Page 34 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

“They should be done soon. Come with me.” He pulls me to the side, into the darker part of the club where several VIP couches spread horizontally with small round tables full of drinks and food, and… are those condoms?

He doesn’t let me focus on it, though, still prowling through the space as the music becomes more muted with each step. Finally, we reach the steps that lead us upstairs, and then he locks us into a room similar to the one I was in with Isla earlier.

Only somehow this one seems more sensual, wicked, and darker than the previous one. The energy buzzing around me makes me restless, and I blink when he removes his jacket, throwing it on the couch before rolling up his sleeves.

I groan inwardly at how this only adds to his hotness. My skin prickles, my fingers itching to run over the partially visible tattoo and the sharp veins on his muscled arm.

Focus, Penelope, focus.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Because this is my VIP room.” He must read the confusion on my face, as he elaborates. “You got an invitation to Santiago’s room. How did that happen?” By how he words the question, I think he doesn’t like me using his friend’s name to get in.

“My father got it for me. He knows Rebecca.”

Amusement dances in his orbs at this, and he even barks a laugh, which makes me frown.

What’s so funny?

“Your father? How interesting,” he says and then goes to the small bar I didn’t notice earlier. “Would you like something to drink?”

I open my mouth to refuse but then think how this evening has failed spectacularly and this stranger brought me here for God knows what.

Or maybe he wants to gently let me know that what happened earlier was just a ploy to keep me occupied? Let me down easy?

A little alcohol won’t hurt to face the harsh reality. “Red wine please.”

He picks up a glass and pours the drink into it, walks to me, and then gives it to me. “Thank you.” I take a sip, welcoming the bittersweet taste on my tongue, while he pours himself whiskey and drops a few ice cubes in his glass. “You still haven’t really answered my earlier question.” I sit down on the couch and adjust my dress, glancing at the club. I realize the view is different here. I see the earlier place we passed, and I have a bird’s eye view of the show happening downstairs.

My jaw hits the floor when the man laces his hands in the woman’s hair, pulling her closer to his dick. I shake my head, hoping to wipe that image from my brain.

Remi drops on the opposite couch. “Well, since you have to wait for your friend, I figured you could do it here.” He takes a large sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “How do you know Isla?”

“She’s a private investigator and has some information I need.” This is as far as I go with sharing. Remi might be nice to let me stay here, but I don’t want to go into detail about my twin.

For the last eight years, I would talk about her to anyone who would listen, and I just want one conversation to be about me and my feelings and not her.

Even if guilt sparks inside me at the thought.

“Since when do you all need a private investigator?” Another laugh, which once again clouds my mind as I muse on his odd statements.

Maybe he has me confused with someone?

“Since we lost things and people we need to find,” I reply, then clear my throat. “My name is Penelope.”

His glass pauses midway to his mouth, surprise flashing on his face, and his brow lifts. “Penelope.”

I nod. “Yes.”

He stares at me for several seconds, and I wish I knew what he’s thinking about in there since his brown eyes glint with a dangerous light, and it creates a fire in the pit of my stomach. I hear him murmur, “Is this how you want to play it tonight?” However, it’s barely audible, so maybe this is all in my head as he speaks up again, his voice carrying through the space. “Very well then. For tonight, I’m Odysseus.”

Disappointment fills my every cell, and I drink some more of my wine, hating how this stranger used the teasing tactic from my classmates. “Please, think of something original,” I mutter, pressing the glass to my cheek. “That joke has been used on me time and time again, and for your information, it’s not funny or nice.”

I should have known he wouldn’t be able to resist.

My name is a curse sometimes, especially among artists who love to depict Greek myths and poems in their art and, as such, find deeper meaning in everything.

“You don’t believe me?”

---