“Grab a seat,” Fang says to me, nodding toward the table. He walks over to Trixie and murmurs something only she can hear. She giggles before reaching up, exposing her taut belly and the underside of her braless tits as she grabs two bowls. To his credit, he doesn’t ogle her boobs, but I’m still annoyed. This all feels like a giant waste of time.
“When’s Vapor coming back?” I ask.
“Couple of hours.”
I sigh. There’s no point in trying to hurry anything along. I’m stuck on the club’s timeline now. I just hope the cartel isn’t moving Rory while I’m sitting around waiting for help.
Trixie ladles chili into each bowl with a flourish, spilling drops onto the counter without bothering to wipe them up. She distributes the bowls at the table, placing Fang’s with a lingering touch to his arm, and mine with barely a glance.
We settle at one end of the long table, Trixie positioning herself directly across from Fang, her elbows propped on the wooden surface in a way that maximizes her cleavage display. I sit to Fang’s right, maintaining a clear view of the kitchen entrance.
The chili is aggressively spiced, more flavor than heat, but I’m hungry enough not to care. I eat methodically, watching as Trixie performs her mating ritual—laughing too loudly at anything Fang says, touching her hair, leaning forward to give him the full benefit of her enhanced assets. She eats with her mouth partially open, talking through bites, a piece of meat caught briefly on her lower lip before she licks it away with a pointed glance at Fang.
“So how long have you known our Fang?” she asks me, the question casual but her eyes sharp.
“Long enough,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. I have no interest in feeding the gossip machine. If there are more like her lurking around this place, I’d better be careful about what I say.
Trixie’s sugary-sweet perfume wafts across the table each time she moves. It makes my nose itch, but I resist the urge to sneeze. My mother used to say you could tell a lot about a person by their perfume. When I was fifteen, I tried a fruity body spray for the first time. All the girls at school were wearing scented lotions. I just wanted to fit in, so I picked up a cheap body mist from the drugstore. Mom said I smelled like a cheap dessert, easy to consume, and easy to forget.
“Fang’s our resident genius,” she continues, oblivious to my disinterest. “Aren’t you, baby? The things he can do with a computer.” She giggles, as if technology is somehow innately hilarious. “It’s like magic to me. I can barely work my phone.”
I doubt that’s true. Women like Trixie are usually far more capable than they let on. Playing dumb is a survival strategy. I understand that, even though I’ve never used it. My employers would have killed me if they thought I was stupid.
Fang eats steadily, acknowledging Trixie’s chatter with occasional grunts that she somehow interprets as encouragement. He’s mastered the art of seeming to pay attention while his mind is clearly elsewhere. I do the same thing.
Trixie dabs at her mouth with a napkin, leaving a crimson smudge of lipstick. “You should’ve seen what Fang did last month when some asshole tried to hack our security system. He tracked them back to their house and sent them a little surprise.” She laughs again, a sound like breaking glass. “I wish I could have seen the looks on their faces when those pigs showed up to bust them for drug running!”
This actually earns a small smile from Fang, the first genuine expression I’ve seen from him. “It wasn’t that complicated.”
“Don’t be modest,” Trixie says, reaching across to squeeze his forearm. “You’re a fucking genius.”
Her nails are acrylic talons painted neon pink, tapping against his skin like impatient insects. I find myself staring at them, calculating how quickly they would break if she had to defend herself or type on a keyboard. Impractical. Like so much about her.
I finish my chili and push the bowl away slightly, the ceramic scraping against wood. Trixie’s bowl is still half-full, forgotten as she continues her one-woman show for Fang’s benefit. She twirls a strand of her platinum hair around her finger, head tilted at an angle designed to display the column of her throat.
“The chili was good,” I say, more to interrupt the performance than out of genuine compliment. “Thank you.”
Trixie looks momentarily surprised, as if she’d forgotten I could speak. “Oh. You’re welcome.” She turns immediately back to Fang. “I was thinking maybe after dinner we could watch that movie you mentioned last week? The one with the hackers? I bought some microwave popcorn…”
Fang’s eyes flick to me, then back to Trixie. “Not tonight. I’ve got work to do.”
The rejection is gentle but firm. Trixie’s smile falters for just a second before she reconstructs it, brighter than before to compensate for the crack in her façade.
“Maybe tomorrow then,” she says, voice slightly too high. She stands, collecting the bowls with a clatter. “You two probably have boring computer stuff to talk about anyway.”
As she carries the dishes to the sink, I catch Fang watching her with what might be pity. It’s the most human expressionI’ve seen cross his face, and it makes me reassess him slightly. There’s a story there too, beneath his stoic exterior. Everyone in this clubhouse is playing a role, wearing a mask. Even me. Especially me.
The kitchen feels different the moment Trixie leaves—quieter, clearer, as if someone turned down the saturation on a too-bright screen. Fang’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, his posture softening now that he’s no longer being watched like a prize bull at auction. I find myself mirroring him, tension easing from my spine as I lean back in my chair. We sit in silence for a beat, two people accustomed to keeping our thoughts to ourselves, until Fang clears his throat and shifts his weight, a prelude to words I can tell will matter.
“So,” he says, eyes fixing on mine with an intensity that makes me straighten again. “About your brother. Let’s go back to my room and talk about a few things before I meet with Vapor.”
I nod and follow him, paying close attention to every turn to reinforce the mental map in my head. Although I feel safer inside the clubhouse than I did in the Quiet Room, it doesn’t hurt to know all the ways out in case I have to make a run for it.
Once we’re back inside the room, Fang sits in the desk chair. There’s nowhere else to sit but the bed, so I perch on the edge of it.
“I know Vapor’s going to ask certain questions, so it’s better if I go into this meeting with all the info he’ll need to make his decision.”
“Isn’t it the club’s decision? Aren’t you kinda democratic?”
