Page 10 of The Viper
At the Palmetto Rose, I checked in at a polished mahogany desk. The lobby smelled of magnolias and wax, with chandeliers casting soft light over velvet chairs. The clerk, a young woman with a practiced smile, handed me a keycard. “Room 312. Enjoy your stay.”
I nodded, already halfway to the elevator. The room was what I expected—clean, modern, with a view of downtown. Bed crisp, minibar stocked, bathroom gleaming.
I dropped my pack and headed straight for the shower. The hot water hit me like a benediction, washing away the grime of China, the blood under my nails, the weight of unanswered questions. I stood under the spray for a long time, letting it pound my shoulders, steam curling around me.
When I stepped out, towel around my waist, I realized I was wired. Jet lag had my body clock screwed up—still on China time, where it was tomorrow already. East Coast time demanded I adjust, but the thought of flipping on the TV made my skin crawl. I didn’t want news or reruns. I wanted air, noise, something to ground me.
I dressed quickly—jeans, a black t-shirt, a lightweight jacket to cover the pistol tucked into my waistband. Old habits.
In the lobby, I approached the desk. The same clerk, Sasha, looked up with that same smile. “Something I can help you with, Mr. Dane?”
“Looking for a bar,” I said. “Something local, not too touristy.”
Her eyes lit up, like she’d been waiting for the question. “You’ve got the look of someone who’d like Pelicangate.”
“Pelicangate?” I raised an eyebrow. “Like Watergate?”
She nodded, a playful glint in her eye. “It’s a play on words or something. Locals love it. Tacky but fun, with a bit of a D.C. vibe. Not far from here.”
“Sounds perfect.” I trusted her read—she’d pegged me right. “Can you call me a cab?”
“Of course.” She picked up the phone, and within minutes, a cab pulled up outside.
Pelicangate was exactly as advertised. The exterior was unassuming—brick, a neon sign flickering with a pelican holding a martini glass—but inside, it was a chaotic blend of Lowcountry charm and political kitsch. Faded newspaper clippings lined the walls, headlines screaming about scandals from decades past. Song lyrics were scrawled in marker above the bar—Springsteen, Dylan, some Johnny Cash for good measure. The decor leaned hard into tacky: a stuffed pelican perched on a shelf, wearing a tiny fedora. It was the kind of place where you could disappear into the crowd, and I liked that.
The hostess seated me at a small table off to the side, giving me a clear view of the room. The place was three-quarters full, a mix of locals and a few out-of-towners, the air thick with laughter and the twang of southern rock country spilling from the jukebox. I ordered a bourbon, neat, and settled in, my back to the wall, eyes scanning out of habit. The drink was smooth, oak and fire on my tongue. By the second one, I felt the edges of my tension soften, though my senses stayed sharp.
Thenshewalked in.
It was impossible to miss her, even though she was trying hard not to be seen. Blonde hair tucked under a baseball cap, no makeup, dressed in jeans and a loose sweater that didn’t hide the curves beneath.
Lexi Montgomery.
I’d seen her movies—hell, who hadn’t?—and even without the Hollywood polish, she was unmistakable. Her face had that rare quality, the kind that burned into your memory whether you wanted it to or not. My cock stirred, a reflex I neither welcomed nor fought.
She was an untouchable, part of that glittering Hollywood swirl where stars protected each other, dated each other, then tore each other apart in tabloids and podcasts. I wasn’t here to care. But I watched, anyway, because watching was what I did.
She slid into a booth near the bar, her movements careful, like she was measuring every step. The bartender, a wiry guy with a beard, grinned when he saw her, like they’d already met. She ordered something, her smile polite but guarded. The room didn’t notice her at first, too caught up in their own conversations. I sipped my bourbon, my eyes flicking between her and the crowd.
It took maybe ten minutes for the first local to spot her. A kid, college-aged, all bravado and beer breath, sauntered over. I couldn’t hear the exchange over the music, but her body language said it all—calm, deflecting, a pro at brushing off fans without bruising egos. When he walked back to his buddies, he was beaming, like he’d just won a prize. She had that effect, I guessed. Made people feel seen without giving anything away.
The bar filled up, the noise rising with it. Lexi seemed to relax, her shoulders loosening as she sipped her drink. The bartender kept an eye on her, and so did a few others nearby, drawn in by her quiet charisma. She was stunning, no question—those green eyes catching the light, her laugh soft but real when the bartender cracked a joke.
I felt a pull, not just attraction but something else, like I needed to keep tabs on her. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was the bourbon. Either way, I moved to a spot at the end of the bar, leaning casually, pretending to watch a football rerun on the TV above.
Then the tide shifted.
I felt it before I saw it—a disturbance in the crowd, like a shark cutting through minnows. A guy in a crisp khaki Navy uniform pushed through, aviator wings pinned to his chest, sunglasses tucked in his pocket. He had the look—cocky, all smiles and self-deprecation, the kind of charm that worked on everyone. He made a beeline for Lexi, sliding into the spot next to her like he owned it.
She straightened, her expression shifting to something respectful, almost curious. Not flirtatious, but intrigued. They fell into conversation, easy and familiar, like siblings swapping stories. The bar ate it up, the energy shifting as people leaned in, laughing at their banter. It was a show, and they were the stars.
But I saw what no one else did.
His hand moved fast—too fast for a civilian to catch. A flick of his wrist, something emptying into her drink while he distracted her with a grin and a wave of his other hand.
My blood went cold.
Time slowed, the way it did before a strike.
