Over the years, Kat and I had many conversations about the different nuances of sex. About the expectations of the guy versus the expectations of the girl. What was physical for me was probably emotional for this girl. Despite all her protests to the contrary.
Like so many others, she probably hoped I would enjoy being with her so much, I would want another night...hell, a few weeks...maybe several months with her, forgetting my “I only want one night” claim. Kat called that particular mindset “the exception fantasy.”
It’s a fantasy with a low rate of success.
“Are you sure?” She runs a finger between her breasts. “You’ll have fun.”
“Sorry, but I’m here to meet someone.” The love of my life.
“That would be me. Get lost.”
The newcomer leans in to my other side and waves at Macallan. I stiffen, a very dark curse exploding from me. Camilla Marks.
Her platinum hair is a wild fall of curls, the sides clipped back from her face, revealing locks of jet-black at her temples. Her ebony lashes are a mile long and spiked, a complete contrast to the glitter sparkling around her honey-colored eyes. Her cheeks are flushed to a deep rose, her lips painted bloodred.
Guys are staring at her as if she’s the last piece of candy in the candy store.
I can understand why. She’s wearing a black leather vest, the center veeing between small but perfect breasts, revealing more of her tattoos than it conceals. Haunting 3-D images come to startling life. My favorite is the one over her heart. The face of a little girl. Perhaps even Camilla herself, only much younger. The bone structure is similar, though the etching has jet-black ringlets.
Like the vest, her pants are black leather, and they look like they’ve been painted on her. Silver zippers cover both articles of clothing, and I know a blade is hidden underneath each one. Just as I know every piece of jewelry she’s wearing doubles as some kind of weapon. The pendant hanging from the silver chain around her neck can be turned into a small dagger. Her bracelets have two hooks in the center. Pull them, and create a garrote.
“Who are you?” Macallan asks her. “Because he doesn’t look happy to see you.”
Camilla ignores her, turning to snipe at the guy behind her. She reveals a back completely bared, the vest held on by a prayer and a tie at her nape and waist. There are more tattoos, and the designs enthrall me. A tree of life growing from the center of a river, every branch sprouting a different type of bloom. A frying pan, of all things. A fist. A key, star and dagger. Birds are perched on several of the branches, and a flock flies above the tallest branch.
I want to trace the images with my fingers. Then she’s facing me again, and I remember she’s a traitor. My hatred overshadows every bit of my admiration.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
She signals for a drink. “Ask your girlfriend.”
She’s spoken to Kat?
“Wait. You have a girlfriend?” Macallan asks. She’s clutching her glass of froufrou whatever, clearly planning to toss the contents in my face.
Camilla acts fast, reaching over to knock the glass out of the girl’s hand. “Looks like someone needs to learn her manners. I’m happy to—”
“Excuse us,” I say to Macallan. I grab Camilla by the arm and yank her toward the stairs that lead to the VIP lounge.
Halfway up she wrenches from my hold. “There’s no need to be so rough. I don’t plan to run away. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not resisting.”
“Do you seriously expect me to trust you?” I say, but I don’t reach for her again. The less contact we have, the better.
I march the rest of the way up. If she doesn’t follow, I’ll go hunting for her and she won’t like what happens when I catch her.
And I will catch her.
The lounge has a bar of its own with waitstaff paid to ensure a glass never goes dry and a smile never fades. I’m recognized immediately, a waitress rushing over to greet me. I step around her and head toward the office in back. An office Ankh—Reeve’s dad—once kept just for us, in case we had zombie business to discuss.
Even with the club’s remodel, the pass code on the door is the same. I put my back in front of Camilla to punch in the numbers, then motion her inside. With her head high, she sweeps past me. I’m hot on her heels, shutting the door with a hard kick of my leg. When the lock engages on its own, a wave of satisfaction hits me. Now she’s stuck. She can’t escape without the code. Not that the office would make a good prison. There are plush leather couches and oversized chairs. Another wet bar. A desk with multiple computers and a three-line phone system.
Camilla faces me, her dark eyes throwing venom. “Before you start hurling demands for information, yes, Kat appeared to me last night and again about an hour ago. She told me to come here and stick by your side.”
“You’re lying.” Kat would never torture me like that.
“That’s the second time you’ve accused me of deceit.” She takes a step toward me, the menace she’s throwing a match to mine. “Do it a third time, and you’ll find your balls in your throat.”