Page 21 of Payback
I look over my shoulder at my best friend. “We’re going to that club tonight to find out her status.”
Mac smiles broadly and places his hand on my shoulder. “I’m here for you, lad.”
Café de Paris is a cabaret nightclub, typically loaded with drag queens and performers. Tonight is no different. It feels a lot like walking into a circus when you’re tripping on acid. Sequin costumes, makeup, colourful lights, and big personalities explode in every nook and cranny. Honestly, it’s not a great deal different than what I grew up around at the dance studio where my mom, Diana, works. And since my mother’s best friend happens to be a drag queen, the scenery actually makes me a little homesick.
I haven’t been back home since my transfer and I know my mom misses me. But if I’m being honest, going home costs money, and I would rather send that money home to her to use on bills than pay to fly home for the holidays.
Mac and I follow the doorman through the packed club, and he guides us toward the split grand staircase that leads up to the VIP section. The elevated area is full of low-hanging crystal chandeliers and forms a circle around the dance floor. This section is loaded with London socialites and athletes from multiple teams. I’m not big on the social scene in London, though. I mostly stick to East London and small pubs where I can drink in peace and not find a photo of myself slapped up on some paparazzi site the next day.
We fetch a drink at the bar and find a spot along the rail that overlooks the dance floor. The place is packed shoulder to shoulder with people grinding against each other to house music as my eyes drift through the VIP section, hoping to find the Harris clan. They are typically easy to spot because they are the loudest crew in the room.
“Maybe we’re too early,” Mac says loudly into my ear to be heard over the music.
I nod slowly but then an unknown sensation pulls my gaze down to the dance floor near the front stage. A golden mane of soft curls sway along the bare back of a woman wearing a little black dress. She’s dancing to the music, and I silently will her to turn around to face me so I can confirm what I suspect is true.
Suddenly, my fellow striker and teammate, Tanner, appears in all his man-bunned glory beside her. He grabs the blonde’s hand, twirls her in an awkward motion, and completely blocks my view. Beside Tanner is Booker and his wife, Poppy, whom I’ve met a couple of times. She’s dancing beside Tanner’s wife, Belle, and our team medical trainer, Indie, who’s married to Tanner’s twin, Camden. Camden appears from the shadows and slinks his arms around his wife, his hands playfully stroking her stomach. She laughs and swats him away. Then I catch a glimpse of the oldest Harris Brother, Gareth, who is very recently retired and dancing nearby with his wife, Sloan.
I can’t help but shake my head at the lot of them. This is how the Harris family rolls. Where one goes, they all go. Even with their busy schedules for their respective teams, they all manage to find time together.
A yellow burst of light illuminates the dance floor just as the blonde turns toward my direction and gives me a full view of her face. The first word that pops into my head when my eyes land on her ismooi.
How the fuck did Allie Harris manage to get even more beautiful than I remember? I suppose that dark, creepy photo I took of her when she was asleep wasn’t necessarily a good representation of her. Especially as I see her now, swaying to the music and swivelling her curvier-than-I-remember hips.
She turns and I get a nice, clear sight of her voluptuous ass bouncing to the beat. Fucking hell, I don’t remember her ass looking that lush either. Don’t get me wrong, she was stunning when I met her. But I think she was thinner and a bit more on edge back then. Now she looks a hell of a lot more comfortable in her own skin.
She laughs at Tanner, who’s dancing like he has a bee in his trousers, and I can already tell she’s lost some of that intensity she had the night I met her.It’s a beautiful sight.
What I’m seeing makes me realise with one hundred percent certainty that I am not done with Allie Harris. I really hope she doesn’t have a fucking boyfriend.
Allie taps her cousin on the shoulder and gestures toward the direction of the hallway that leads to the bathrooms. She waves off the girls, whom I assume offered to go with her, and I watch her make her way away from the Harris clan. Without a word, I set my drink down and pat Mac on the shoulder as he continues ignoring me for the brunette who strolled up to him while I was distracted. I move past all the other VIPs to head downstairs toward the bathrooms because this is probably my only damn chance to get her alone tonight.
It’s a long, dark hallway, illuminated by dim red sconces on the walls. The break in the thundering club music is appreciated as I prop myself against the wall outside of the ladies bathroom like a fucking stalker. Fuck it, I don’t care. It’s been two years since I’ve seen this woman, and I’m not going to miss the opportunity to talk to her.
When she strides out, she’s busy tapping away at her phone and almost walks right by me. My words stop her in her tracks. “The infamous Allie Harris returns to London.”
She stumbles at the sound of my voice, causing her phone to fall from her hands. I quickly squat down at the same time she does, and her hand lands over top of mine as I pick up her device. Our eyes lift and find each other with only a foot of space between us in the shadowy space.
Her gaze darts to my lips, and I inhale deeply because she still smells the same. Sweet and fruity with a hint of laundry detergent. Her electric blue eyes are blinking rapidly as a nervous flush crawls over her skin.
“Ro—Roan DeWalt,” she stammers, her voice tight in her throat.
A knowing grin spreads across my face. “Hi there, Lis.”
Her tongue slips out to lick her red-stained lips as she stares at my mouth. “You’re…here.”
“You’rehere,” I repeat because I’ve been here since the day she ditched me in the hotel room.
She swallows slowly and I feel her grip tighten over top of my hand on her phone. “I, um, just moved back.”
“So I hear.”
“It’s new,” she adds by way of explanation.
My brows lift. “I like new things.”
A moment of silence casts over us as her gaze drops down to her hand on top of mine. “Can I have my phone back?”
I turn my palm up to offer it to her. She grabs it, quickly clicking the screen off like she doesn’t want me to see what she was looking at. Was she texting a boyfriend?
