Chapter 11

Céleste

Justin holds my hand as we walk up to the door, and the moment I throw it open, I’m greeted by an enormous wall of human meat and muscle. The bouncer, by my estimates, but the way his pissed-off eyes scan me up and down, he reminds me of a bridge troll.

I lean to the side, trying to see around him, but the guy damn near takes up the whole width of the door. “Hey, so, his mom just went inside. I’m just going to go look for her, if that’s okay?”

A massive bicep blocks my path before I have a chance to take a step inside.

“Hi, Wevi,” Justin says, slipping beneath the man’s arm, as if he’s done it a hundred times before.

When I try to do the same, a tight grip of my shoulder holds me in place.

“I need some ID,” the monster says, yanking me back outside.

“What for? You just let a toddler stroll inside like it’s Disneyland.” As I peer past him, I can see Justin ambling deeper into the dark hallway that leads to God knows what.

“I know him. I don’ know you. And you don’ sound like you’re from round here.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, dude? Look, just let me grab the kid before he gets into trouble. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on him.”

The laugh he snorts is fitting for his trolliness. “Well, you’re doin’ a right fine job of that, I’d say.”

“Piss off, this is ridiculous.” I shove at the guy, refusing to let a child wander around a strip club until I, at least, know he’s with his mom. Christ, who knows what shady people he’ll run into. I’ve seen Pinocchio. This definitely seems like the kind of place that would turn him into a donkey.

The grip on my arm tightens, refusing to let me go.

“Hey!”

“Do we have a problem?” The unfamiliar voice stops me in my tracks, and I freeze in place as a flash of movement draws my attention back toward the shadowed hallway.

Smooth, almost arrogant stride. Bold lines that sketch an intimidating silhouette.

The light outside the door gradually illuminates the dark slacks, followed by a black button-down shirt that clings to muscles not quite as bulky as Troll Boy’s, and a suit coat that screams Bossman, whether he is, or isn’t. Broad shoulders taper to a fit waist, beneath which he’s tucked his hands into his pockets, completely relaxed. When his face finally comes into view, something cold shivers down my spine as I take in the piercing, brown, bedroom eyes, ones I bet have turned harder, colder females to a gooey pile of lust. Intelligent and emotionless eyes, like those of a man who would dine on your heart with one of those fancy little cocktail forks, all while wearing a bib and a callous smirk the whole time.

On top of all that, the sharp angles of his jaw, minimal shadowing of stubble, and small creases at the corners of eyes give him a slightly older appearance. Not too old, but definitely older than me.

My freaking kryptonite, standing before me like a bad joke.

“No problem, Boss. This one’s tryin’a get inside without any ID.”

Of course he’s a boss. That much I could guess, but something else thrums beneath the unsettling tension given off by this man’s exterior. A calm and lethal grace, befitting a predator. Like the cutting strokes of a shark below turbulent waters.

Those dark eyes swallow my body, head to toe, like his eyeballs have X-ray vision and he can see my strawberry-print panties and the purple bra that doesn’t match. “Do you have ID?” The rich timbre of his voice hits my ear like a tuning fork that sends a shiver down into my chest.

Snap out of it, Cely.

Yeah, he’s hot. I get it, he’s the distraction the universe sent to test me. This is a test. To see if I’m strong enough to resist what I’ll bet is a total control freak with painfully luscious lips that could probably qualify as a weapon between a woman’s thighs. Everything about him is checking my boxes, and I’m finding it hard to ignore that fact, the longer I stare.

Russ is behind this. He has to be. After all, he was the one who warned me to stay away from the pricks with devilish good looks, and this one has them in spades. He’s testing my weaknesses.

“Not on me.”

“Are you twenty-one, catin?” Those eyes stare back at me, as if he can see right through me to the nail salon somewhere behind me, and that slip of French Valir rolls off his tongue like an invisible kiss.

I don’t even know what the hell catin means, but I’ll surely make a point to find out after this.

“Look, I’m not trying to get a peek of … whatever ... you’ve got going on inside. I was supposed to be watching a kid. His mom went inside. I just want to grab him, before some shady businessman in a three-piece suit suddenly decides he likes lamb instead of mutton, you know what I mean?” The thought of that twists my stomach.

The guy’s lip twitches, as if he wants to laugh but refuses. On instinct, my eyes wander to his perfectly pressed clothes that fit him to a T, as if he’s had them tailored that way. This is a man who keeps a tight leash on himself, and it shows.

“And where is this boy now?” The air of boredom and disinterest clinging to his voice tells me this whole scenario is nothing more than an inconvenience to him.

My antics are keeping him from something more important.

“I’m guessing wherever your nearest bathroom is. He had to … number two.”

Again, something flickers across his face, and he clears his throat, turning to the big man still holding me captive. “You let a child inside?”

“Marcelle’s boy.”

“I never asked whose.”

“Yessir. My apologies, I just didn’ recognize the fille.”

Bedroom Eyes gives me another onceover, stopping somewhere in the neighborhood of my thighs. Then lower. Like he’s appraising my choice of footwear with the outfit. Maybe they don’t appreciate the homeless, wilderness girl look here as much as they do in the north. “I’ll let you come in to look for the boy … provided you hand over the knife tucked inside your boot.”

My jaw comes unhinged at that. How the heck did he know I was carrying a knife? In as subtle a gesture as I can muster, I wriggle my ankle to make sure it’s not sticking up, or something, and clear my throat. “I don’t …. I’m not carrying a knife.”

“You are. And you tried to bring it inside my establishment, which makes you seem awfully shady. Someone could get hurt.”

My eyes scan over him quickly, just as his did me a second ago. Unfortunately, his weapon is in plain sight, which makes my observation less impressive. “Says the man with the Glock at his hip?”

Seconds tick, and at some point, Justin’s going to be done doing his business. I’ve heard horror stories of little boys and girls getting molested in bathroom stalls, and I’ll be damned if that happens on my watch.

“Fine. Fine!” Frustrated, I stuff my hand down inside my boot, awkwardly bending forward in front of both men. “Jesus, you guys make it sound like you’re concealing missiles, or something, in there.” With a small bit of effort, I pull out the ridiculous knife Russ gave me out of my boot, glad I didn’t actually need it for self-defense, because I’d probably be a dead woman for all it took to slide the damn thing out.

When I hand it off to him, Bedroom Eyes wrinkles his nose, as if I’ve offended him, and jerks his head toward the Troll. “He’ll take it.”

“I want it back.”

“You’ll get it back when you exit my club.”

“How the hell did you know, anyway?”

Another sweep of those eyes. “Who the hell would wear boots this time of year?”

Touché.

“I should have you arrested for carrying such an ugly weapon.”

“It was a gift.”

“You must’ve been quite special to that person.”

“If you must know, I happen to appreciate ugly things. Take your attitude, for example. I could easily tell you to piss off, but I can appreciate that being a jerk is as much a part of your genetics as that pretty face.” Though my words are meant to mock him, the guy really does have a painfully pretty face, a fact that doesn’t seem to faze him much, as he stands looking completely unamused.

Once I’ve handed off the knife, Troll lowers his arm, allowing me passage, and as I scoot past the man in black, I can’t help but notice the size of him, and how absolutely imposing he is, even with his casual stance. I feel like I’ve just had the most invasive pat-down of my life with this man’s eyes. He’s definitely more than what he seems on the surface, and I would bet what’s buried below is something sinister.

“After you’ve found the boy, I’ll ask you to leave the premises immediately.”

“Sure. And by the way, I didn’t think you had to be twenty-one to enter a bar.”

“You don’t.” He strides past me, never once having taken his hands out of his pockets, and I have to will myself not to focus on his obviously muscled ass in those slacks. “Bathroom is down the hall on the right,” he says, just before the shadows ahead swallow him once more.

The sound of giggling draws my feet toward a door on the left, and when I peer inside, I find Justin sitting on the lap of a woman wearing a costume with bright colorful feathers that makes her look like a peacock. The sight of her tickling him would give me the creeps, except that, standing behind him is the boy’s mother, arms crossed, rolling her eyes as she talks to a woman whose back is to me.

“Hey, there you are.” Stepping inside brings the entire room into view, crowded with back-to-back vanities, costumes hanging from racks all around the room like a flock of birds exploded into sequins.

“Cawly!” Justin squeals on seeing me, and wriggles off the woman’s lap. “Look, Momma! It’s Cawly!”

With a sheepish grin, I wave back at Marcelle, and not a second later, the woman she’s talking to turns around to face me. Golden skin with a slight reddish tone, a short and wavy French bob, petite frame, and bright hazel eyes are all features that strike a bittersweet chord.

My heart catches in my throat.

Years can change a person, I know that for a fact, but beneath whatever the world does to change the landscape of skin and bones, there is something constant. The warmth of familiarity that time can’t touch. As I stare back at my friend from all those years ago, the urge to break down tugs at the back of my eyes. So long, I’ve yearned to feel something. Anything.

And suddenly, I feel everything.

“You!” The curiosity I thought I saw just moments ago morphs into anger, and she storms toward me, pointing her finger. “You were gonna just … drop her off here to pick up my keys and let her drive him home? When it’s obvious she’s high as a damn kite right now! What the hell is wrong with you!”

“Brie! Don’t you dare talk like I’m the younger one of us.”

Her sister swings back around, and if the woman were capable of producing those winged things that come out of lizards when they’re mad, she’d probably knock the girl sitting next to her off her chair. “You don’t get to speak. Not until you’re sober. You’re canceled, Marcelle, so zip it!”

“Look, I’m not trying to get into your sibling rivalry here. I was just trying to help.”

“Help? Helping would’ve been driving her home, not dropping her off at a strip club with her son!”

“First of all, it doesn’t sound like it’s this kid’s first rodeo here, and second, I didn’t know she, or you, worked at a strip club. I was just taking her to someone who could help, which clearly isn’t her sister, from what I’m gathering?”

Brie stands with her mouth gaping, then closing. Gaping then closing again, like a--

“You wook wike a fishy, tante Brie!” Justin belts out before I can finish the thought, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Brie pinches the bridge of her nose, and I have to assume the jerk of her body is a laugh she’s trying to contain, as well. “Look, I need about fifteen minutes. I’ll have Miranda watch the floor for me. Can you sit tight until then? And I’ll drive you and Justin home.”

“Fine,” Marcelle answers, arms crossed. “Car’s gonna have to be towed, too. She thinks the starter’s bad.”

Brie’s attention swings around to me again, “Are you a mechanic?”

Rolling my shoulders back, I shake my head. “My …” Pseudo “Dad was. I had to help him fix ours when it went bad.”

“Any idea how much something like that costs?”

“I’m not … sure. Ours was free, basically. I’m guessing, maybe, a couple hundred?”

Her eyes pop wide at that, and she lodges her hands through her hair. “A couple hundred? For real?”

“Maybe less. I don’t know. Forget what I said, I’m not a car person. Look, if you want, I can bring your groceries inside, and we can part ways here. I have to get back.”

“Where you stayin’?”

“Um … I don’t, uh … I’m um ... “

“I’m only askin’ because I’d like to do somethin’ nice for helpin’ out, and I don’t have cash on me at the moment.”

“Oh. Don’t …. Don’t worry about that. I don’t want your cash.” Clamping my eyes shut, I shake my head. “I don’t mean that your cash is dirty. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Marcelle tells me you’re from Michigan.”

Did I tell her Michigan? Jesus, I need to pay more attention to what I say. “Yes, somewhere in Michigan.”

“You like rice and gravy?”

“Like together? Sure. Probably. Like … from here?” I had no idea strip clubs served rice and gravy. Seems like it’d be a messy dish for a place like this.

Brie chuckles, and the sound takes me back to childhood, when the two of us used to sit on the branches of the oak tree.

I smile back at her.

“No. We don’t serve rice and gravy here. This is a filet mignon kind of establishment. I want you to stop by the house, and I’ll make you some. For helping. It’s not as good as Mamere’s, but it’s not all bad, either. Maybe you can stop by this week?”

Southern people are a strange breed. Can’t say I’ve ever personally invited a stranger to my house--when I lived in a house, anyway. “Thank you for the invite, but I’m not planning to be here long. Really, it’s okay. I don’t need you to give me anything.”

“What about a burger, or some wings? I can do that.”

Either one of those would be a million times better than the tuna I’m going to have to scarf down quickly with my nose plugged. “A burger sounds amazing. If it’s not too much trouble. Really, I don’t need--”

“You sit. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She turns back around toward Marcelle, who’s kicked back in a chair, scrolling through her phone, while Justin sits on a dancer’s lap and applies an obnoxious amount of bright red lipstick to her lips. “And you two. I’ll grab some cheese sticks and wings. To go.”

“Yay!” Justin bounces up and down, smearing the lipstick across the dancer’s face.

Brie offers a tight smile when she passes, and the second she reaches out to pat my shoulder, I suck in a gasp. Not a moment later, she releases me, her brows furrowing as she studies me for a moment.

Does she see it? Me?

“You said your name is Carly?”

“Yes. Carly James.”

Rubbing her thumb over the palm she held to my shoulder, she nods and turns away from me. “Mais la, you remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Carly’s a pretty common name.”

“It’s not the name, chère.” She stares down toward her palm, still running her thumb across the surface. “I’ll be back with that burger.”

The moment she strides out of the room, I find a seat next to Marcelle. “Can I ask a favor? I just want to look something up real quick. I left my phone in the car.”

“Sure,” she says, passing me her phone, and there’s no doubt in my mind the woman is high, because who willy-nilly gives up their phone without that split second of hesitation?

The background is a cute picture of Justin in his big coke bottle glasses, holding up a crawfish. I click on the Google app and search for a local campground, with amenities nearby where I can shower, a routine that’s not exactly new to me, as Russ and I did it a number of times before settling in Marquette. Just up the street from the old house is an RV park with showers and electricity, so I can charge my camera, too. Bonus. I enlarge the picture on the map to see that it’s fairly open, guarded only by one gate at the entrance. I could easily hop the perimeter fence, by the looks of it.

I exit the app and pause a moment, before clicking back in and typing ‘translate’ then ‘catin’ in the little box below the search bar.

Language detected: French.

Translation: Hooker.

The prick called me a hooker?

A hooker? Seriously?

Eyes narrowed, I quickly swipe out of the app and hand the phone back to Marcelle.

“Everything okay? You look like you wanna punch something.”

Hell, yes, I do. If I happen to run into Mr. Bedroom Eyes with the tight ass again, I might accidentally do just that.

“I’m fine. I just reaffirmed that men are assholes.”

“You’re telling me?”

“Your boss …. He’s the man dressed like it’s a funeral?”

Rolling her eyes, Marcelle goes back to scrolling through her phone. “Mmm-hmm. He’s an asshole, too.”

“Bad news, him.” A couple feet from us, a brunette dancer wearing a flesh-colored bodysuit, her hair pulled back from her face, leans in toward the mirror in front of her to apply artificial lashes. “But, mon Dieu! Dat boy would make some pretty babies.”

Can’t say I disagree, though I’m certainly not in the market for any kids. I had a feeling he was bad news. The guy has a naturally fiendish aura about him.

“He would,” Marcelle agrees. “Pretty demon babies that’d feed off human souls.”

Both women laugh in unison, and even I break a smile at that.

It’s twenty minutes before Brie returns with two bags, one of which she hands off to me, before shoving the other at her sister, while wearing a scowl.

With a flat smile, I nod. “Thank you for this, Brie. Much …” Much “Appreciated.”

“My pleasure. Thanks for helping out my family.” She holds out a hand, as if to offer a handshake, and when I set my hand there, she stares down at our clasped palms. “I just … I just can’t get over how much you remind me of someone. It’s uncanny to me.”

“This someone …. I remind you of her in a good way, or a bad way?”

“Good way. She was like a sister to me. But … you couldn’t be her.”

It’s there, that spark of familiarity. Home. I’m not crazy for seeing it, feeling it myself. “Well, thank you again. For the food.”

“You take care, Carly James.”

My heart aches when I exit the changing room. It wasn’t the plan, coming to see her, and damn fate for throwing Marcelle and her ridiculously cute son into my path.

The bouncer stands beside the door, staring down his nose at me, like he’s waiting for me to give him the secret password to cross the bridge.

“My knife?”

“Don’ have it.”

A zing of panic spirals up my neck. I had a bad feeling about this, and now, it seems, it’s coming to pass. “Who does?”

“Mr. Bergeron.”

“And where might I find Mr. Bergeron?”

“In his office.”

Clamping my eyes shut, I roll my shoulders back to calm the irritation, because punching this guy is a bad idea.

Badidea.

“And where might one find his office?”

“One? Or you?”

Patience wearing thin, I curl my hand into a fist. “Me.”

“Down the hall. Through the club. Up the staircase on the other side.” He points down the hallway, and at a flicker of purple and red lights, the club flashes into view. “See that window across the way there? That’s his office.”

The light flickers to darkness again, and I exhale an exasperated breath.

Through the damn club. I’m going to have to walk through a sea of horny men, just to retrieve that godawful knife.

I hate you, Russ. I really hate you right now.

Spinning on my heel, I tromp in that direction, trying to imagine myself coming up with a better insult than hooker when I’m standing in front of the guy. I exit the hallway, down a short staircase along the stage, and even if the main attraction is putting on one hell of a flashy show, I can feel the eyes on me, watching me, as I weave through crowded tables. Tingles snake beneath my skin like a thousand tiny bugs scattering over me, and I mentally will myself not to look at anyone, until I finally reach the back of the club.

The iron, spiral staircase winds up to the second floor, spitting me out into a dark hallway with two doors--one on the left, and one on the right. I opt for the one on the left, the direction in which I saw the wide glass window from across the club. My muscles shudder, as I hold my fist up to knock.

“Come in,” a voice says, before my knuckles even hit the wood.

I swing the door open onto an expansive office, a fairly masculine one, decorated in gray walls, dark gray carpeting, sparse furniture with sharp corners and non-reflective surfaces. Everything screams quality. The scent of leather and cigars hits the back of my throat, as I pad toward the center of the room.

Kicked back, with his feet up on the desk, Bedroom Eyes holds the knife in one hand, tapping the blade against his opposite palm.

“I’m leaving now. As you asked. And I’d like my blade back.” Holding out my hand, I flick my fingers for it, anxious to get out of this man’s line of view, which feels like hot molten steel radiating over my skin. I’m certain he can see the sweat trickling down my neck with the mere proximity.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Excuse me? We had a deal. I hand off my blade, you let me pass. You give it back to me, when I leave.”

“I give this blade back to you, and you’ll be passing through my club with a weapon on you. Not allowed, catin.”

“I swear to freaking Christ, if you don’t quit calling me hooker, I’m going to lose my shit right here. Right now.”

“Hooker? Mais, non. You’re in Valir country, not France. Here, it means something else.”

“What?”

“I’ll let you find that out yourself.”

I don’t even think there’s an app to translate Valir, as so few people speak it nowadays. “No matter. Look, I’m not leaving this club without my knife.”

“Well, we have a problem, then.”

“Can you just … meet me down by the door?”

He uses the blade to point toward the window. “’Fraid I can’t do that, chère.” That word, I’ve come to learn, is a pretty common endearment, and while most of the mainlanders pronounce it like sha, it sounds more like shya in Valir. “I’m a busy man. Gotta keep a bird’s-eye on things.”

“What about the troll—I mean … bouncer? Can he hand it off to me at the door?”

Lips flat, he shakes his head. “He leaves that door? Who knows what could come walking in. Without any ID.”

“Would you quit playing with me and give me back my knife? Pretty please?”

“Come back in a couple days. I’ll meet you outside then, and return your blade.”

“No. I’m definitely not coming back here.”

“What? You don’t trust me to hold your knife until then?” His gaze dips to the bag clutched in my hand and back to me. “I’m fairly hospitable, don’t you think?”

“I don’t even know you.”

“You can call me Mr. Bergeron.”

“I didn’t even call my teachers in school by their last names. Or Mister, for that matter.”

“You were on a first name basis?”

“I was on a fucking basis.” Well, only one of them, but the name rule pretty much applied to all of them.

Something I might mistake for intrigue, if I thought I was actually worth this man’s time, flickers in his eyes.

“Give me my knife, Mr. Bergeron, and you won’t have to see my face again.”

He stares at me for far longer than I expect. So long, I’m certain my temperature has risen another whole degree, and the tickle of sweat taunts my hairline. “Day after tomorrow. I’ll pencil you in then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my work.”

“This is stealing. I can call the cops right now and settle this.”

“Yes. You can.” He pushes his cellphone toward me, the bastard, without a hint of concern, or care. “You’re welcome to do so.”

Teeth grinding, I glance down at the phone and back to him. Of course I’m not calling the police. I’m not even supposed to fucking be here. This whole night was a series of mishaps that began the second I decided to give a shit about a little boy and his mother. Had I ignored the kid, I’d probably be back at my crappy, dilapidated house, munching on a sad-looking tuna on rye.

“I’ll be back here tomorrow. At four o’clock. And I expect you to be at that goddamn door with my knife.”

“Non, I’m sorry. That time doesn’t work for me. Come day after tomorrow. At eight.” The amusement in his tone is enough to make me reach across that ridiculously uncluttered desk of his and slap the humor right off that pretty face.

“Fine. Day after tomorrow. Eight. You stand me up, or pull any bullshit, and I’ll--”

“You’ll what?”

What? What will you do, Céleste? Give in to those too-wise chestnut eyes that can probably read you like a textbook on how to breathe air?

Fuck him, just like the last guy who toyed with you in that irresistibly taunting way?

“I wouldn’t play games with me, Mr. Bergeron.” Planting a palm on his desk, I lean toward him. “Because I may not look like much, but I am one crazy bitch, and believe me when I say, you don’t want anything to do with that.” Brows kicked up in warning, I shake my head. Crazy, I silently mouth.

If he can pull a bluff, so can I, and to be honest, I’m not really lying. I can’t say what I would do. Maybe nothing.

Then again, no one’s ever stolen my blade before.