Page 95 of Darcy
“Andraste,” Dodger replies.
What kind of place requires a password?
“Welcome, sir.” The intercom buzzes, and the door swings wide to reveal… darkness.
“Where are we?” I ask, confused.
“The Chantry,” Arlo whispers against my ear. “It’s my favourite secret place in the city. We helped Devon—one of Prophet’s friends—open it last year.”
The door swings shut behind us, and a mechanical click announces that we’re locked in seconds before a new door opens to our left. A black uniformed server, bathed in a soft glow of candlelight, bows deeply as we catch sight of him. He’s wearing a white mask that covers his entire face.
“Ms. Brown extends her apologies; she’s out overseeing the expansion project in Denver. But your regular booth is ready for you, and she hopes you enjoy your visit.”
Dodger nods, and that’s apparently enough for the server. He turns and leads us down a flight of stairs and into a bar.
The decor is a strange fusion of industrial and gothic. The plain brick walls are broken up by pointed archways and lit by purple velvet-hung candelabras. There are no windows, and the lighting is low and warm, making the space seem cosy and intimate.
Our position beside the bar gives us a good view of the dining area beyond. There are several rows of velvet booths in the centre, occupied by beautiful people whose conversation rises above the orchestral rock music playing over hidden speakers. Around the edges of the restaurant are smaller, circular dining rooms, shrouded in the privacy of black lace curtains that half-hide their occupants from the rest of the world.
Though this place is undoubtedly posh, I’m not sure what to make of the atmosphere. Is it creepy? Is it cool? Is it both? I can’t decide as our server leads us past the booths towards the far end of the room.
We finally stop at one of a line of private rooms along the back wall. Slate takes a spot on my left and Arlo on my right with Dodger slipping in on the guitarist’s other side. Our server politely waits for us to slide into our seats before handing us our menus and disappearing with a soft bow.
From my position, I have a good view of the rest of the restaurant.
“I thought I’d seen everything,” I murmur under my breath. “You have a regular table here? At a secret restaurant with a password?”
Dodger chuckles. “Surprised?”
I duck my head, fixing my gaze on the menu. It’s one of those fancy ones where all the options are written in French and come with suggested wine pairings.
Good thing I speak multiple languages.
Slate’s fingers capture my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Cariño, we can leave if you don’t like it. I promise you, though, the food is amazing.”
I nod, because I trust them. “So… you bring all your dates here?”
Dodger chuckles. “No. In all honesty, we come here because the chef is Devon’s wife, and she does the best chilli in the city. Plus, having a room like this means we’re less likely to be interrupted by people wanting an autograph.”
“That was Devon’s idea,” Slate finishes. “She’s really into what she calls the industrial voodoo vibe.”
“It’s unique,” I admit. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Arlo’s hand finds my thigh and squeezes. “What do you want to eat?”
He doesn’t move his hand as we place our order, and once the server is gone, Dodger pulls our curtain closed, leaving us ensconced in our own tiny bubble of privacy.
As soon as the fabric is in place, Arlo’s fingers slip higher up my skirt. All of his focus is concentrated on my lap at the point where my thighs meet, blocking further access.
“Let me in,” he murmurs.
“We’re in public,” I hiss.
Only a piece of flimsy lace hides my shocked face from the rest of the restaurant, and the servers could return with our food at any time.
“I don’t care,” he says, eyes molten as he watches me. “Now shimmy that skirt up and part these pretty thighs. I think it’s time we got Dodger back for how he teased me on the plane, don’t you?”
I glance around, trying to judge how much would be visible through the curtain, but Arlo’s fingers grip my chin, turning my head towards him.
