The bottle hit the counter harder than warranted.
I drank some wine. It didn’t burn like rotgut, so a good vintage. “I saw it and had this overwhelming sense of rightness. I had to get the design.”
The jumping jaw muscle was back, but the boy showed remarkable restraint by not speaking. Or locking me into handcuffs. Ooh. Handcuffs.
I forced my thoughts to stay work appropriate. “Up until his retirement weirdness, Samson positioned himself as the sun at the center of the universe and encouraged people with crap lives to fly as close as they could. He pulled the old, ‘I’m bright. I’m shiny. Ignore the part where I’m a giant ball of flame that can destroy you.’ Well, I’m going to turn the tables on him. Pose as a descendent of old Lou and match Samson’s ambition. Because really,” I stretched an arm out along the top of the sofa, “even an alleged power-hungry demon needs a consort.”
Rohan dropped down beside me. “So you upgraded yourself from bait to queen.”
I smiled at him and sipped my wine.
He raked a hand through his hair. “I want to know what you’re up to at all times.”
I choked on my drink. “You mean I have your permission?”
“Begrudging, but yes.” He took my glass, knocking back a long slug, before pressing it back into my hand. “This is a bold move. It might be the thing to crack Samson’s facade. Spin it as wanting to get signed by his management company. Figure out what he’s up to from that angle.” Rohan stared at the sunburst for another brief, intense moment, then snorted. “Jesus.”
Sure, I was pleased, but I’d expected more of a fight. Much more. I gave him a once-over, noting the brush of purple under his half-open eyes, and the lines of fatigue sketching his face as he lay on the couch next to me. It was a little too languorous to be just tiredness, a little too carefully disguised to be careless partying. “How you doing there, tiger?” I asked.
Rohan took a breath, looked at me, then looked away. When his smile came back, it was a bit strained, and it seemed like he’d been on the verge of saying something else. “I’d forgotten…”
I leaned forward, awaiting the rest of the sentence. There was a polite knock at the door. Startled, I lost my balance, and tumbled sideways against the sofa cushions. “Samson?” I asked.
“Room service. I ordered in. I hope that’s okay. I wanted to eat in peace.” He opened the door and a waiter rolled in a cart with two covered plates.
With a flourish, I lifted the first cover and sagged. It was steamed fish with steamed veggies. Ugh with a side of ugh. “This looks–”
Rohan started laughing before I could figure out how to lie my way through the rest of that sentence. “Lift the other cover,” he said.
My eyes lit up at the enormous piece of schnitzel accompanied by a heap of gravy-drenched mashed potatoes. No greens in sight.
“I did good?” he asked.
I held my wine glass up to him in cheers.
By mutual unspoken agreement, we didn’t discuss work, the Brotherhood, Ari, or us. Instead, Rohan entertained me with music biz gossip.
Wine snorted out my nose at one particularly outrageous anecdote. “She did not!”
Rohan put his hand to his heart. “Swear. Toe hickeys. Her exact instructions were ‘Suck them hard enough to open my third eye.’ Which was wrong on so many levels.”
I screamed in laughter. “What did you do?”
“Told her it was the wrong chakra.”
“Was it? The wrong chakra?”
“Fuck if I know.” A pious look flitted over his face. “I may have implied that cultural appropriation for western sexual kink purposes was frowned upon by Indian gods and would end in badly blocked energy. Then I blessed her with a namaste and got the hell out.”
“How upstanding of you, Mr. Mitra.”
“Some of us do have a moral compass.”
I jabbed my fork at him. “Hey! I have a moral compass.”
“Yeah, with Hell as your true north.” But he said it teasingly so I stuck my tongue out at him.
His phone beeped with a text. Rohan glanced at it. “Samson.”
I laid down my cutlery and wiped my mouth. “Seems our bubble is broken.” I didn’t want to go. I hadn’t had this much fun with someone other than Ari or Leo in ages.
“Seems so.” He didn’t sound any happier about it than I did. Rohan pulled his ever-present tiny tin of candied fennel seeds out of his pocket and popped a few in his mouth before offering them to me.
I crunched a few, the sweet licorice freshening my breath. “Pace yourself, baby. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”
10
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked.
We stood at the mouth of an underground passageway that would have looked sketchy by the light of day. At night, with no one around, it looked flat-out disreputable. Small shops with windows filled with tourist crap took up most of the corridor, while a sign pointed the way to the Museum of Torture.
“That looks promising,” Rohan deadpanned. He strode into the passageway. “Lolita. It’s over here.”
I blinked at the name, having forgotten about my persona during dinner. It had been so genuinely Rohan and me, instead of Lolita and rock star. Stiffening my spine, I arranged my expression in Lolita’s state of ennui and sashayed after him.
Rohan stopped well before the stairway leading up to the museum, halting next to a nondescript black door with a small sign reading “Chill.”
A hostess met us inside. After verifying that our name was on the list for this thirty minute reservation, she fitted us with thermal jackets. “It’s roughly minus twenty celsius inside,” she informed us. “We’re one of the colder ice bars in the world.”
I put the jacket on over my own coat, glad the thermal one came almost down to my knees. But I was still bare-legged. “I may not manage the entire visit,” I told Rohan quietly. Since Samson had paid for a twenty-minute slot, it would suck to bail and wait outside until they finished up, but frostbite would suck harder.
“Let me know if you need to leave.” He placed a hand on the small of my back. “Ready?” His touch helped steady me against my rush of nerves and off we went.
Chill was pretty small. A couple of booths and standing tables carved from ice in addition to the bar itself. Not the floor though. They’d avoided that potential lawsuit. Purple and green strip lights illuminated the larger ice panels on the walls. Shelves had been carved out to display vodka bottles from around the world.
Drio was already there, chatting with Samson’s buddies. He nodded as we came in but didn’t come over to say hi. Other than them and Samson, I didn’t recognize any of the fifteen or so other people.
“Ro darling,” came a familiar British lilt as a puffy jacketed figure turned. Poppy, the actress from the other night was here, looking less girl-next-door and more blonde bombshell, with big blown out hair, and sexy smoky eyes. “Thank you for returning my scarf.”
Get your own rock star.
“My pleasure,” Rohan replied in a rumbly voice. I barely turned my sputter into a cough.
Samson glanced over at our arrival, saluting Rohan with his glass. “All hail the esteemed Rohan Mitra.”
“What a douche,” Rohan muttered. His smile brightened, his hand slipped from my back, and he crossed over to join the actor. He made it all of ten feet before he was accosted by three men who enthusiastically barked Fugue State Five song titles at him in Czech accents.
Rohan handled them graciously.
I made my way to the bar and ordered a chocolate vodka, shrugging deeper into my double coats. The bartender handed it over saying that drinks were on Samson’s tab. It would have been a point in his favor but if your modus operandi was to make people feel bad about themselves, alcohol was a handy tool to speed things along. As was being rich enough to pay the tab for the common people.
The vodka was served in a frozen shot glass. It was so cold in here, that the alcohol, which tasted l
ike a melted chocolate bar, had thickened to a syrup that slid down my throat like silk. I gave a thumbs-up as I handed the glass back, remarking on the experience, and the bartender explained that the cold removed the normal sting when drinking it. Definitely a plus.
Putting my back to the bar, I checked out the various groups. None of them looked particularly interesting. Other than Samson’s posse, who Drio had covered, I doubted anyone had any information that could help us. I wasn’t there for small talk, so I crossed over to Rohan and Samson.
I moved into place on Rohan’s left in time to see Poppy press a shot into his hand. She maintained physical contact while counting down for them to shoot their drinks back. Snowflake didn’t protest the blatant move, nor did he introduce me. Or seem to notice I existed.
Drink downed, Poppy laughed, catching a drop with her tongue that brought both Samson’s and Rohan’s gaze to her lips. Oh, she was good. Every move she made was calculated to keep their attention on her. Under other circumstances, I’d have bought her a drink in admiration.
I kept my bored look in place, eyes scanning the room as if seeking more interesting climes, while mentally cataloguing all the damage my magic could do to her.
Poppy was even able to keep up with the music discussion the men veered onto. Impressive since they were chatting about some obscure New York band. Since I had nothing to contribute, I did what I did best: objectified the fuck out of the guys. Samson looked smug. He was “on” constantly, a high wattage performance of his cool, funny charm, complete with expansive gestures that were as put on as his perfect tan and artfully tousled hair.
Rohan, on the other hand, with his lazy stance, exuded confidence. His movements came with an economy of motion: a half-grin here, a wry comment there. He upstaged Samson’s showmanship with an understated cool. Rohan was every inch the sexy rock star even in that dumb jacket. This wasn’t bias. More like objective evidence based on the sidelong glances and awestruck stares he was getting.
With one sly sideways glance from Poppy before she gave me the tiniest smirk. The English Rose showing her thorns.
Time for her to learn the pecking order. I placed Rohan’s hand on my ass under my jackets. Samson shot me the briefest glance at that. Rohan didn’t. Didn’t even pause his lyrical waxings about this one particular band. Though he did idly stroke along the base of my spine as he spoke.
I stared Poppy down, my bored expression unchanging, and my position unmovable until she gave up and moved on under the pretense of greeting a new arrival.
Ooh, being that girl was fun.
“Restless Landing opened for you on your last tour, right?” Samson asked. Interesting. Seems he’d researched Rohan.
“Yeah,” Rohan said.
“I know Aaron.”
“Hell of a drummer.” Rohan sipped the beer that one of his three fanboys had pressed into his hand.
I wiggled my toes to keep them from going numb in the cold and pulled my hands up inside my sleeves.
“Not getting much work these days.” Samson fired back another vodka shot. “You’ve been out of the loop so you might not have heard.”
“The girls,” Rohan said, without missing a beat.
Samson gave Rohan an appraising look. Rohan’s bland expression didn’t change. Two sharks circling each other, scenting for first blood. “Yeah. You probably ran into that. Teens looking like they were twenty-five.” Samson spread his hands wide, like what are you gonna do?
“I did. But then again, I was a teen. Even so, I never screwed fifteen-year-olds.” A hot thread of anger laced his voice.
Samson smirked. “You sure? I’m betting you didn’t stop the action to do an ID check.”
“I’m sure.”
Samson clapped Rohan on the back. “Good man.”
My eyes swung to Rohan to see how he’d react to such blatant condescension. All he did was take a swig of his beer.
I wasn’t the only one who’d been watching the exchange, because with perfect timing, Drio showed up. “Ro, I’m freezing my balls off. Let’s find somewhere better, man.” I doubted I’d ever get used to that accent coming out of him.
“He’s right. I’m over the tundra,” Samson announced. “I’ve got just the place.” He gestured to Rohan. “Unless you want to suggest something.”
“Go for it.”
“It’s walkable,” Samson said. There was a flurry of activity as we returned the jackets in addition to the normal leaving-a-bar discussion about who was going to this new venue versus who wanted to head somewhere else.
I stomped my feet, trying to get some feeling back into them while the debates raged. About half the group decided to follow Samson, with Poppy welded to Rohan’s side.
A security detail had appeared the moment we left the bar. Three “don’t fuck with us” men with granite carved jaws and constantly scanning eyes, who fell into a triangular formation around Samson and Rohan. The rest of us were expendable.
The sky was overcast and the wind caused goosebumps on my bare legs, but it was still a lot warmer than the ice bar. I jammed my hands in my pockets, enjoying the lively streets. Everyone high on possibility and good cheer. As for myself, I fell farther and farther back in the group, too busy rubbernecking.
Enough people rubbernecked right back, phones flashing, that Samson, at least, had been recognized, but the bodyguards kept the group moving at a fast clip and no one dared approach.
A group of boisterous Brits celebrating a bachelor party came toward us, singing off-key. The T-shirts they wore marked them as members of “Dave’s Stag!” complete with a grainy photo of Dave flying over Prague Castle. One of the guys knocked into my shoulder as he passed.
I wobbled, my heel snagging on the cobblestone. Drio reached out to steady me under the elbow. Dude tossed out a drunken, “Sorry,” and stumbled after his friends.
“Thanks,” I said to Drio. I lifted up my stiletto. Scratched but not broken. “How’s your night going?”
“It’s already four years of my life I’ll never get back.”
I laughed and Drio grinned at me. Not his sadistic one. I clutched my heart in shock. “Careful, psycho. I might think you like me.”
I wiggled my fingers to lose the residual prickly tingling from Chill.
“Don’t worry. I don’t.” He leaned in, dropping the American accent. “Though I’m very curious about what you’re up to.”
“Pretensions of royalty. Power plays.” I looked up at the sky, in this ancient city spinning out before me and despite the circumstances, felt content. “Ever believe that life was going to work out exactly as you wanted?”
“No.”
“Me neither.” Not for a long time, anyway. I looked up ahead at Rohan and Samson. At their heads, one dark, one blond, as they chatted. “But I think for tonight, I just might.” I flipped a loose curl out of my eyes. “Back to work.”
I picked up the pace, intent on displacing Poppy. Should have brought dynamite.
Samson flicked me an unreadable look as I linked arms with his Douchebag minion. “Why, hello,” I drawled.
“Hey,” Douchebag replied, half his attention on a text.
Samson’s other minion, Jittery shot me a weaselly grin and a chin jerk.
I winked at him, then squeezed Douchebag’s bicep.
“Like what you see?” he leered.
“I bet you do your own stunts, don’t you?” This was said loud enough to carry.
Samson smirked, but Rohan, bless him, knew exactly what I was up to. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Lolita.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. Rohan dropped Poppy like a hot potato to fetch me. Yes, I’m just that amazing that rock gods fall over themselves to stay in my good graces. It took everything I had not to bust out laughing.
Poppy fell back with her friends, chattering brightly.
As we passed Samson, my place at Rohan’s side cemented, he acknowledged my play with a slow head tilt.
I lifted my chin and sailed on.
/> Samson’s pick of bar was slick, pretentious, and exclusive. Quelle surprise. I handed off my jacket at the coat check and waltzed inside, Rohan by my side. “Gawd. Too much blue lighting, too many high-gloss surfaces, too many high-gloss people,” I said.
“And here I had you pegged as such a lover of humanity,” Rohan replied.
“Thank you for understanding that when I say I don’t like people, I’m not doing it to make polite conversation.”
“You know that’s not actually considered polite conversation, right?” With a small head shake, he strutted off.
After taking a moment to imprint the image of his tight ass on my retinas, I headed straight to the bar, ordering a shot of vodka from the pouty androgynous bartender. Instinct told me that if Samson didn’t approach me here I’d played my hand wrong. I pushed down my anxiety, imagining myself as an empty vessel, filling with confidence. When that didn’t work, I knocked back my drink. The booze burned sharp and clear down my throat. I liked it better served cold and smooth, but maybe the bite was for the best.
“Get you another?” Samson appeared at my side. He could have graced any magazine cover in his fitted chocolate brown shirt that made his blue eyes pop. It left me cold. He crowded me into the bar with his wide-legged stance.
Your cock doesn’t take up that much room, sugar. I clamped my lips together so I didn’t say that out loud and nodded.
He got the bartender’s attention, pointing at my drink. “Interesting design you got there.” Said casually but his eyes were sharp on my sunburst. “What’s the story?”
Alea iacta est. With a mental finger-cross that this roll didn’t come up snake eyes, I kept my expression impassive, pulling my neckline down a bit more as if to better see the entire design for myself. I traced a finger around the rays, letting it linger a moment on my cleavage.
Samson only had eyes for the design.
“Ever heard of Louis XIV?” I asked.
“Wrestler, right?” He laughed at my dismay. “Kidding. I manage to break up my Hollywood lifestyle of hookers and blow with the occasional book.”
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-3 (Nava Katz Box Set) Page 38