Page 56 of Stolen Voices
He winces. “Ms. Wright is no longer in the private room. She’s on the main dance floor, and she’s… Umm. She’s—”
“She’s what?” I growl through my teeth.
“Why don’t you go see for yourself, sir.” He gestures for me to walk down the blue lit corridor I assume leads to the dance floor.
I don’t bother uttering another word as I leave the bouncer behind and stomp toward the music and flashing lights. I pass a line of drunk women giggling as they wait to use the bathroom, a couple going at it in an alcove, and a group of the least stealthiest bros I’ve ever seen doing blow.
Callie shouldn’t be in a place like this. What the fuck is she thinking coming here?
As I approach the dance floor, I find a sea of writhing bodies moving to the music. My eyes scan the neon illuminated room, searching for their target.
The club is huge. Three levels, enclosed in glass, rise around the main dance floor, which is flanked by two bars crowded with people. Above me is yet another raised platform made of plexiglass, where I can see way too much of some ladies dancing above, while men below me stare up and film from below.
Please, fuck. Save me from having to kill her and any man under here staring up at her.
My head swivels, searching for the woman that equally drives me insane and makes me harder than stone. Lavender sparkles catch my eye by the bar, and I let out a gush of air I didn’t know I was holding. My hand itches to spank her when I find her sitting on the bar, with her legs crossed and a bottle of clear alcohol in her hand.
She looks sexy as fuck, with the skirt of her dress riding high up her silky thighs and the very tops of her breasts peeking over, giving every man around her the barest hint of cleavage. Her eye makeup is dark and smokey-looking, making her eyes look dangerous. They should be a warning to proceed with caution, but the invisible string tying her to me doesn’t give a fuck and tugs me closer to the person who quite possibly holds my heart. And the key to my demise.
The crowd cheers as Callie pours the liquid into the mouth of a random guy with his head tilted back. The guy sputters, liquid dribbling from his mouth, grinning like he won a million-dollar prize. As he steps back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Callie raises the bottle overhead and shouts. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but the crowd loves it. They hoot and holler as the next dude—in line with a death wish—approaches and opens his mouth as he places his hand on her bare knee.
She pours a shot into his mouth, and my vision blurs, red tinting the edges at the sight of him touching her. I can barely contain my shit as I march towards her.
She’s being reckless. None of these guys give a damn about her. They’d do anything to take advantage of her—spike her drink, force her into a dark corner. Who the fuck knows?
A hand lands across my chest. Boone is looking down at me. He’s a tall fucker at 6’6” and looks like Winston Duke. “Chill, E. You don’t want to cause a scene.”
“I don’t know if I can be chill,” I admit.
Boone smirks, shaking his head. “Me neither, man.” He glances over at Callie and back at me. “She’s something else. You’re one lucky fucker.”
I want to tell him it’s not like that, but I don’t even believe it myself anymore. I have “jealous boyfriend” written all over my face.
“More like I’m super fucked,” I mumble.
Boone laughs at my pathetic predicament. He’s lucky I like him. We met a few years ago—before I opened Blaze—when he was working security at a different club. I paid him to call me if one of my child-actor clients showed up causing trouble, and for six months, he was my tip line until my client finally went to rehab.
When I learned Boone was into stunt training, I made a call to a stunt recruiter and referred Boone. Since he’s a great guy and super talented, he was immediately cast to work on a superhero movie.
“Feeling better?” Boone asks.
“No, but I can fake it.” I tug at the collar of my shirt as I watch her from afar.
“Alright, let’s do this.”
Boone pushes through the crowd, leading the way.
Callie hollers, “Who’s next?”
Nope. Not having anymore of that.
I step in front of the next dick-waffle in a deep-V T-shirt and jeans, already opening his mouth, and push him back. “Alright, boys, you’ve had your fun. Now, take a hike.”
“Come on, man. It’s my turn,” Deep V groans.
“I don’t give a fuck. Take. A. Hike.”
Deep V steps up to me like he’s ready to fight.
