Chapter 16: VIP Temptations
The headache from Cole’s words took two days and a bottle of wine with Addison to fade. Jade had replayed them in her head, dissecting each syllable, vacillating between white-hot anger and a shivering, secret thrill. She hated that the thrill existed at all.
“You’re overthinking,” Addison declared, swirling her Pinot Noir in Jade’s loft. “He’s a bastard. A sexy, manipulative bastard. But you’re letting them turn your life into a cage. Tonight, we’re opening the door.”
Liliana, Addison’s new girlfriend, nodded from the sofa. She was all sharp edges and smoky eyeliner, a curator from a downtown gallery. She watched Jade with an appraising, amused look. “Addison’s right. Art shouldn’t imitate life this closely. It’s bad for the creative spirit. You need new material.”
And that’s how Jade found herself getting squeezed into a backless black dress by Addison, her curls teased into intentional chaos, a swipe of dark red on her lips.
“No leather jackets allowed,” Addison said, pointedly eyeing Dex’s jacket, which still hung on Jade’s bedroom chair like a brooding guest. “Tonight is about you. Not them.”
The club, ‘Echo’, was a bass-throbbing beast in the old meatpacking district. The line snaked around the block, but Liliana knew the bouncer, and they slipped past the velvet rope into a wall of sound. Holographic vines crawled across the black walls, pulsing with neon cyan and magenta in time with the music. The air was cool and artificially flavored with crisp ozone, undercut by the primal smells of sweat, whiskey, and perfume.
Addison immediately snagged a booth in the VIP section—Liliana’s doing again. It was semi-circular, upholstered in deep purple leather that was still warm from the previous occupants. Jade slid in, the booth feeling suddenly like a throne, or perhaps a witness box.
“First round’s on me,” Liliana yelled over the thrashing synth beat. She returned with three vodka-cranberries, the condensation already wet on the glasses. “Drink up. The mission is amnesia.”
Jade drank. The vodka was cheap, the cranberry too sweet, but it was cold and it burned going down, which felt right. Addison dragged her onto the dance floor before the first glass was empty.
The music was a physical force. It pounded through the soles of her feet, up her spine, and rattled her teeth. For the first hour, it worked. She let herself be swallowed by the chaos of bodies. She danced with Addison, with Liliana, with a group of girls who smiled with genuine, uncomplicated joy. She laughed, she shouted nonsense into the din, she let the strobe lights fragment her into a thousand harmless pieces.
A guy in a crisp button-down shirt and an easy smile cut in, his hands polite on her hips. He smelled of citrus cologne and gin. He was safe. Uncomplicated. She danced with him, letting the rhythm move them together, then apart. Another guy, taller, with tattoos snaking up his arms, took his place. His touch was more confident, his body moving closer. She didn’t pull away. She met his eyes, saw the appreciative flare in them, and felt a spike of power. This was her choice. Her night. Her body.
She was grinding against him, his hands sliding to her waist, her back arching to the deep, tribal bassline, when she felt it.
A shift in the atmosphere. A cooling of the air around her.
She looked over the guy’s shoulder, past the sea of undulating silhouettes.
There, leaning against the long, glowing bar, stood Dex and Cole.
They weren’t dancing. They weren’t talking. They were just… watching. Two statues carved from shadow and maleness in the middle of the electric chaos. Dex had his massive arms crossed over his chest, his black t-shirt straining. Cole was spinning a glass of amber liquid between his fingers, his head tilted as if studying a fascinating, mildly disturbing specimen.
Their eyes were nailed to her.
All the breath left Jade’s lungs. The music suddenly felt too loud, the lights too harsh. The guy she was dancing with said something in her ear, but the words were just noise. She was paralyzed, caught in the crossfire of their twin gazes.
Dex’s expression was unreadable from this distance, but the intensity of his stare was a tangible weight. Cole’s was easier to decipher: a cold, analytical amusement. He lifted his glass in a slow, mocking toast to her.
They had followed her.
The realization didn’t come with fear, but with a furious, volcanic rage. It surged through the vodka haze, burning it away. This was her escape. Her fun. And they had polluted it, turning the dance floor into their own private theater.
She turned back to the tattooed guy. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body flush against his, and buried her face in his shoulder. She could feel his surprise, then his eager acceptance. She moved with a renewed, defiant energy, a deliberate performance. Look, she screamed in her head. Look at what you don’t own.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder. Not the guy’s. This was heavier, rougher, undeniable.
She was spun around.