A door slams against the brick wall, and I jump, reaching for the mace I keep clipped to my purse. Except I don’t have it—the purseorthe mace—because Steph forced me to leave my bag behind.It didn’t match my outfit. She’s going to be the reason I die, I just knowit.
A disheveled man steps onto the stairs. He unzips his fly, pulls out his dick, and pisses on the groundwhilewhistling at us. If that’s not flattering, I don’t know whatis.
Steph’s about ten yards ahead of me with her nose to her phone. I run after her, my shoes clacking over the concrete and echoing all around. I realize I’m as unbalanced as a newborn gazelle, and if there is some crazed madman in this passageway, I’m the wounded prey he’safter.
“If we end up with our dismembered body parts in garbage bags…” I’m out of breath when I stop behind her. “So help meGod...”
“If we end up in trash bags, Godwill behelping us—right through the gates of hell.” She steps out of the shortcut and onto a deserted part of 49thStreet.
This isn’t much better than thealley.
Steph glances around before returning her attention to her phone. “Huh.”
“We’re lost, aren’twe?”
“No.” She shrugs a shoulder and points across the street. “It’s rightthere.”
Sure enough, a neon sign flickers directly across from us: The Lion’s Den. Any halfway decent club in New York City will have a line a mile long on a Friday night. The Lion’s Den, however, does not. I’m too busy staring at the lack of activity, waiting on the crosswalk to change, to notice Steph jaywalking over to the club. I don’t want to be left alone, so I check both ways and bolt afterher.
I stumble over the uneven sidewalk, catching myself on Steph’s arm. “The fact that there’s not a line worries me alittle.”
Two men in suits step in front of us. Goliath guarding the entrance doesn’t bother to check IDs, just waves them in. “There’s the line,” Stephsays.
I take another look at the sign. “Where did you meet thisguy?”
“Thesubway.”
“The… Please tell me you mean the subshop.”
She waves me off with a flick of herwrist.
I scowl, my mouth gaping. “Okay…do you mean he wasridingon the subway or possiblyresidingin thesubway.”
“I mean, he’s hot. Does itmatter?”
I close my eyes and release a displeased groan. “How are you stillalive?”
The gnarly bouncer doesn’t smile when we approach. I give him a once-over, and my insides shiver a little. He’s bald. He has a scar on his cheek. A wild gleam in his eye.Stereotypical crazy bouncer. Men in suits. Deserted alley in New York. Two women in tight clothing and heels.This is just like an episode of CSI, one where I would call the character an idiot for waltzing in, and yet, the second he waves us past, I’m right behind Steph. Safer inside than out, Iguess.
The door closes, plunging us into darkness. The sweet, cherry scent of cigar smoke lingers heavily in the entrance. A velvet curtain hangs at the end of the hallway, a sliver of light creeping out around the edges. Steph pushes it to the side, and we step into a large room. The gaudy, crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling bathes the room in a warm glow where men recline in leather armchairs with cigars pinched between their lips and whiskey glasses in hand. And a Victorian bar that appears to have come from Buckingham Palace sits along the backwall.
This place screamsmoney.
“I’m guessing the guy wasn’t living in the subway then…” I mumble under mybreath.
“Yep, my guess is no.” Steph pulls out an empty stool and takes a seat in front of the magnificent bar. I follow suit. “Now we just have to find Don andTom.”
I snort. “Don.”
“What’s wrong withDon?”
“It sounds like a name for a middle-agedman.”
“Heisa middle-aged man.” She narrows her eyes. “We’remiddle-aged, Charlie.Remember?”
“Fuck.” I drop my chin on a sigh and then spot the beginnings of a spider vein on my exposed thigh. “And why am I here instead ofDani?”
“One, Tom likes brunettes. Two, she said she had PMS rage. Those were her exactwords.”
