I stare upward toward the steel roof perched high above us. It’s then that I notice one major problem.
When Tara called and said we were going out tonight and that she wasn’t taking no for an answer, I inevitably assumed we were going to a club. An assumption I believed to be correct when she handed me the skin-tight bodycon dress that’s currently sneaking closer to my ass every time I shift my hips. However, wherever we are is definitely not a club. Instead of the dim lighting providing a sense of anonymity, shrouding you like a cloak and allowing you to get away with things you never could in the light—such as wearing a short-ass dress—the lights are turned up bright, putting everything inside the building on display.
“Come on,” Tara yells. She yanks on my hand, but I hold firm, remaining rooted in place.
“I can’t.”
Panic pushes against my skin. It was one thing for me to dress up like this to go to a club. I convinced myself it wouldn’t be all that different from going to work, but this… no. I can’t dothis.
“Hey,” Tara says, planting herself directly in front of me so all I can see is her face. Slim features framed by long black hair complete with bright pink tips. Her hands cup my cheeks, forcing my eyes to hers. “You’re safe here. No one will hurt you so long as you stick with me.”
My eyes scan her face for any hint of a lie, but I don’t catch one. I give a jerky nod of my head, but I still don’t feel ready to face the packed crowd and bright lights.
Sensing I need more time, Tara remains in front of me as she runs her hands up and down my arm in a soothing gesture that helps to ground me and slowly helps to push the panic down.
“You all good now?” she eventually asks.
When I nod, she smiles warmly, utterly unfazed by my freak out, before linking her hand with mine and leading me through the crowd. She ensures I’m always right behind her as we cross the sticky, booze-coated floor, not seeming to have any issue with jamming her elbow into people’s sides when they stumble into us or refuse to get out of our way.
I occupy my mind by scanning the steel walls of the warehouse, noting the exposed pipes and industrial fixtures. The space is vast, the loud noises echoing off the sheeted walls and vibrating through my skull.
Eventually, we pop up at the other side of the room in front of a makeshift bartop, a rough slab of reclaimed wood and rugged steel just as sticky as the floor beneath my feet. Behind it, shelves are lined with various bottles of alcohol, with a neon sign statingThe Depothanging above.
