Chapter 7: Closet
Mya’s eyes, wide and frantic, locked onto Craig’s. The approaching footsteps were a ticking clock. All the sharp, wine-fueled bravado evaporated, leaving raw, animal panic.
She turned to Craig, her voice a desperate whisper that cut through the hum of the club. “Please tell me you have a closet I can hide in. I’ve had enough of him for tonight. Just tell him you sent me to a hotel for the night, and then you say I broke up with him and that I was told to report to you if I see him and send you his location.”
Craig didn’t hesitate. He was already moving, a study in efficient motion. With one hand, he scooped up the nearly empty wine bottle and her glass, shoving them onto a lower shelf of the bar cart behind him. With the other, he grasped Mya’s wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, and pulled her to her feet.
“Back hall,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was warm, a stark contrast to the ice in her veins.
He led her not to the main staircase Derek was ascending, but to a narrow, almost invisible gap in the paneled wall beside the bar. A discreet latch, camouflaged in the mahogany grain, gave under his touch. The panel swung inward silently, revealing a darkened service corridor smelling of disinfectant and stale mop water.
“Third door on the left. It’s a linen closet. Stay quiet.” He gave her a slight push, his dark eyes holding hers for a fractured second. “Trust me.”
Then the panel was closing, sealing her into the dim, utilitarian hallway as the main door to the VIP lounge groaned open. She heard Derek’s voice, strained and oily with false cheer.
“Mr. Moretti? I’ve, uh, I’ve got the title.”
Mya didn’t wait. She moved on the balls of her feet, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out. One. Two. Three. The third door was unmarked. The handle turned, stiff. She slipped inside, pulling it shut until the latch clicked with a soft, final sound.
Darkness. Complete and thick. The air was warm and smelled strongly of clean cotton and lavender-scented detergent. She shuffled forward, her hands out, until her fingers brushed against stacks of neatly folded tablecloths. She sank down onto the floor, her back against a shelving unit, and pulled her knees to her chest.
In the muffled world beyond the door, she could hear the low rumble of Craig’s voice, a calm, steady counterpoint to Derek’s higher, anxious tones. She couldn’t make out words, just the music of power and submission. She focused on her breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, trying to quiet the roar of her own blood in her ears.
Back in the lounge, Craig had resumed his seat, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. He looked utterly relaxed, a king on his throne. The empty space where Mya had been was just that—an empty space. He’d schooled his face into bland indifference.
Derek stood a few feet from the table, holding a folded paper like a sacrificial offering. He was sweating again, a fresh sheen on his forehead under the low lights. His eyes darted to the empty velvet seat, then to Craig’s face.
“Where’s Mya?” he asked, unable to keep the question in.
Craig took the title deed from Derek’s trembling fingers, unfolded it, and gave it a cursory glance. He didn’t answer immediately, letting the silence stretch until Derek shifted his weight.
“I sent her to a hotel for the night,” Craig said finally, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier suggestive warmth. He refolded the paper and set it aside. “She was upset. Crying. Not great for business.”
Derek’s face twitched. “Crying? Why? What did you say to her?”
“I didn’t say anything. She did.” Craig looked up, and his gaze was like a physical shove. “She broke up with you. Here. At my table. Said she’s done. Never wants to see you again.”
The color drained from Derek’s face, leaving a sickly, sallow hue. His mouth opened, then closed. “She… she can’t. She doesn’t mean that. She’s just scared. She doesn’t understand how things work.”
“She understood enough.” Craig leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. The movement was deliberately predatory. “She also understood my next instruction. Which is that if you go near her, if you call her, if you so much as drive past her apartment, she is to text me your location and an estimate of how much cash you’re carrying.”
He let that hang, watching Derek’s brain scramble to process the threat. “She seemed to think you’d find that… persuasive.”
“You can’t—that’s not—we have an agreement!” Derek sputtered, his voice cracking. The principled, controlled façade shattered, revealing the petulant child beneath. “The debt is settled with the truck!”
“The debt is settled,” Craig confirmed, his tone icy. “This is a new policy. Regarding Mya. Consider it a courtesy, since your name is now off my ledger. She doesn’t want you. You will disappear. If you don’t, I’ll know. And we will have a different conversation. One that doesn’t end with you walking out.”
The finality in the room was absolute. The muffled bass from the dance floor below seemed to pulse in time with the vein throbbing in Derek’s temple. He looked from Craig’s impassive face to the empty seat, his expression cycling through fury, betrayal, and a deep, primordial fear. He took a step back.
“This isn’t over,” he muttered, but it was a weak, hollow thing, devoid of conviction.
“It is,” Craig said softly. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “Marco will see you out.”
As if summoned, Marco appeared at the top of the staircase, a silent, broad-shouldered silhouette. He didn’t speak, just stared at Derek, waiting.
Derek looked one last time at the space where Mya had been, his jaw working, then turned and shuffled toward the stairs, preceding Marco’s steady descent. The lounge door swung shut behind them, cutting off the sound of the club.
Craig didn’t move for a full minute. He listened to the silence, to the absence of Derek. Then he stood, his body unfolding from the chair with a tense grace. He walked to the hidden panel, released the latch, and stepped into the service corridor.
The linen closet door opened, spilling light into the tiny space. Mya was a pale shape curled on the floor, her arms wrapped around her legs, her face lifted. Her eyes were huge in the dim light, searching his.
“Is he gone?” Her voice was small, scraped raw.
“Yeah, sweetheart. He’s gone.”
He extended a hand. She stared at it for a second, then placed her own in his. Her fingers were ice-cold. He pulled her gently to her feet. She wavered, unsteady, the adrenaline crash and the wine hitting her at once. Craig’s other hand came up to steady her elbow.
“You okay?”
Mya blinked up at him, her vision slightly swimming. The panic was receding, leaving a wobbly, weightless feeling in its wake. A giggle escaped her, thin and fractured.
She laughed, the sound echoing oddly in the narrow hallway. “Yeah. I’m just pretty drunk right now. And cold.” She hugged herself, rubbing her arms. “Aren’t clubs supposed to be like, really hot?”
The observation was so mundane, so utterly normal, it broke the last of the tension strung tight in Craig’s shoulders. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “The VIP’s always freezing. My father thinks it keeps people alert.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket in one smooth motion. “Here.”
Before she could protest, he draped the heavy, warm wool over her shoulders. It swallowed her, the sleeves hanging far past her fingertips. The residual heat from his body enveloped her, along with that clean, expensive scent—now mixed with the faint, comforting smell of the closet’s lavender detergent on her own clothes.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, burrowing into the fabric. She looked past him, toward the panel leading back to the lounge. “So. It’s done?”
“It’s done. He has the message.” Craig kept his hands in his pockets, watching her. “The truck title is on the table. He won’t be coming back here. The trick is making him believe he won’t be going to your place, either.”
“The baseball bat will help,” she said, her voice muffled by the jacket collar. She said it with the straightforward certainty of someone listing groceries. Milk, eggs, a blunt force weapon.
Craig just shook his head, that same awe from earlier flickering in his eyes. “Unbelievable. Come on. Let’s get you out of this hallway.”
He didn’t lead her back through the VIP lounge. Instead, he guided her farther down the service corridor, past shelves of liquor and industrial cleaners, to a heavy metal door with a push bar. It opened onto an alley, the sudden crash of city noise—honking, distant sirens, the dumpy scent of garbage and rain-damp asphalt—hitting them like a wall.
The cold night air was a shock, sharp and real. Mya stumbled a little on the uneven pavement. Craig’s hand was instantly at her elbow again, a steadying point of contact. His touch was warm even through his shirt sleeve.
“My car’s just around the front,” he said, nodding toward the mouth of the alley where sleek, dark shapes were valet-parked under a canopy of light. “I’ll drive you home. To your place. To change the locks.”
Mya paused, looking down at herself. She was wearing his suit jacket over her simple top and jeans, carrying nothing but her small purse. The reality of the plan, hatched in a wine haze, felt suddenly enormous. “Right now? It’s like… midnight. Where do you even get locks at midnight?”
“I know a guy,” Craig said simply, as if this answered everything. He probably did.
She let him guide her toward the lights and the low purr of engines. A sleek, black sedan idled at the curb, a valet standing attentively beside it. As they approached, the valet nodded at Craig and moved away.
Craig opened the passenger door for her. The interior smelled of leather and that same, subtle clean scent that clung to him. She slid in, the jacket pooling around her. He closed the door with a solid, quiet thud.
Walking around the front of the car, he exchanged a few low words with Marco, who had materialized from the club’s front entrance. Marco glanced at the car, a quick, knowing look through the windshield, and gave Craig a smirk and a slow nod. Craig flipped him off without heat and got in the driver’s side.
The engine was barely a whisper. He pulled into the late-night traffic, the city lights streaking across the dark windows. Mya stared out, watching her neighborhood approach, the familiar blocks looking foreign under the sodium glare.
Mya stared out, watching her neighborhood approach, the familiar blocks looking foreign under the sodium glare. The quiet hum of the car’s engine was a lullaby after the club’s pounding bass. The weight of Craig’s jacket and the deep warmth of the leather seat were a seductive combination.
Her head lolled slightly against the headrest. “Your guy with the locks,” she mumbled, her words slurring just at the edges. “Does he do windows, too? Mine sticks when it rains.”
Craig glanced over. In the dashboard’s soft green light, he could see her eyelids fluttering. “He can do whatever you need, sweetheart.”
She let out a yawn 2 minutes into the drive and by 5 she was asleep.
It wasn’t a gentle drift. It was a sudden, total surrender. One second she was a tense, quiet shape beside him, and the next her breathing had deepened into a slow, steady rhythm. Her head tilted fully toward the window, her cheek smushing against the cool glass. One hand, still lost in the sleeve of his jacket, lay open in her lap.
Craig drove another block in utter silence. He turned the stereo completely off, a reflexive action that felt strangely intimate. He glanced at her again, and then again, his focus dividing between the empty street and her sleeping form.
He’d never done this. Driven a woman home while she slept. The women he was with were always on, performing even in the quiet moments, or they were already at his place, their presence transactional and temporary. This was different. This felt like a responsibility. A fragile, borrowed thing he was terrified of breaking.
He made the final turn onto her street, a row of modest brick duplexes with tiny, neat lawns. He knew the address from Marco’s initial background check, but seeing it felt invasive now. He slowed, idling in front of number 308. A single porch light glowed, illuminating a faded welcome mat.
For a long minute, he just sat there, the car running. He should wake her. That was the sane thing. Instead, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick, silent text.
At the address. Bring the kit. Quiet.
He put the phone away and looked back at Mya. A curl of blonde hair had fallen across her mouth, fluttering with each exhale. Carefully, so carefully, he reached over and brushed it back behind her ear. His fingertips grazed the skin of her temple. She didn’t stir.
His chest tightened with a feeling he couldn’t name. It was vast and frightening. It wasn’t lust. It was the urge to make sure nothing ever woke her from a sleep this peaceful again.
A pair of headlights appeared in his rearview mirror, a van pulling up silently behind him. The locksmith. Craig got out, shutting his door with a soft click, and walked back to meet the man, a stocky guy with a toolbox. They spoke in hushed tones for a moment, Craig gesturing at the door, before the man nodded and got to work.
Craig returned to the driver’s side, opened the door, and leaned in. “Mya,” he whispered. No response. “Sweetheart. We’re here.”
He touched her shoulder, gave a gentle shake. Her eyes blinked open slowly, clouded with confusion and sleep. She looked at him, then past him to her own porch, her mind visibly scrambling to place where she was and why.
“Oh,” she breathed, pushing herself upright. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. “Wow. I was out.”
“You were,” he said, his voice low. “The guy’s here. He’s changing the lock now. You have your keys?”
She fumbled in her purse, pulling out a keychain with a small, felt strawberry on it. They both got out of the car. The night air was colder now, sharp, and she pulled his jacket tighter around herself as they walked to the porch where the locksmith was already removing the old deadbolt with efficient clicks and whirrs.
Mya watched, her arms crossed, suddenly looking very small and very young. “How much is this costing?” she asked, her voice still thick with sleep.
“It’s taken care of.”
“Craig.”
“Mya.” He mimicked her tone perfectly, a faint smile touching his lips. “Part of the service. Deterrent package includes hardware installation.”
She shook her head but didn’t argue further. She was too tired. The locksmith finished with the new, heavy-duty deadbolt and handed her two new keys, shiny and sharp. He packed his tools with a nod to Craig and was gone, the van disappearing into the night.
They were alone on the quiet porch. The only sound was a distant dog barking. Mya stared at the new key in her palm, then at her front door. It looked the same, but it wasn’t. The barrier was new. The rules had changed.
“Thank you,” she said, finally looking up at him. The porch light caught the gold in her hair and the uncertain blue of her eyes. “For the drive. And the closet. And… all of it.”
“Any time.” He meant it, which was the most alarming part. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You should get inside. Test the new lock. Put a chair under the knob if it makes you feel better.”
“I have my bat,” she said, but it was an automatic reply. She was watching him, studying his face as if seeing it for the first time. The sharp lines looked softer in the shadows. “You’re not what I thought you were.”
“Don’t say that,” he said, too quickly. The words came out raw. He took a slow breath, trying to reclaim his usual cool. “I’m exactly what you thought. This is just… a weird night.”
“A weird night,” Mya repeated, her voice quieter now. She leaned back against her front door, the new, cool metal of the deadbolt pressing into her shoulder blade through his jacket. She studied him, her head tilted. The sleep was clearing from her eyes, replaced by that unnervingly direct observation.
She nodded slowly, a smile playing on her lips that was equal parts exhaustion and triumph. “Yes. You have a giant crush on me. That’s been made very clear.” She folded her arms over the bulky wool of his suit jacket. “Curious… what are you gonna tell Marco about this for your next chit-chat session about me?”
Craig froze, his hands still buried in his pockets. He felt exposed, cornered on her dimly lit porch more than he ever had in any boardroom or backroom. The casual, teasing accuracy of her question was a direct hit. He could feel a telltale heat creeping up his neck.
He tried for a scoff. It came out weak. “I don’t have chit-chat sessions.”
“Liar.” The word was soft, sing-song. She pushed off from the door, taking a small step toward him. The space between them on the narrow porch collapsed. “He had that look. The ‘oh, so this is the girl’ look. You’ve been talking. So, what’s the report? ‘She drank the whole bottle, Marco. She asked for a baseball bat. It was awesome.’”
He couldn’t help it. A real laugh burst out of him, short and surprised. It echoed in the quiet street. He looked down, shaking his head, defeated and exhilarated. “That’s… suspiciously accurate.”
“I’m observant,” she said, echoing his own words from the club back to him. She was close enough now that he could see the different shades of blue in her irises, the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “It’s how I survive. So? What’s the verdict?”
The playful challenge in her voice did something to him. It stripped away the last pretense of this being a professional favor. His usual arsenal of smooth lines and practiced charms felt like cheap plastic in his hands. All he had was the raw, inconvenient truth.
“The verdict,” he said, his voice dropping to a rasp. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then carefully brushed a stray curl back from her forehead. His fingers lingered against her temple, where he’d touched her in the car. “Is that you’re a terrifying, brilliant, pain in my ass who I can’t stop thinking about. And I have no idea what to do about it.”
Mya’s breath hitched. The humor faded from her face, replaced by a vulnerable shock. She searched his eyes, looking for the trick, the manipulation. She found only a frustrated, startling honesty.
“Oh,” she whispered.
“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” He let his hand fall, clenching it at his side. The confession hung in the cold air between them, more intimate than a kiss.
A sudden, sharp vibration broke the silence. Then another. Mya jumped, fumbling in her purse. She pulled out her phone. The screen illuminated her face, casting a pale blue glow. Seven missed calls. Twelve new texts. All from Derek.
The real world crashed back in, violent and insistent. The safe, closed bubble of the porch shattered. She stared at the screen, her face going blank with a kind of weary dread.
“He’s escalating,” Craig said. It wasn’t a question. His voice was all business again, but a dark, protective edge had hardened it into something dangerous.