Preventing my eyes from familiarising themselves with my surroundings any more, I push on, begrudgingly knowing where I’ll find William’s office, but Miller grabs my upper arm, swinging me around to face him. ‘The bar,’ he says quietly.
My bristling returns. It’s unwarranted and unnecessary, but I can’t help it. I hate that I know this place, probably better than Miller. ‘Which one?’ I retort, harsher than I mean to. ‘The Lounge Bar, the Music Bar, the Mingle Bar?’ He drops my arm and his hands slide into his trouser pockets as he regards me closely, clearly wondering if the sass is going to subside any time soon. I can’t confirm that. The farther into the Society I venture, the more I can see my sass getting harder to control. All of Miller’s words outside are suddenly forgotten. I can’t remember them. I need to remember them.
‘The Lounge Bar,’ he responds calmly, and signals to the left with a sweep of his arm. ‘After you.’ Miller is taking all the sass I’m throwing his way without retaliation. He’s not biting. He’s calm, cool, and aware of the irritation flaring within his sweet girl. On the longest gulp of air I’m ever likely to take, I yank some reason from God knows where and follow Miller’s gesturing arm.
It’s busy but quiet. The Lounge Bar, just as I remember, is almost tranquil. Plush velvet armchairs litter the space, suited bodies reclined in many, all with tumblers of dark liquid grasped in their palms. The lighting is dim, the chatter quiet. It’s civilised. Respectful. It defies everything William’s underworld signifies. My nervous feet cross the threshold of the double doors. I can feel Miller behind me, my body’s natural reaction to his closeness ever present. I’m simmering but unable to enjoy the usual delicious sensations of internal sparks because of the exquisite surroundings that are torturing my wrought mind.
A few heads turn as we make for the bar. They recognise Miller. I can tell because of the surprised expressions replacing the initial curiosity. Or do they recognise me? I quickly rein in my disturbing thoughts and push on, finding myself at the bar fast. I can’t think like that. I mustn’t think like that. I’ll be dashing for the exit any moment if I don’t halt these thoughts. Miller needs me with him.
‘What can I get you?’
I direct my attention to the impeccably turned out barman and immediately blurt my order. ‘Wine. Whatever you have.’ My bum drops to one of the leather barstools as I gather every reasonable fibre of my being in an attempt to calm myself down. Alcohol. Alcohol will help. The barman nods acceptingly and begins making my order while he looks on to Miller in question.
‘Scotch. Straight,’ Miller mutters. ‘The best you have. And make it a double.’
‘Chivas Regal Royal Salute, fifty years old. It’s the very best, sir.’ He indicates a bottle on a glass shelf behind the bar and Miller grunts his acceptance, but he doesn’t take a stool next to me, choosing to remain standing by my side, scanning the bar and nodding to a few inquisitive faces. The best they have. No one pays for drinks at the Society. The obscene membership fees cover it. And Miller will undoubtedly know this. He’s making a private point. He remembers William messing with his perfectly neat drinks cabinet and helping himself to a drink. He’s on a silly revenge fit. Is this rubbing along just fine?
A glass of white wine is placed before me and I immediately swipe it up, taking a long healthy glug as a huge frame appears behind the bar from nowhere. Glancing to my right with my glass suspended in mid-air before me, I take in the ominous presence of the giant man. Blue eyes, so pale they resemble clear glass, cut through the relaxed atmosphere like a machete, and his shoulder-length black hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail. Everyone is aware of him, including Miller, whose hackles seem to have risen and are currently stabbing at my back. I remember him – I could never forget – but his name is stuck on my tongue. He’s William’s first in command. He’s well turned out, but his tailored suit does nothing to dilute the evil vibes emanating from every pore.
I sit back on my stool and take a nervous sip of my wine, trying to ignore his presence. Impossible. I can feel those mirror-ball eyes slicing into my flesh. ‘Olivia,’ he all but growls, making me take in a steadying breath of air, and Miller bristles into the realms of taking leave of his senses. He’s now pushed up against my back and virtually vibrating on me.
I can’t speak. I can only just swallow, sending more wine down my throat fast.
‘Carl,’ Miller utters quietly, instantly reminding me of his name. Carl Keating. One of the scariest men I’ve ever met. He’s not changed one bit – not aged . . . not lost his frightening aura.
‘We weren’t expecting you,’ Carl says, taking the empty tumbler from the barman and flicking his head in command, sending him away without the need to verbalise his order.