10

After dinner at a fusion restaurant, Stella walked with Michael down streets lined with posh department stores and skyscrapers bearing the names of large banks. Pedestrian traffic—one part tourist, one part native city dweller in Windbreakers, one part young partygoer dressed to the nines—choked the sidewalks and spilled onto the roads, where cars passed at a slow crawl.

This was the Bay Area at night, something she had never cared to experience. Surprisingly, she was having a good time. When it came to escorting, Michael was the full package. He was great both in and out of bed. His very public kisses should have embarrassed her, but instead, she’d loved them. Who wouldn’t love being kissed by Michael where people could see and admire and become green with envy? He held her hand every chance he got, and he was easy to talk to. She didn’t usually enjoy new things, but Michael made her feel safe. With him at her side, she was a part of this busy San Francisco night, not just an onlooker. There was something novel and wonderful about being in a crowd and not feeling alone.

They neared a set of red velvet ropes where scantily clad women and men in suits waited in long lines. A bouncer raked coldly appraising eyes over Stella’s body and face, making her lean into Michael.

“Is this the club?” she asked, feeling her anxiety resurface.

He wrapped an arm around her and nodded. To the bouncer, he said, “We should be on the list. The name is—”

The bouncer tipped his buzzed head toward the entrance. “Go on in.”

Michael brushed a kiss against her temple, tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and walked with her toward the front doors of 212 Fahrenheit. A third bouncer held the door open for them, nodding at Michael as they passed.

“They let us in because they think you’ll be good for business,” Michael whispered in her ear.

Her cheeks heated, and she tried not to let his words go to her head. She’d gotten her hair and makeup done for tonight. This wasn’t really her.

A decent number of people milled about the interior of the club, and she fisted her hands and gave herself a quick pep talk. She’d been to benefit dinners and work galas. This shouldn’t be a problem. The din of their conversations mixed with subdued electronic music and filled her ears. Thankfully, neither of those things was particularly loud. She could still think.

The space was one open room decorated in a minimalist modern style with exposed metal beams and sharp edges. A large bar occupied the back, and a DJ controlled the music from a crow’s nest on the adjacent wall. Seating was sparse and came in the form of upholstered booths centered around low metal tables. There were only four such arrangements, and two were occupied.

“I want one of those tables.” Her voice came out sure and steady, and the sound reassured her, loosened the knots in her stomach. She was doing fine.

“They’re not free.”

She slipped her credit card out from the top of her dress and handed it to Michael, laughing when he stared at her with a surprised grin. “I had nowhere else to put it.”

He slid his hands up her back and pulled her close. “What else is in there?” he asked as he peered at her modest show of cleavage.

“My driver’s license.”

“I have pockets, you know. You could have given me your cards and phone to hold for you.”

“I didn’t think of that. I left my phone at home because I couldn’t fit it in.” But now that she knew it was an option . . . This was why women had boyfriends.

Except he wasn’t her boyfriend.

Michael’s fingertip tucked beneath the bodice of her dress and skimmed across the front. It brushed inadvertently across a nipple, making her blood race and breast swell before he found the license and slipped it free. From the twinkle in his eye, she realized it hadn’t been an accident at all.

His expression softened as he swept his thumb over the photograph on her driver’s license. In the outdated picture, she looked young and extremely shy—an accurate description for the time. She liked to think she’d gained sophistication since then. Just look at where she was now.

“That was right after I finished my postdoc.”

“How old were you here?”

“Twenty-five.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up. “You look eighteen. Even now, you barely look legal.”

“Allow me to demonstrate how legal I am by drinking.”

Feeling drunk off success and empowerment, she marched to one of the empty tables and sat, eyes peeled for waitstaff. Michael tucked a hand into his pants pocket and strode toward her with a relaxed bearing worthy of the runway. All of him was worthy of the runway, but there was also something about that suit. It looked expensive and excellently tailored, yet somehow more chic than anything she’d ever seen on other men.

He stretched out next to her, close enough that their thighs pressed together, and propped his arm on the seat behind her. She liked that. A lot. It made her feel like he was staking a claim on her.

“What brand is this suit? I love it.” With the barest hesitation, she smoothed her hands over the lapels and crisp shoulders of the jacket.

Searching her eyes, he smiled a slow, beautiful smile. “It’s custom made.”

“My compliments to your tailor.” She checked the inside and was even more pleased when she couldn’t detect the bunching of hasty seams underneath the fine silk lining. Expert craftsmanship.

“I’ll tell him.”

“Maybe I should switch. Does he do women’s apparel? Is he terribly busy?” As she spoke, she couldn’t help running her palms down his chest, loving the firmness of his body beneath the starched cotton of his dress shirt.

“He is very busy.”

She sighed in disappointment. “My tailor is all right, but she thinks I’m crazy. She stabs me a lot, too. I’m not convinced it’s always an accident.”

His muscles tensed underneath her hands, and he sat up straighter. His voice had an angry edge as he asked, “You mean she stabs you on purpose?”

Was he upset . . . on her behalf? The thought sent warmth bubbling throughout her body, and whatever grudges she’d harbored against her vindictive tailor were forgotten.

“In her defense, I’m very picky. She calls me her diva client,” Stella said.

“That doesn’t make it okay. She should have better control of her pins. It’s not that hard. Even when I was ten, I still—” He pressed his lips together and raked a hand through his hair. “What things are you picky about?”

“Oh, well, I . . .” She drew her hands toward herself and laced them together so she couldn’t tap her fingers. “I’m particular about the way things feel on my skin. Tags and scratchy, lumpy seams, loose threads, places where the fabric is too tight or too loose. I’m not a diva, I’m just . . .”

“A diva,” he said with a teasing smirk.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Fine.”

A waitress in a short black skirt and a tight white top bearing the club’s logo sauntered to the table.

Michael handed her Stella’s credit card. “We’d like to reserve the table for the rest of the night. Water for me. Stella?”

He wasn’t drinking, too? She wasn’t sure she wanted to do it alone. “Something sweet, please.”

The waitress arched an eyebrow but gave a professional nod. “Coming right up.”

After the waitress disappeared, Michael explained, “I’m driving.”

She smiled. “I like this responsible side of you.”

“Michael is always responsible, aren’t you, man?” A stranger appeared out of nowhere, and Stella watched in awe as he helped himself to the sofa opposite them. He wore a tight black T-shirt over bulldog-hunched shoulders and kept his hair buzzed close to his scalp. She tried not to stare rudely at the intricate tattoos decorating his muscled arms and neck, but it was difficult. She’d never seen so many tattoos up close.

Michael sat forward. “Quan—”

The stranger gave Michael a hard look. “No, I get it. You must have lost your phone or something.” Switching his attention to Stella, he said, “I’m Quan, Michael’s favorite cousin and best friend.”

Cousin. Best friend. Her nerves jumped into high tension. She held her hand out over the table. “Stella Lane. Nice to meet you.”

He stared at her hand with an amused expression before he shook it and sprawled back against the sofa. “So he does have a girlfriend, after all. Let me guess, you’re a doctor.”

As she opened her mouth to correct him on both accounts, Michael wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against his side. “Stella’s an econometrician.”

She gazed up at him in confusion until she realized he was worried she’d divulge his escorting to his cousin. Then, she mentally rolled her eyes. Her social skills were bad, but they weren’t that bad.

Quan surprised her by leaning toward her with a bright expression. “That’s related to economics, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Has she met Janie yet?” he asked Michael.

Who was Janie?

But Michael didn’t appear to hear the question. His attention was focused on a petite blond woman seated at the bar. When she patted the empty bar stool next to her, he cursed under his breath and got to his feet. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Stella’s body went cold as she watched him stride to the bar. He sat on the indicated bar stool, and the blonde trailed her fingers down his arm. They spoke, but their words couldn’t be heard above the music and the noise from the growing crowd.

When had so many people arrived? Their numbers had almost doubled since she’d entered. More continued to file into the club in a steady stream.

“I-is that Janie?” she asked.

“I don’t know who that is, but it’s not Janie.” After glancing at Stella’s face, Quan smiled slightly. “He clearly didn’t want to talk to her, okay? You have nothing to worry about.”

But it didn’t feel like she had nothing to worry about. The blonde laughed at something Michael said and edged closer to him. Enviably luscious breasts flattened against his arm. Whatever happened next was blocked from view as people gathered around the bar.

“Are there usually this many people here?” Stella asked.

“Nah.” Quan rubbed at the scruff on his head and stretched his neck side to side. “This popular DJ is spinning tonight, so it’s busier than normal. The acoustics are really good here. Prepare to be blown away.”

She swallowed past a lump in her throat, and a sense of foreboding settled in her gut. Since when was being blown away a good thing? Hundreds of bodies packed the room now. Far more than she’d anticipated.

A grating electronic boom erupted from speakers built into the ceiling, and Stella’s heart lurched so hard her chest hurt. The room flashed red before flames began dancing up the walls. The crowd screamed with excitement while Stella struggled to breathe. Lasers and smoke. The grating receded, and ephemeral, orchestral sounds whispered over the room. Before she could attempt to relax, a beat picked up in the background, gaining speed with a slow buildup.

“Don’t look so scared,” Quan shouted. “That’s not real fire. It’s just LED lights and projectors.”

The waitress appeared out of thin air and plopped a drink onto the table. She said something, but Stella couldn’t hear it. In two blinks, the waitress vanished into the mass of moving bodies. The music worked toward some kind of climax, and the people grew agitated as it neared.

Stella picked up the drink and took a large gulp. Lemon, cherry, and amaretto. She wished it were vodka, or, better yet, straight ethanol. It would work faster that way.

Quan gave her an amused look. “Thirsty?”

She nodded.

Loud digital sirens screeched, silence hung over the room for a good five seconds, and a melody cascaded from the speakers. Without warning, the bass resumed at a frantic, adrenaline-inducing speed. The crowd went wild.

Her heart pounded in a dizzying rush, and fear threatened to swamp her. Too much noise. Too much frenzy. She bottled up her emotions and buried them deep inside herself, forced herself to take slow breaths. As long as she looked calm on the outside, she was winning this. The music raced, but time crawled.

The bodies shifted so she got a clear view of the bar. The blonde was playing with the collar of Michael’s shirt, leaning in too close.

She sealed her lips over his.

Stella flinched like someone had slapped her. She waited for him to push the woman away. She waited for what felt like ages, waited until the crowd moved again and blocked her view.

Acid and amaretto climbed up the back of her throat.

She needed to find a place to vomit. She forced her way into the crowd, pushed through bodies swaying to the rapid tempo. The music bombarded her. Lights strobed. Sour body odor, cologne, alcoholic breath. Hard limbs and pointed joints.

Was Michael still kissing that woman?

Her eyes flooded with tears. The bodies formed a cage around her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t cry for help.

A hand closed around hers.

Michael?

No, it was Quan.

He shoved people aside. A woman swore at him when he made her spill her drink. A guy shoved him back. Quan merely elbowed the guy to the side and brushed past. Through it all, his hold on her hand remained secure and steady. He led her through the people, opened a door, and cool, sweet air floated over her face.

The door clicked shut, muting the music. Someone was gasping. The flashing light was gone. She covered her eyes and sank down to the cold cement. Her trembling legs refused to take her weight.

“Thank you,” she made herself say.

“Are you all right?”

“Going to throw up.” Her nails clawed at the sidewalk as she tried to find a suitable place to be sick. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

“Easy, easy. Slow breaths.” He moved as if to touch her but stopped when she flinched away. “Sit up straight. That’s it. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

Who was gasping like that? The sound was driving her out of her mind.

“Hold on. Let me go get Michael.”

“Don’t.” She grabbed his wrist. “I’m fine.” She leaned back against the side of the building and turned her face into it. The coldness felt good on her fevered forehead, distracted her from thinking about Michael with that woman. Michael kissing that woman.

With her mouth almost touching the wall, the sound of the gasping grew louder, and she realized it was coming from her.

She gritted her teeth together, fisted her hands, and tightened every muscle in her body. The gasping stopped.

“Do you need anything?” Quan asked.

“I’m fine. I’m just overstimulated.” She was already feeling better, though her temples throbbed.

Quan tilted his head to the side. “My brother used to get overstimulated just like this. He’s autistic.”

Her chest constricted at his words. She shouldn’t have used the word overstimulated. Most people didn’t use it. Why would they? When he narrowed his eyes, she could almost see the connections being made in his mind, the question forming there.

She held her breath and hoped he wouldn’t ask. She could withhold the truth, but she’d never learned how to lie.

“Are you?”

Her shoulders slumped, and her throat burned with shame. She made herself nod.

“Michael doesn’t know, does he? He never would’ve taken you here if he knew. You should tell him.”

All she could do was shake her head. Anytime people learned about her disorder, they started walking on eggshells around her. It strained the relationship until they found a way to leave. She never told people anymore. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to keep some from figuring it out on their own.

“Can I borrow a hundred dollars from you, please? I want to go home.” And her credit card was inside.

“You’re going to leave? Michael’s probably looking for you.”

She doubted that. He’d been busy. As she pushed herself to her feet, she marveled at the disconnect between her body and her mind. How could her limbs still follow orders when her head felt so tired and hollow? “I promise I’ll pay you back.”

“Is this because that chick kissed him? I hope you saw Michael trying to peel her off. He sucks at protecting himself from women.”

Hope sparked, bright and foolish. “Really?”

The door opened, and a swift techno beat radiated from the doorway.

“There you are.” Michael stepped outside, and the door shut behind him, silencing the music. His gaze jumped from her to Quan and back again. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I needed some fresh air.”

Quan’s brow furrowed like he wanted to speak, and Stella held her breath.

Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him.

He’d change. Everything would change. And she didn’t want that to happen yet.

“She was trying to borrow cab fare from me. She saw you and that blonde necking and wanted to run,” Quan said.

Her stomach didn’t know if it should relax or knot tighter at his words. He made her sound emotional and possessive. She wished it weren’t true.

“You were going to leave? Just like that?” Michael asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

She stared down at the pavement. “I thought you and her—that you—”

“No. With you right there? Give me some credit, will you? God, Stella.”

He gripped her waist and pulled her against him. His smell, his arms tight around her, his solid presence. Heaven. She shut her eyes and sagged against him.

“Do you want to go back in?” he asked.

“No.” Adrenaline shot through her body, tightening every muscle that had relaxed in his embrace. As an afterthought, she added, “Please.”

“Let’s go home, then.”