It’s why I dragged Maverick and Thad here. My visits to The 7th Circle are infrequent unless I’m looking to exorcise some demons. When we come to Inferno, we tend to spend our time in the other clubs, especially The 1st Circle, the exclusive portion where all forms of debauchery—no matter how illegal—are offered.
I searched for her for twenty minutes before I finally requested her from our server, earning me curious glances from Maverick and Thad. As soon as I was told where she was, to Thad’s delight and Maverick’s chagrin, I insisted we head upstairs, earning more curious looks from my friends.
As we walk through the decadent debauchery that is The 1st Circle, nothing registers except my need to find Poppy. Last week, she told me Dominic didn’t want her up here. It didn’t take much to figure out it wasn’t Dom. He has no scruples. I think he’d let his sister here if it made him money, but Will? No doubt, he was the reason she was refused work at The 1st Circle. He knew she was Casey’s friend and was looking out for her. I suddenly felt indebted to the asshole.
Ignoring the sinful scene straight out of porn, I scan the room looking for her. Not even the low lights, hazy ambiance, and all the identical uniforms and masks will make her unrecognizable to me.
Her first night here, I knew it was her before I knew her. There’s no way she would go unnoticed by me now.
Every second I don’t find her, rage builds, slow then manic, as my imagination runs wild, picturing her in one of the scene rooms or private rooms with someone.
Fuck, this is bad. I’ve never felt an iota of jealousy over a woman in my life. Not a single flicker of possessiveness has ever flared in me.
But here I am, silently seething, ready to remove eyes for looking and break hands for touching. If I find out a single dick here tonight got to be inside her before me, I might lose it.
Pain lashes through my scalp as my fingers rip through the thick strands with delirium. I’m doing everything I can to not show my crazy. I always save that for the cage. But it’s never been this bad over a girl.
We dodge tables and sofas full of people getting their rocks off and maneuvering around a few servers before we reach our usual spot next to the stage. I continue to search the place for Poppy. I still can’t find her.
But I will.
No sooner than we sit, three girls come over. Two I recognize. One, I don’t. They start their usual smiles and slinky behavior, wanting to butter us up. The new girl, a blond, sits next to me and runs her hand down my arm.
My entire body locks up. The jealous fury already flooding my veins surges higher like a tidal wave. Now tangled with nausea and panic. My eyes snap to her, warning her to back off before I can’t stop myself. Before I make her stop.
Fists clenched at my side, I choke down the anxiety bubbling. I fight the need to physically remove her hands from my body. Bury the wrath that makes me want to do far more to her for touching me without asking.
One of the other girls, Trixie, grabs her, pulling her away. She tosses me a tight smile, then drops her mouth to the blond’s ear. I’m sure she’s telling her the rules. No one touches me without asking, and never a blond.
The girl offers me an apologetic smile. I should smile back, reassure her it’s fine. But the anger is still building because I haven’t found Poppy, and my skin is fucking crawling.
The girls offer us menus. Thad and Maverick wave theirs off, knowing what and, for Thad, who they want, but I grab the tablet from her. I scroll until I find Poppy—Ginger. She’s only showing dances, but that I don’t see…I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s in one of those rooms.
“What is it with you and blonds?” Thad asks when the girls leave to get our orders. “Better yet, who the hell broke your heart and turned you off of them?”
Maverick slaps his head. “Dude, shut up.”
“What? I’m curious. Just like I’m curious why you’re a fucking monk.”
“I’m not a monk. I just don’t sleep with everything that moves.” Maverick growls.
I ignore them as they launch into their regular argument about how Maverick is a disappointment to rock stars everywhere, thankful for the subject change because it’s one I don’t care about. Maverick doesn’t have to be a cliché, and I’m sure he has his reasons for his supposed monk-like lifestyle. If he wants to live a miserable life with blue balls, then it’s his prerogative.
The server arrives with a tray of drinks, setting each of ours in front of us. Then she slides my usual selection of favors. All my favorites on a silver platter. Cocaine, ecstasy, oxy…all waiting for me to indulge, but I wave it off. When she walks away, I turn toward the two sets of eyes boring into my head. Their expressions mirror what I’m feeling on the inside: shock thatIturned down any kind of mind-altering substance. But they don’t say anything, and I am not about to offer anything. Especially when I don’t have an explanation that wouldn’t create more questions.
I roll my neck around my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension, but it keeps building with every second I don’t find her. The lights go down and the music gets louder, thankfully drowning out the sounds of sex that are pissing me off because it’s making my imagination run wild.
When the music cue drops the stage lights up. My heart thunders against my ribs like galloping horses as blood roars in my ears as I watch her appear at the top of the pole, dressed in a g-string and nothing else, doing a slow, tantalizing spin. Every muscle in her body is engaged as she controls the pace of her descent, and when the next heavy beat hits, her lower body comes off the pole. She keeps one arm wrapped around the metal as she forms a ninety-degree angle, then gyrates her pelvis as her other hand trails her body. Then, showing her flexibility, she lifts one leg, flips herself backward, hooks her knee around the silver, and spins.
My teeth grind as I watch every man around the stage focus their attention on her. Her hips roll, slow and precise, as she steps away from the pole. One stilettoed foot in front of the other, she struts down the stage to the front in a series of moves that belong on a proper stage, not this place.
No one here deserves to see this, not even me. The lifetime of practice, refining her skill and honing her talent, is clear with every spin and extension of her body. It’s sensual and seductive as she moves to the beat of the music as if she’s performed this for years. It should be seen by people who appreciate the artistry. Not horny men and women needing a visual to get off.
My tongue rolls over my teeth as I lean forward, my eyes never leaving her. But in my peripheral vision, I see the assholes around me, rubbing their dicks, getting themselves off to every move she makes.
Jealousy coils itself around me. Possessiveness slithers in my veins.
I’ve never felt like this in my life.
