by Logan Fox
“No, Jesus,” Lars managed. He cleared his throat, beckoned for the bottle of soda water, and nearly emptied it. He handed the last inch back to Dean as he let the liquid fizz away in his mouth. Then he swallowed hard and said, “She stuck him in the heart, sliced his throat, and then kind of skewered one of his eyes.”
Dean’s eyes were wide behind his mask. Lars thought this would bring on another laughing fit, but instead the man took a somber drink of water, lifting his mask and revealing a wide, curving mouth. He looked young, perhaps only a few years older than Lars.
“Mother have mercy…now I really want to meet her,” Dean said, tossing the now empty soda bottle over the chain fence. “Is she as hot as everyone says?”
“Yeah,” Lars replied, sobering. “That she is.”
“So you like, work for her?” Dean asked.
He looked at the man, feeling a prickle of unease working its way down his spine. But then Dean’s eyes glittered as he smiled, and he realized he was just getting paranoid from the weed again.
“I do,” Lars said.
“Could you…could you introduce me?” Dean asked, sitting forward a little like a kid who couldn’t wait for Christmas morning.
“Nah…” Lars waved a hand. “I would, but tonight’s supposed to be very—” he tapped the mask where it rested on the top of his head “—anonymous, you know?”
“Why?” Dean asked. “I’d have thought the two new capos would want to show off. Let everyone know who’s in charge. That kind of stuff.”
Lars shrugged. “I think they’re still feeling out who’s loyal and who’s not.”
“Ah, like El Guapo’s crew. You think some of them are still around? Like lank pissed ‘cos the new capo offed him?”
Lars nodded, and rubbed his eyelids with his fingers. He wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes were bloodshot. Dean’s looked a little red, as much as he could see through the mask’s eye holes.
“Oh, hey…” Dean lifted a finger and stuck a hand in his suit again. “You feel like partying?”
The man pulled out a small zip lock bag, barely an inch across. Inside were several small off-white pills.
“Molly?” Lars asked, taking the bag from him and inspecting the pills through the plastic.
“Yeah. Good ones, apparently.”
“Shit, I really shouldn’t…” Lars began.
Dean snatched the bag back from him, peeled it open, and took out one of the pills. “I shouldn’t either, but I’ll be fucked if I’m going to hang around here all night sober.” He stabbed a thumb behind him. “You hear that music playing earlier?” He put his hands into fists and twisted his shoulders, mimicking dancing where he sat. “It’s calling my fucking name.”
Christ, it was calling his, too. Lars licked his lips, staring down at the bag where it dangled from Dean’s fingers.
“Yeah…maybe just—”
But he’d been too focused on the drugs, and not on Dean. The man had slipped off his mask, baring a strikingly handsome face. When Lars looked up, he froze.
Dean gave him a coy wink, popped a pill in his mouth, and darted forward.
Their lips met in a violent kiss that Lars reared back from in surprise. But Dean’s hand found the back of his neck, dragging him back.
Bitter pharmaceuticals mingled with weed-sweet saliva as Dean’s tongue slid between his teeth.
Fuck, why the hell wasn’t he pushing this guy away? What was wrong with him?
But his body refused to obey the frantic signals for him to retreat. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of long, dark hair, and ground his mouth harder against Dean’s.
Dean tipped his head forward, breaking off their kiss as they both panted for breath.
Bitterness filled Lars’s mouth, and he hurriedly swallowed the pill Dean had left behind before it would make him puke. As it was, a shudder tore through him, his fist clenching reflexively in the man’s hair.
God, he was one sick puppy. How was he ever going to make this up to Cora? To Finn? He tried to untangle his hand, but Dean moved his head, coming up for a second kiss. Gentler this time. Teasing, almost.
“I can’t—” Lars began, speaking through their kiss.
A hand slid up his leg, cupping his dick. “I don’t know…” Dean murmured. “It definitely feels like you can.”
“No, it’s not…I mean—”
“What’s she wearing tonight?” Dean asked, his lips sliding over Lars’s jaw and brushing against his earlobe.
“Who?”
“Eleodora.” A tongue ran over his ear, sending a wave of hedonistic anticipation flooding through him. “What’s she wearing? A mask?”
“No,” Lars said, and he had no idea why. In fact, he didn’t know why any of this was happening. Sure, the guy was hot as fuck, but he had more willpower than this. Tons more. He had a hard on, but it felt distant - like it belonged on someone else.
The world grew soft around him. The air thick and cloying.
Ecstasy didn’t kick in this fast.
“What…” his mouth wasn’t working properly. His lips were sluggish. “What did you give me…?”
Dean pulled back, hazel eyes darting over Lars’s face before settling on his mouth. He drew an audible breath, letting it wash over Lars’s face as he exhaled. “Fuck, I wish I had more time. We could have had so much fun together…you and I.”
His voice was different. Even the way he spoke.
Why was everything so dark? Was it night already?
Lars tried lifting a hand, but it batted clumsily against Dean’s upper arm. He grabbed Lars’s wrist, manipulating his hand so Lars was grabbing his dick through his suit.
It was as hard as his was.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other again,” Dean murmured, eyelids fluttering as if Lars’s limp touch was turning him on even more. “Of course, you won’t remember me, will you?”
Why wouldn’t he remember this guy? He’d never be able to forget such a handsome face. Such mesmerizing eyes.
Dean stood, groaning as he yanked his suit pants straight. “Fuck,” he said, and then drew air through his teeth.
Then he crouched again, all in a rush.
Lars would have pulled back if he could, but his body was no longer responding to him. It was growing colder, too. Darkness creeping in from all sides.
Dean grabbed his chin, tipping his head back as he washed a warm, lascivous smile over him. “Simon says, go to sleep.”
20
Is me!
Zachary adjusted his cloak so it shielded most of his clothing, draping him in darkness. The sheer size and audacity of this festival surprised him. Obviously, neither of ECV’s new capos felt the need for discretion. A masquerade it might be, but party-favor masks did a poor job of hiding anyone’s identity. Even with his wolf mask, he felt too exposed where he stood on the threshold of the large dining hall.
He’d always been able to move in the shadows; a skill he’d taught himself at a young age. Sometimes, it would mean the difference between an evening of humiliation and simply another sleepless night.
He scanned the mask of every patron in sight, but he couldn’t see the one he was looking for. He was about to move through the dining hall, heading for the thundering dance floor, when a voice called out over the din.
“Princesa!”
Zachary paused before turning, ensuring that the movement looked natural.
There, a few yards away, stood a young woman with a painted face, a tall block of a man, and a third, more diminutive figure.
He was too far away to hear the rest of the exchange, but he saw the man in the devil mask clutch the woman’s hand reverentially before the beast beside her stepped in. Then the two of them swept up the stairs and disappeared into a passageway.
He’d recognized both the woman and the hulking man beside her.
One had killed Ailin. The other, Rodrigo.
Eleodora Rivera and her bodyguard. One of two, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Where
the hell was Duncan?
Zachary slipped his phone from his shirt pocket and made a quick call. It was the seventh of the evening to the same number, and it harbored the same results.
This is Duncan. You know what to do.
Zachary strode back the way he’d come, glancing down the passage. Much further down the hall, Eleodora and her bodyguard were conversing with a third man. Neither looked in his direction as he turned and headed for the front door.
He spotted the guest registry, where the third of Eleodora’s clutch of bodyguards had left it; oh, yes, he’d recognized the pretty man who’d ushered him inside.
The man hadn’t recognized him though. Ignatius had been dull enough to circumvent suspicion.
Most of the names in the register had been struck through, but Dean—Ignatius’s plus one—hadn’t.
So it was confirmed; something had happened to Duncan. Zachary was on his own.
Zachary tapped the register with a finger, glancing at the hotel’s front door and then back to the curtains that led deeper into the hotel.
She was so close, he could almost sense her presence. But, if he chose to go forward with his plan, it could mean exposing himself to ECV. Of all the guests here, he could safely assume that at least half were loyal to the new capos.
Dean had been crucial to his plan. A necessary distraction. Now he had to get close to Eleodora without her suspecting him…and he had no idea who she would allow entry into her inner circle of bodyguards. Would the plan he’d set up with Martin’s son still work out in his favor? He still had his copy of the hotel’s front door key—he could use it now and leave without being detected.
And without Eleodora.
Zachary hissed out a breath and strode back through the curtains, intent on one last look through the crowd in case Duncan had somehow gotten inside.
In the yard of darkness between the curtain and the steps leading into the dining hall, Zachary bumped shoulders with someone.
“Lo promito,” the man said, his voice indicating he was already a few steps past Zachary.
He recognized that voice. He’d heard it only a few minutes ago.
“Por favor,” Zachary called back, turning around to the man.
“Que?”
“Uh…” Zachary attempted a fumbled phrase in Spanish, and then laughed at himself. “Bathroom? Restroom?”
“Si, si,” the man said, solidifying into a shadow that walked past Zachary. “I show you,” the man said.
Just before he faced forward, light from the passage they headed into caught on the man’s mask.
Zachary returned the devil’s leering grin with a smile. “Mucho gracias,” he murmured.
21
Wanna party?
They’d almost arrived at the ballroom when Cora heard Finn murmur, “You get hold of Lars?” behind her back.
Her skin prickled with unease. She turned, staring at Bailey as he and Finn slowed.
Bailey shook his head. “Should we be worried?”
“Yes,” Finn said. “He should have been here by now.”
“Maybe he saw us leaving the den,” Bailey said, turning to scan the crowd. “Thought the meeting was over.”
“No.” Finn glanced at Cora, and she could see the concern in his eyes.
She stepped closer, laying a hand on his chest. “Go. Bailey will stay with me.”
“I can’t leave—” Finn began.
“I said go.” Cora intensified her gaze, willing Finn to listen to her.
It worked. That, or he was really worried about Lars. He grabbed Bailey’s arm, turning him around. “You don’t let her leave your sight.” He unclipped Bailey’s radio from his belt and thumped it into the man’s chest as he moved past. “And keep checking in.”
“Sure,” Bailey said, but Finn was already moving through the crowd. Or, more accurately, the crowd was moving around him like a river around a partly-submerged boulder.
“Come on,” Cora said, tugging at the sleeve of Bailey’s suit. “Let’s go dance.”
It was that, or stand here worrying until Finn came back. And her stomach was already queasy with wondering where the hell Lars had disappeared to.
Maybe he was in the bathroom. Bad caviar or something. The meeting had only lasted like ten minutes—
The thought cut off, eviscerated by the feel of someone’s eyes on her.
Cora spun around, searching the crowd. Everyone wore a mask, making it impossible to tell who was merely facing in her direction, and whose eyes were fixed on her.
She shrugged her shoulders, walking a little faster.
“What’s the rush?” Bailey called, grasping her wrist so she’d slow down.
“I want to dance,” she called back, knowing she sounded like a petulant child, but not caring.
It wasn’t that the gaze had been unsettling; quite the opposite. It reminded her of how she felt every time she dreamed about that man in the restaurant. The one who’d sketched her.
The—quite possibly—DEA agent.
“Hey, did you speak to your guy yet?” Cora asked, halting on the edge of the dance floor.
Music thumped around them. Bailey ducked his head, putting his mouth by her ear as he yelled, “What?”
“Your guy!” Cora let out a frustrated growl and tugged Bailey into one of the small alcoves dotting the ballroom, sliding into the faded velvet booth.
“And now?” Bailey asked, sliding in beside her.
“Your guy. The one who has connections in the DEA.” Cora gripped Bailey’s hand, squeezing it. “Did you speak to him?”
Bailey cleared his throat. “Her, actually.”
Cora blinked, her chin moving back an inch. “I thought you said it was a guy?”
“I, uh…I’m still waiting to hear back,” Bailey said.
She tilted her head. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” She searched his face, but he looked away. “Bailey?”
Instead of answering her, he took out his radio and checked in with Finn.
No sight of Lars yet.
“Bailey, it’s okay,” Cora said, trying to lighten her voice. “I don’t care if it’s a—”
“Let’s dance,” Bailey cut in. He turned to the crowd, and then grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the booth. “I think I see Ana!”
He dragged her onto the dance floor, and maneuvered through the crowd until he stepped aside and tugged Cora up alongside Ana.
The girl was oblivious; she had her arms around a man’s waist, the two of them dancing close, eyes shut and bodies glued together.
Cora watched for a few seconds, and then had to look away.
Damn, that was just what she needed. She turned to Bailey, and bumped into his chest. Laughing, she grabbed him to keep her balance, and he drew her flush against him.
The track booming through the ballroom’s impressive sound system switched to something hard and primal.
Bailey dipped his hips, gripping her tight against him, and began moving to the rhythm.
She had no idea he could dance so well. Cora grinned up at him, her hands on the back of his neck as their bodies moved fluidly against each other, matching each heavy thump of bass pounding through the speakers.
Bailey slid his hands down her back, grabbing her ass and forcing her harder against him. Then he ducked his head for a kiss.
She surfaced minutes later, when an angry warble came through on Bailey’s radio. They extracted themselves from their passionate embrace, Bailey taking a step back, and then holding up a finger to her. “Be back in a sec,” he said. “You stay with Ana.” Then he worked his way out through the crowd.
Cora watched him go. But when she turned, Ana’s blond head was moving away from her.
“Ana!” The bass vibrated through her as she took a few hurried steps after Ana. But, a few seconds later, the crowd had closed over the woman.
Even wearing stilettos, Cora wasn’t tall enough to see over the crowd.
“Shit,” she muttered, sp
inning back to see if Bailey was headed back yet.
A shiver broke out over her skin. It could have been her cooling sweat—the dance and Bailey’s kiss must have ratcheted up her core temperature by several degrees—but somehow she knew it wasn’t.
Eyes were on her again.
Familiar eyes.
Cora spun around, gaze darting furiously from face to face.
She shouldn’t be here. Not alone, not like this. If she moved to the outside of the frantic, dancing crowd, then she’d find Bailey and she could stick with him. Or even Ana.
Damn it, she hated being scared.
Inhaling a deep breath, she pushed back her shoulders. Then she closed her eyes, and began to dance.
She’d only just lost herself in the tribal thump-thump-thump of a new track when something brushed her bare arms.
Flinching, Cora’s eyes popped open.
No one was watching her.
She pivoted on her heels and would have toppled over as she lost her balance had it not been for the stranger standing behind her, ready to catch her.
Cora staggered, found her balance, and completely failed to pull herself free from the man who’d steadied her.
He wore a fanciful mask that covered his whole face, one half happy, the other sad. The eye slits cast deep shadows over his eyes.
She heard a noise come from him. Had he said something? It was impossible to tell; just as little of his mouth was visible under the mask.
“Did you say something?” she yelled.
He leaned closer, the cool surface of his mask brushing her cheek as he spoke into her ear.
“I said I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said.
His voice sent a tremble through her. It was rich and sonorous, arrogant almost.
She turned slightly toward him, putting her mouth by his ear. “You didn’t,” came her immediate reply.
She caught a whiff of his spicy cologne.
His hair was long, dark and shaggy.
Just like the man’s from the restaurant.
Or had his been brown?
It was too dark in here, in the ballroom. What light there was bounced around the crowd like a playful puppy, spinning and dancing on everyone’s faces when they turned to cheer on the DJ.