Page 10 of Dublin Beast
I feel their gazes lingering and it makes my skin crawl. Men are openly sizing me up, whispering behind half-full glasses of expensive booze in cut crystal.
Two men near the bar exchange glances before turning their attention to me fully, like I’m suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. Their gazes grope my body with the kind of clinical assessment that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with transaction.
Jamie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
I keep my expression neutral, but my pulse kicks up. This is exactly what I’ve been working toward, but there’s something about being observed like this, physically appraised, that makes me itch for an exit.
Jamie leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Let’s grab a drink.”
I nod, schooling my features into something composed. I can play this game, too. As we sidle up toward the bar, I scan the room, casually noting possible escape routes. If this goes badly, will they try to stop me?
The bartender doesn’t ask for our order. A glass of amber liquid appears in front of Jamie, and a sleek-stemmed cocktail is placed in front of me. The liquid inside my glass is pale pink, smells sweetly fruity, and is garnished with a twist of orange.
I stare at it.
“You don’t like gin?” Jamie asks, watching me over the rim of his glass. His smile is relaxed but his gaze is calculating beneath the veneer of casual interest.
“I don’t like drinking something I didn’t order.”
He chuckles, unfazed. “Smart.” He lifts my glass in a silent toast before taking a sip. When he swallows, he sets it back down in front of me. “But sometimes, Harper, you have to trust the experience.”
“Trust is earned,” I counter smoothly, holding his gaze. The club lights catch in his eyes, making them flash with something I can’t quite read.
His smirk deepens, and for the first time tonight, I see a flicker of something else in his eyes. Something darker. And just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, replaced by that practiced charm he’s been showing me all night.
I stir the drink with my index finger and casually glance at my painted nail. My Undercover Color nail polish will detect common date rape drugs likeRohypnol, Xanax, andGHB. The color doesn’t change, but that doesn’t mean much—there are plenty of substances beyond its detection range.
He did take a sip to ease my suspicions...
But he could have easily taken an antidote if my drink is actually laced with something.
“Harper? Everything all right?”
Jamie is staring at me, watching, waiting. Right, because this is why I’m here. This is the moment that tests my commitment to finding out what happened to Macie and Chantal…to Zhara and who knows how many other girls who have fallen prey to the men in this city.
I lift the rim of the glass to my lips and tip it back, taking an unguarded drink. He needs to think he has me on the hook or this won’t work. The gin is top shelf, the mix perfectly balanced.
When nothing starts to spin or get weird by the time I’m swallowing the last of my drink, I figure it was a test. And thankfully, I passed.
We don’t stay long after that. Jamie downs his drink in one slow swallow, then takes my hand—not forcefully, but with enough control to make it clear I’m supposed to follow. His fingers are cool against mine, his grip light but unmistakably proprietary.
The club spills out into another alley, quieter than the first. My boots click against the damp pavement as we weave through a maze of backstreets until Jamie stops in front of a solid wooden door, its only marker a brass knocker in the shape of a fox’s head. The detail is intricate, the antique-looking metal polished to a soft gleam.
He raps twice. A panel slides open, revealing a pair of sharp, dark brown eyes. A beat later, the door swings inward, and we step through.
The speakeasy is nothing like the club.
The air is thick with cigar smoke and low laughter. The scent of expensive whiskey mingles with leather and polished wood. It’s smaller, more intimate, the kind of place where power moves in whispers instead of shouts. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over everything, softening edges but hiding nothing.
This crowd is older, men in crisp suits and women draped in velvet and diamonds. No flashing lights, no pounding music—just the quiet hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of ice against glass. Money hangs in the air around us, as tangible as the exotic smoke of imported cigars.
Jamie’s grip on my wrist is gone, but the weight of his presence lingers. He guides me through the room with a casual confidence, acknowledging people with a nod or a murmured greeting. I catch fragments of names, titles, and the occasional comment that sounds more like innuendo.
And again, the lingering gazes.
Men glance at me, some subtle, others not. One near the bar lets his gaze drag over me, slow and deliberate, before he leans to whisper something to the man beside him. They both chuckle, but don’t look away.
The weight of their assessment skims over my flesh like a physical touch and I fight not to recoil. I lift my chin, holding their stares until they break it first. I’ve faced down worse than middle-aged men with too much money and too little respect.
