I pulled out another hundred and handed it to him. “Drive,” I repeated.
He did. And as he pulled back into traffic, I noticed a black Lexus by the curb across the street. The same one? I shifted in my seat, intending to get a better look, but the cabbie’s demand to know where we were heading pulled my attention away.
“Someplace loud,” I said. “With a dance floor. And tequila. And not one single person I know.”
“Gotta be more specific than that, sugar.”
I pulled out my phone. “Give me a second,” I said, wondering how the hell folks survived in the Dark Ages before smart phones.
The Poodle Dog Lounge seemed like the best of a ragtag collection of possible clubs. It was located on a relatively run-down block right on the edge of Wrigleyville, but was well-lit enough to reassure me that I’d be safe getting from the cab to the door. I wanted an adrenaline rush, yes, but not the kind that came from avoiding thugs in dark alleys or drug deals in shadowed corners.
And, just in case the club wasn’t set up to hail taxis, I tucked the cabbie’s card in my purse. “My friend got your card, too, didn’t he?”
“Sure did, sugar.”
I held out a twenty. “This is to buy me a message. If he calls you, you tell him you dropped me at home, and the last time you saw me, I was heading into the lobby.”
“Not too sure I feel right about that, little girl.”
I managed not to roll my eyes, then pulled out yet another twenty. “Feel better now?”
He plucked the bills from my fingers. “Honey, I’m feeling just fine.”
I stood on the sidewalk to get my bearings and was a little surprised when the burly bouncer at the head of the line waved me over. To be honest, I was even more surprised there was a line, especially on a Wednesday. I hadn’t exactly selected a high-class club in a high-class neighborhood. Then again, any club that wanted a shot at being thought of as cool needed to at least go through the motions of being exclusive. And apparently this one had killer drink specials on Wednesdays and live music from some legitimately up-and-coming bands.
“You on your own, beautiful?”
I raised a brow. “So what if I am?”
The bouncer waved a hand, indicating the door. “No cover for single ladies with an ass as sweet as yours.”
I wavered between rolling my eyes and thanking him, and ended up doing neither. I did, however, accept his invitation and headed inside as the eyes of the still-waiting women—some conspicuously single—burned a hole in my apparently fine ass.
The inside of the club was exactly what I’d hoped for. Dark and loud and semi-sleazy, with a crowd congregated around the bar and a mass of bodies on the dance floor. I stood out a bit in my funeral-black sheath and pumps, but I didn’t much care. I wanted a drink. I wanted the music. And I wanted to lose myself on the dance floor, eyes closed, body moving, and my imagination running wild.
I wanted escape, dammit. And right then, this place was the best that I could do.
I sucked in my stomach and turned sideways to squeeze through the crowd toward the bar, a journey that was at least as treacherous as crossing Lake Shore Drive against the light. When I finally reached the polished-but-sticky oak bar, I held up my finger to get the bartender’s attention, and quickly learned that while my sweet ass may have gained me admittance to this den of iniquity, after that, the perks fell off considerably.
“Fuck,” I cursed, after the bartender hurried by in front of me for a third time without even sparing me a glance. The word held more venom than the situation probably called for, and I realized that not only was I irritated by my utter lack of alcohol, but I was also just generally angry. At my uncle for dying. At the universe for taking him. At Evan for getting me worked up, and at myself for fantasizing about a man I couldn’t have and shouldn’t want. And at Kevin, for not actually being the man I wanted.
“Fuck it,” I repeated, then pushed away from the bar. I didn’t need the drink, all I needed was the buzz, and I weaved my way onto the dance floor and edged in next to a drunk blonde who was on the verge of a wardrobe malfunction. She was dancing with two guys—or, more accurately, they were dancing with her. Her eyes were shut, her head back. As far as I could tell, she was entirely oblivious to their attention.
I let my body absorb the music, channeling my roiling emotions into the pounding thrum, letting the beat blast through me as I eased in, only inches from a bruiser of a guy with a buzz cut and bare arms that sported some of the most impressive snake-and-dagger tattoos I’d ever seen. His eyes caught mine, and he grinned, a familiar, hungry expression on his face. Because I was in that kind of mood, I danced closer, arms above my head, hips swaying. Getting close, but not touching. Teasing and playing.
Apparently, Bruiser wanted more than a tease, because he moved in. He smelled of alcohol and tobacco and lust, and though I wasn’t the least bit interested in getting naked with him, I was more than happy to dance-flirt, feeling my blood pumping in my veins. Feeling alive. Because I was tired, so damn tired, of feeling numb, and when he put his hands on my waist and tugged me close, I closed my eyes and gyrated to the music. I wasn’t there with this guy. I was somewhere else. With someone else.
Hell, maybe I even was someone else.
Because that was the trick, wasn’t it? When I let myself go, I was getting out of my skin. Shedding the guilt and the pain and all the damn secrets and—fuck it.
With desperate abandon, I pressed my body hard against his. He let out a low moan of pleasure and cupped my ass, pulling me tight against him so that there was no mistaking his arousal.