“Yes.”
“To Rev.”
“No, to the topless bartender in Hel. Yes, to Rev. Why is that so weird?”
Another amused laugh. “Cuz it’s Rev, babe.” He grins at me. “I’ll let him know you want to see him. Go mingle, and he’ll find you.”
He’ll find me. Somehow, that feels a little scary. But I came all the way out here and waited in a two-and-a-half-hour line just to talk to him, so…
“Thank you, Kane.” I smile at Lash, offering him my hand to shake. “Good to meet you.”
He takes my hand in both of his and bows over it at the waist. “The pleasure of our acquaintance is entirely mine, loveliest of flowers.” He literally kisses my knuckles.
I glance at Kane with a grin. “Is he for real, or is he putting it on for me?”
Kane snorts. “Both. He’s always like this, but he’s piling it on extra thick for you.”
“Well, I can’t say it’s not effective,” I say, with another laugh.
Lash looks at Kane with an arch, self-satisfied expression. “It is calledcharm, my ignorant friend.”
Kane just snorts. “He’s a loon, but he’s our loon.” He shrugs. “Get on, girl. Rev’ll find you, eventually. He knows you’re here.”
I head back up into Sin, weaving through the crowd. My cup of beer is long since empty, so I head to the nearest bar, along the wall opposite the main entrance, deep under the overhang created by the second floor. It’s shadowed back here, eerily illuminated by blacklights, the music pounding and all-pervasive. The bartender here is the guy with the tall blue mohawk, whom I remember from last time. I don’t have a pass this time, so I pay cash for my beer and tip double. I lean back against the wall, the bar pressed into my right side, the club spread out in front of me. I sip and watch the pulsing movement of the dancing crowd, shoulder to shoulder, lit in lightning-flash flickers by strobing lights and bathed into shadow. Glowing neon bands on wrists and foreheads and ankles move in juddering slow motion, and all I can see is a heaving sea of flesh.
I watch the bartender for a while, then—he’s robotically efficient, no movements wasted, snagging a pair of beers from the cooler one-handed, quick-drawing a silver bottle opener from his back pocket and flipping the tops off, spinning the opener on his finger back into his pocket, handing the beers off. Cash received, counted, shoved into a till drawer, change counted, tips stuffed into a jar. Next customer. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
I could do that. Not as smoothly as he does, but I could do it.
If I can clean a three-story mansion from top to bottom by myself in half a day, I can sling beers and mixed drinks.
I’m lost in my thoughts, wondering how to go about securing a job here when I feel a hand slide around my waist, and a voice huffs against my ear.
“Sexy thing like you, all alone?” The voice is low, whispery, barely audible even with his lips against my ear. “That won’t do. Dance with me, beautiful.”
I pull away and regard the speaker.
My heart skips a beat; it’s Tommy Chaos, bad boy lead singer of a thrash metal band that’s been popular for almost as long as I’ve been alive. Tommy Chaos is as famous for his off-stage life as he is his music—in and out of rehab, married and divorced to at least five different supermodels that I know of, each younger and sexier than the last. He’s twice my age, and he’s lived hard, but he’s still darned good-looking for all that. Tall and lean, corded with ropy muscle, covered in tattoos from neck to ankles, long thick black hair done in multiple braids woven through with hemp and feathers and colorful beads, stubble on his hard jaw. He’s wearing a pair of faded, ripped jeans, motorcycle boots, and a black short-sleeve button-down, unbuttoned and open to show his torso and the tattoos thereon, with a heavy silver chain, a spiked leather dog collar, and a black bandana all tied around his neck. Black leather cuffs at each wrist, and a wallet chain at his hip, the chain hanging to his knee.
I’m the farthest person in the world from being a thrash metal fan, like, polar opposite. But if you live on planet Earth, you know who Tommy Chaos is. He’s one of the most instantly recognizable human beings on the globe, and he’s hitting onme.
I didn’t even dress up to come here—I’m wearing a white tennis skirt with a pale green tank top and a pair of Converse All-Stars in a custom paint-splatter look, mimicking Jackson Pollock’s style.
Not Sin-appropriate attire, but I don’t even own clothing that would be appropriate here, nor could I fathom attempting to dress like that anyway.
He’s close, watching me see him, recognize him, and decide what my reaction will be.
“So?” His voice is rough, low, hoarse from twenty-plus years of screaming into a microphone.
“Justdance.” I fix him with a hard look. “I’m not going anywhere with you, and don’t get handsy.”
“I can agree to that.” He takes my hand, his grin sinful, wicked. “For now.”
I toss back the last of my beer—my second, in the hour I’ve been here.
He leads me onto the floor, into the crowd. Faces me close, nearly nose to nose. His hands go to my hips, up near my waist—friendlier than I’d like, but not so much that I’m uncomfortable with it.
He moves my hips to the music, and I let my wrists drop over his shoulders, and I move with him. The music throbs in my gut, shakes in my bones, and moving to the rhythm is as natural as breathing. Tommy’s grin is a delight, his eyes friendly and open, if a little too much so, perhaps. I lose track of time, dancing with Tommy. I’m drenched in sweat, and we’ve not spoken a word. His hands have not moved beyond my hips, and he hasn’t pushed himself any further into my personal space.
