“If you’re a size seven or eight, there are heels over—” I don’t even get a chance to finish the statement before Roquel shoots across the closet and starts yanking boxes off shelves, opening them to get at what’s inside.
At least someone’s enjoying herself. I should find some consolation in the fact, but it’s hard. I miss Mads.
“What are you going to wear?” Roquel plops down at my side, her chosen shoes in hand as she bends over and starts to slip them on.
I frown at her and then gesture to the outfit I’m already wearing. “You’re looking at it.”
Her mouth forms an ‘O’ and she sits up. “Are you sure?”
Her nose wrinkles at the black Saint Laurent faux leather pants that conform to my legs and the red silk halter that bares most of my midriff and practically all of my back. Thankfully, the bruises around my throat are practically gone and I don’t need to put that ridiculous diamond choker back on or find any sort of scarf to hide the marks.
“I’ve been to Inferno before,” I snap. “I think I know how to dress for a nightclub.”
Almost as soon as the words leave my lips, I regret them. When she shrinks from me with a wounded look, I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut.
“Sorry, I’m—” I sigh. “I’m just on edge. I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch.”
“I’m just trying to help you.” Roquel’s voice goes quiet and she bends again, fiddling with the buckles of the heels she’s chosen, glittering silver ones that match her dress. “I thought you’d want to get out of the house for a bit, and I know sometimes parents are more likely to say yes if someone else asks.”
“Morpheus is not my fucking parent.”
“Yeah, I know, but he’s your guardian now, right?”
Clenching my hands into fists, I stand from the ottoman and reach for the shelves of shoes. Unlike Roquel, I don’t bother to go through many to pick out the perfect pair. I snag a few boxes and after checking to make sure they’re the right size, I find a pair of spiked boots with a low heel and settle on those.
Roquel watches me as I take a seat to pull them on and zip up the sides where they end just beneath my knees. On any normal night, if this were an actual event that I’d be excited about, there’d be music playing in the bedroom and I’d be laughing and teasing her about makeup and boys from school. I’m sure that’s what she expected the two of us to be doing when she suggested the night out.
All I want to do is strip these clothes off and crawl into bed. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go see if Stuart has already called the driver.”
“What about makeup?” Roquel follows me out into the bedroom and with a groan, I flip back around and enter the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve dabbed on enough lipstick, winged black eyeliner, and mascara for her to determine that I’m presentable and we’re descending the staircase to the foyer. Stuart, ever the present and prepared assistant, is already waiting by the front door. There’s thankfully no sign of Morpheus. Instead, there are two broad men standing alongsideStuart with stalwart expressions and matching black-on-black suits.
“Ladies.” Stuart straightens when he spots us. “This is Murphy and Hughes. They’ll be your security and driver this evening.”
“Wow, so cool.” Roquel practically glitters where she stands, gazing up at the two men as if they’re the perfect accessories to go with her ensemble and not the walking, talking, breathing prison guards that I see.
“One of us will be with you at all times,” the man on the left announces. He’s slightly shorter than his partner, with a crop of shorn dark hair and gray dotting his beard. The second man is younger, with hair the color of straw pulled back away from his face and a gnarly-looking burn scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt.
“We will drive you to the nightclub where my partner, Murphy,” the first man continues—Hughes then, “will park the car, and I will take the two of you inside.”
“There’s probably going to be a line,” Roquel says, sounding nervous. She bites her lip as she glances at me. “There’s always a line in the movies.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, dear,” Stuart tells her. “Mr. Calloway is quite familiar with Inferno’s owner and has called ahead to ensure the two of you receive nothing but the best treatment. You’ll be in the VIP section.”
Realization slams into me. So, that was why he’d agreed so readily. It wasn’t because Roquel had asked him or because he felt obligated to show her that he cares for me. It’s because he knows I can go and still be firmly under his thumb. I don’t just have to worry about the security he’s sending with us—there will be eyes on me everywhere.
“VIP?” Roquel’s voice takes on a new pitch again and I wince at the sharpness.
Stuart, however, seems to puff with pride. “Yes, Mr. Calloway is quite generous and though he wishes for me to remind the two of you that any underage drinking is quite frowned upon…” He pauses before leaning closer, as if he’s about to impart a secret. “However, anything you order will be covered by him.” He winks and Roquel vibrates with excitement.
“Shall we go, ladies?” Murphy smiles, his face appearing even younger than before with the action as he turns and opens the front door, holding it for us.
“Is that a limo!” Roquel bounds out of the house and down the front steps, walking at a rapid clip as if she were born wearing heels and has no issues in them. I follow behind at a more sedate pace, pausing when Stuart speaks from behind me.
“Mr. Calloway also asked me to inform you that he expects to be rewarded for your outing tonight,” he says.
Slowly, all heat draining from my body, I turn to face the greasy weasel of a man. I say nothing, waiting for him to continue. When he knows he has my full attention, his lips quirk upward in the mockery of a smile. It’s all smugness and false power.
