Chapter 4: Velvet Rope Roulette
The Uber slid away, leaving them stranded on the curb in a pool of crimson light. The bass from inside BLOOD wasn’t just heard; it was felt, a deep, mechanical throb in the teeth and the soles of Sammy’s boots.
“Holy shit,” Shantel breathed, her eyes wide as she took in the line, the fashion, the sheer sonic pressure of the place. “This is our vibe.”
“Our very expensive, exclusive vibe,” Cora corrected, smoothing her dress. “Lindi, did you actually get us on the list?”
“Do I look like an amateur?” Lindi scoffed, leading the charge past the velvet rope where a mountain of a bouncer with gauged ears and knuckle tattoos scanned a tablet. He looked up, his eyes passing over them with practiced indifference until they landed on Lindi. A flicker of recognition. He nodded and unhooked the rope.
Inside, the world dissolved into a heartbeat.
Strobe lights cut through a fog so thick it felt solid, illuminating fragments of reality: a flash of a silver mask, the curve of a spine against black latex, teeth bared in a laugh swallowed by noise. The air was hot, thick with sweat, fog juice, and the cloying sweetness of spilled gin.
Sammy felt it instantly—the overwhelming crush of bodies, the loss of personal space, the surrender of thought to pure sensation. It was exactly what she’d needed. To be erased here, in the middle of all this chaos, was the point.
Lindi grabbed her wrist, her grip tight. “Drinks first!” she shouted over the din, dragging them toward a bar glowing with backlit bottles of obscure liquors. The crowd parted for Lindi’s unapologetic energy, a neon-pink shark in a sea of black.
Shantel was already making eye contact with a group of guys by the bar, her smile a lethal weapon. Cora stayed close to Sammy, a grounded presence in the maelstrom.
The first shot of whiskey was fire. The second was a warm blanket. By the third, paid for by a smiling guy in a silk shirt who Shantel had already charmed, Sammy felt the sharp edges of the night—the unknown number, Rebel’s imagined face, the weight of Lindi’s challenge—begin to blur pleasantly.
Then the music changed. The industrial pulse melted into a darker, deeper synth, a rhythm that moved through the blood instead of the brain. The dance floor became a single, undulating organism.
“Dance!” Lindi commanded, and they were swallowed.
Sammy let go. The alcohol and the noise and the press of strangers created a merciful vacuum. She closed her eyes, her body moving on instinct, her head tipping back. For a few minutes, there was only the heat, the rhythm, the escape.
When she opened her eyes, a man was watching her.
He was tall, all sharp angles in a tailored black suit, no tie. Dark hair, clean jaw. His gaze was direct, appreciative, uncomplicated. He smiled. It was easy. Shantel, dancing nearby, caught the look and gave Sammy an exaggerated, encouraging nod.
The song swelled. He moved closer. His hand found the space between her shoulder blades, a question. She met his eyes and gave a slight, alcohol-nudged tilt of her head. Yes.
They danced. He was a good dancer, not too close, not too eager. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “I’m Alex.”
“Sammy.”
His cologne was crisp, expensive, nothing like the leather and spice scent that usually haunted her. The difference was a relief. This was a reset. A new variable. She focused on the clean line of his jaw, the feel of his suit jacket under her fingers.
Lindi appeared beside them, thrusting two fresh shots into their hands. “To new friends!” she yelled, her eyes locking with Sammy’s, blazing with intent. This is it. Do it.
They drank. The liquor burned away the last of her hesitation.
When Alex’s mouth met hers, it was warm and tasted of citrus and gin. He kissed with confidence, one hand firm on her lower back. She kissed him back, trying to pour herself into the moment, into the physical reality of a stranger’s lips, a stranger’s hands.
But her mind flickered.
The first image was sudden, vivid: Rebel’s hands. Not these smooth, manicured fingers on her back, but Rebel’s. The knuckles decorated with her own ink, the faint smudges of gun grease that never quite washed out from the lines. The way his thumb would sometimes absently trace the pattern on his own forearm while he was thinking.
She pushed the thought down, deepening the kiss with Alex, trying to anchor herself in the now. His tongue touched hers. The music pounded.
Another flash. The first time Rebel had asked her to tattoo him. She was nineteen, shaking so badly she’d dropped a needle tube. He was sitting shirtless in her beginner’s station at the shop, the low hum of other artists buzzing around them. His skin was warm under the bright lamp. “Just breathe, Sam,” he’d said, his voice low. “It’s just skin.” He’d watched her face, not the needle, the entire time. His complete, unnerving stillness. The trust felt like a weight.
Alex’s hand slid up her spine, over the lace of her top. A pleasant shiver, but it felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. The smell of his cologne was suddenly overpowering, artificial. Her stomach tightened.
She broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch, her forehead still against his. “I need air,” she said, the words garbled against his lips.
He looked confused, a little buzzed himself. “Sure. You okay?”
She nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just… hot. Bathroom.”
She extracted herself from his arms, the cool air of the space between bodies feeling like a reproach. Lindi caught her eye from across the floor, a question mark on her face. Sammy waved her off, pushing through the crowd toward a dimly lit corridor marked with a sign for restrooms.
Leaning against the cool, graffiti-scratched wall outside the bathrooms, she gulped in air that smelled of stale beer and industrial cleaner. Her lips felt swollen. Her stomach churned. It’s just a kiss. It’s just a reset.
But it felt like a betrayal. Not of Rebel, but of herself. The fantasy of making him jealous, of cracking his control, felt cheap and hollow now. All she’d done was trap herself in a stranger’s arms while her mind stayed somewhere else, in a tattoo shop from six years ago.
Her clutch vibrated.
She didn’t want to look. She knew.
With a sinking feeling, she pulled out her phone. The screen glared in the dark hallway.
Unknown Number: You looked bored.
Her blood went cold. She spun around, her eyes scanning the throbbing crowd visible through the archway, the shadows of the hall, the faces passing by. No one looked at her. Everyone was lost in their own night.
The pounding bass felt like it was inside her skull now, a relentless pulse synchronizing with her panic. She stared at the message. You looked bored.
The casual cruelty of it, the intimacy of the observation, sliced through her alcohol haze. It had to be Caleb. It was exactly his brand of annoying, older-brother surveillance. A hot wave of anger replaced the cold dread.
Her thumbs stabbed at the screen, the bright light harsh in the dark hallway.
She typed, her breath coming short.
Sammy: Are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be at the studio, recording amateur musicians?
She hit send. The message disappeared into the void. She leaned back against the wall, her chest tight. The graffiti-scratched concrete dug into her shoulder blades through the lace.
A group of laughing women pushed past her into the bathroom, their perfume a sweet cloud in the stale air. One of them glanced at Sammy’s pale, strained face and quickly looked away. The door swung shut, muffling the music to a dull throb.
Her phone remained dark. No reply. No acknowledging dots.
“There you are!” Lindi’s voice cut through the din. She appeared at the end of the hall, a neon silhouette against the strobe-lit chaos. “We lost you. Where’d Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome go?”
Sammy pushed off the wall, shoving her phone back into her clutch. “Bathroom,” she said, her voice harder than she intended. “Needed a minute.”
Lindi’s smile faltered as she got closer. She took in Sammy’s expression, the tight line of her mouth. “Whoa. What happened? Was he a bad kisser? Did he use tongue like a frightened hamster?”
“It’s not him.” Sammy rubbed her temples. “It’s Caleb. He’s texting me. Again. Watching me, I think.”
“What?” Lindi’s playful demeanor evaporated. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “What do you mean, watching?”
“He just texted. Said I looked bored.” Sammy let out a shaky laugh. “He’s probably lurking in a corner somewhere judging my life choices. Again.”
Lindi’s eyes narrowed, scanning the crowded hallway. “That’s not just annoying, Sam. That’s creepy. Even for him.” She put a hand on Sammy’s arm. “Do you want to go? We can bounce. Shots at my place, no creepy brothers allowed.”
The offer was tempting. Escape. But leaving felt like letting him win, letting his invisible presence dictate her night. “No,” Sammy said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m not letting him ruin this. He wants a show? Fine.”
She brushed past Lindi, heading back toward the thunder of the main room. Her steps were deliberate. The fuzzy warmth of the alcohol had crystallized into a sharp, glittering resolve.
Shantel and Cora were by the bar, holding fresh drinks. Shantel’s eyes lit up. “Hey! Your guy went looking for you. He seemed worried you’d ditched.”
“I did,” Sammy said flatly, grabbing a discarded half-full glass of something clear and fizzy from the bar and downing it. The burn was bracing. “I’m done with that.”
Cora studied her face. “You okay? You look… fierce.”
“I’m great,” Sammy said, turning to face the dance floor. The mass of bodies was no longer an escape; it was an arena. Her phone, silent and heavy in her clutch, felt like a live wire against her ribs. “Let’s dance.”
She plunged back into the crowd, letting the rhythm claim her again. This time her movements weren’t about surrender. They were a challenge. She closed her eyes, throwing her head back, her body arcing into the beat with a deliberate, unapologetic intensity.
She was done hiding. Done being watched. If Caleb was here, let him see this. Let him see her not bored, but alive, a storm of black lace and defiance in the strobe light. She imagined her anger as a visible force, radiating out from her in the dark.
Lindi danced beside her, a mirror of her energy, a loyal lieutenant. Shantel whooped, spinning into their orbit. Cora stayed closer to the edge, her watchful eyes still scanning the room’s shadowy perimeter.
The song built to a screaming electronic crescendo, the bass dropping so deep the floor vibrated. In that moment of pure, physical release, Sammy’s clutch buzzed once.
A single, violent pulse against her side.
Her eyes snapped open. The dance continued around her, a whirl of blissful ignorance. She didn’t reach for the phone. She kept dancing, a sharp, beautiful smile cutting across her face, directed at no one and everyone.
She wouldn’t look. Not here. Not now. The message could wait in the dark.
The music was a thick, swallowing thing. Sammy gave herself to it, her body moving with a deliberate, angry grace. Each pulse of the synth was a hammer strike against the image of Rebel’s calm, watching face, each crash of cymbals a denial of the phone’s silent weight against her ribs.
She spotted Alex by the bar, his expression tinged with confused disappointment. Good, she thought, a sharp twist in her chest. Let him be disappointed.
Then a new presence entered her space. Not Alex. This one was broader, with sleeves of intricate ink snaking down muscular arms. His smile was easy, his eyes holding a simpler, more immediate hunger. He moved with the rhythm,
His smile was easy, his eyes holding a simpler, more immediate hunger. He moved with the rhythm, not against it, a natural extension of the bass shaking the floor. “You looked like you needed a better partner,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise without shouting.
Sammy let her gaze travel over the detailed ink on his forearms—a koi fish, some script, quality work. It was grounding in a way Alex’s clean suit hadn’t been. This was a language she understood. “You offering?” she asked, the defiance from moments ago still sharpening her words.
He didn’t answer with words. He simply moved closer, his body finding the space around hers without touching, a suggestion of connection. His energy was different; it demanded nothing, just pulsed with the same raw beat of the music. Lindi caught her eye from across the floor and gave an exaggerated, enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Sammy took a breath and committed.
She danced with him.
It started as a challenge, a physical rebellion against the night’s creeping unease. She mirrored his moves, then amplified them, her body becoming a series of sharp angles and released tension. The sweat on her neck cooled in the strobe-lit air. His hands stayed at a respectful distance, guiding without grasping, his attention complete.
For a few minutes, it worked. The world narrowed to the heat between them, the thunder of the song, the solid reality of his shoulder under her palm. He was good. He was present. He was a beautiful distraction with tattooed sleeves who smelled like bergamot and sweat.
Then her mind, traitorous and wired, began to compare.
The way this man held himself was loose, practiced for the club. Rebel’s stillness was different, a coiled potential even when he was relaxed, like a bowstring at rest. This man’s smile was an open invitation. Rebel’s rare smiles were slow, private things, often just a slight softening at the corner of his mouth reserved for when he thought no one was looking.
She hated herself for the comparison but couldn’t stop it. The stranger’s hand settled on her hip, a warm, firm weight. It was nice. Pleasant. It should have been enough.
Her skin crawled.
It was a visceral, unwelcome reaction. Her stomach, already unsettled from the whiskey and the earlier kiss, clenched hard. The pleasant warmth of his touch turned claustrophobic. The bergamot scent grew suffocating.
She pulled back, the motion abrupt. “I need some water,” she said, the words barely audible over the music.
He looked surprised, his smile fading into concern. “You alright?” His hand fell away.
He took a half-step back, his brow furrowed. The noise of the club rushed back in, a wave of meaningless sound.
Sammy’s breath hitched. That cold, panicked tightness from the hallway was coiling again in her gut.She ignored the churning in her stomach, the instinct to bolt for the door.
Forcing a smirk, she closed the distance she’d just created. “I’m better than alright,” she said, her voice dropping to something lower, deliberate. She placed her hands on his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath the damp fabric of his shirt. “But I’m thirsty.”
His confusion melted into a slow, understanding grin. “What’s your poison?”
She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pressed her body flush against his, eliminating the space, the air, any room for thought. The music swallowed them. She rolled her hips against his, a slow, deliberate grind that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with defiance.
She saw the shift in his eyes, the pleasant surprise hardening into a more focused heat. His hands came back to her hips, anchoring her. She tilted her face up, her dark lipstick a stark promise in the strobe light. He didn’t hesitate this time.
His mouth crashed down on hers. The kiss wasn’t like the one with Alex; it was hungry, a little messy, fueled by bass and mutual permission. The taste of his beer, the faint chemical tang of the fog machine, filled her senses. She kissed him back with equal force, a performance for an audience of one she couldn’t see.
Her mind tried to wander, to Rebel’s careful stillness, to the sterile scent of tattoo antiseptic. She clamped down on the thoughts. She bit the stranger’s lower lip, just hard enough. He groaned into her mouth, his fingers digging into the lace at her sides.
When she finally pulled back for air, her lips were numb. The room tilted slightly. She kept her gaze locked on his, her hazel eyes bright and empty. “Now,” she said, her voice raspy from the shouting and the kiss. “Buy me a drink. Something strong.”
She watched him shoulder his way toward the glowing bar, the crowd parting for his broad frame. The momentary space around her felt like a vacuum. Her clutch was a lead weight against her ribs.
Sammy pulled out her phone. The screen was a harsh square of light in the chaotic dark. A new notification glowed: one message from Unknown.
Her thumb hovered. The bass pounded through her boots. She tapped it open.
Unknown: Does he taste like cheap bear and regret? You deserve so much more.
Ice water dumped into her veins. Her eyes snapped up from the screen, scanning the throbbing mass of bodies. Black lights flashed, turning teeth neon, bleaching color from fabric. A hundred faces swam in the strobe, none looking back at her. Which shadow was watching?
Her breath stuck in her throat. It wasn’t Caleb. Caleb’s brand of annoyance was blunt, obvious. This was surgical. This was intimate.
A sharp laugh burst from her lips, soundless in the noise. It was hysterical, edged with panic. Deserve more? The arrogance of it vibrated in her skull. She thumbed a furious reply, her nails clicking against the glass.
Sammy: Who is this? Stop hiding.
She hit send and instantly felt stupid. Pleading. She jammed the phone back into her clutch, the clasp snapping shut like a gunshot in her mind. When she looked up, the world had shifted into a sharper, more dangerous focus.
Lindi was against a support column maybe fifteen feet away, tangled with a guy in a sleeveless hoodie. Her hands were in his hair, his grip tight on the back of her neon harness. They weren’t just kissing; it was a full-scale public consumption, a battle of tongues and teeth.
Near the edge of the dance floor, Shantel leaned against a tall table, watching Sammy with a knowing, feline smile. She held a drink loosely, her head tilted as if observing the most fascinating exhibit in the club. She raised her glass in a slow, deliberate toast.
Cora was at the bar three people down from Sammy’s guy. She had secured four shots of something clear and lethal-looking. She held them clustered between her fingers, her serious eyes catching Sammy’s. She nodded once, a solid, grounding gesture in the madness.
The tattooed stranger returned, two dark drinks clutched in his hands. “Double gin, tonic,” he said, handing one to her. The condensation wet her palm. “Figured you meant business.”
Sammy took the glass. The cold was a shock. “You figured right.” She didn’t smile. Her mind was a scrambled loop of the message. Does he taste like cheap beer and regret? He did.
Had they seen the kiss? The first one with Alex, or this last, more violent one? Was it the same person? Her skin felt two sizes too small, itchy and exposed under the lights. Every anonymous gaze felt like a physical touch.
“You okay?” the guy asked. His brow was furrowed. “You look… intense.”
“I’m perfect,” Sammy said, and forced a long swallow of the gin. It was bitter, sharp, bracing. It burned away the ghost taste of the stranger on her lips. It did nothing for the fear in her stomach.
Cora arrived with the shots, distributing them with the efficiency of a field nurse. Shantel slid over, taking one. Lindi detached herself from her column with a final, biting kiss and joined the circle, her lipstick smeared.