“Wait, I bet I can guess the name of your club.”
He does the thing where he’s not grinning or betraying any emotion whatsoever on his face, but still somehow gives off an amused vibe.
“Oughta be good,” he mutters, guiding the SUV away from the nightclub.
In the light of day, the building ishuge.From what I remember of the interior, it was two stories, the SIN part of it, that is. Yet, from the outside, it’s clearly much larger than that. Four stories, at least. I peer into the rearview mirror, examining the building in the reflection—halfway up, the exterior subtly transitions to blacked-out glass. It’s very subtle, almost unnoticeable unless you’re really looking.
“What’s on the top two floors?” I ask.
He glances at me—or rather, his face turns to me, and I feel his sharp attention from behind his glasses. “What do you mean?”
“The club is two stories, the building is four, and the top two floors are windows. You guys live underground, so…what or who is on the top two stories?”
“Nothing and no one you need to know about.” His tone is hard, cold.
“Okay, just asking.”
“Don’t. Drop it.”
I shrug, hands lifted palms out. “Sheesh, okay. Secretive, much?”
“Yes.”
“Like I said, secret society.”
“Brotherhood.”
“Oh, that’s right, I was gonna tell you what I think your secret club is called. It’s the Beefcake Brotherhood.”
This gets me an audible snort, which sends a jolt of jubilation through me. “No.”
“Brotherhood of Brawn?”
“No.” Not a snort, but more of the invisible smirk vibe.
“Here Be Giants?”
He looks at me, this time. “Jesus shits, woman. No.” Another snort, and I’m so pleased with myself for amusing this ice-block of a man that I could squeal and girlie clap—I don’t. “Fuck, you’re a dork.”
“How about—”
“How about you shut the hell up for ten goddamn seconds?” he snaps.
“How about you don’t be a jerk?” I shoot back at him.
His amusement has run out, it seems. “How about you tell me where I’m taking you?”
I tell him the name and cross streets of my motel, and he arches an eyebrow at me over top of his shades. “Slummin’ it, huh?”
“I clean rooms in exchange for a room, and I work for the manager’s cousin.” I shrug. “It’s not slumming. It’s what I can afford.”
“You need a better job, then. That shit ain’t safe.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure I’m staying in Vegas. I’m on an open-ended road trip. I’m just hanging in Vegas to save money for the next leg.”
“Said you were recently divorced.”
“Yes.”
