Gin? Where are you?
About to talk with Donny. I need to go.
Okay. Good.
And he’s gone. Good thing too. I need all my brainpower to interrogate Donny without him realizing what I’m doing.
Donny smiles at me from where he sits on an overstuffed red sofa surrounded by fellow football players and several women. Most of the men’s gazes rake my body like I’m a new food dish, while the women shoot me go-to-hell glances.
Talk about uncomfortable.
I draw in a breath, paste on a smile, and put a swing to my hips as I saunter to Donny.
“Hey. You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah, baby.” He gestures to me, and the guy sitting next to him scoots over, giving me a foot of space to squeeze in next to the football star.
I sit, my legs pressing against Donny and the guy to my left. At least they wear pants, and my long sleeves protect against wayward emotions and thoughts. Nice of Smythe to think of my touch-and-see problem when he bought me this dress.
“Want a drink?”
Just what I need. I lick my lips, imagining the taste of whiskey caressing my tongue, warming my stomach. I’ve been good since my younger years, keeping myself to beer in small doses, once I realized a nursing degree was my key to pulling myself up by my bootstraps. I’ve been so good; I know I can handle a fancy drink. Just one. Just to fit in. No problem.
“Sure.” I swallow away a niggling sense of guilt. “Whatcha drinking?”
“Tequila. Whiskey. But they”—he points at the nearest woman snuggled next to one of his friends—“are drinking, what is that?”
“A Cosmo.” The woman smiles, all teeth and jealousy.
“Yeah. One of those. Want one of those?”
“I’m not a fruity concoction type of gal.” I straighten my shoulders, drawing in a deep breath. “I’ll take a whiskey. Neat.”
He nods, approval in his eyes. When he raises a hand a server steps up like she’d been hiding in the corner waiting for his signal. He gives her our drink orders and waves her off.
“What brings you to Club Monster, babe?”
“Just wanted some fun.” I shrug. “You come here often?”
“Looking to find me?” A grin plays across his face as one brow rises.
Heat slaps my cheeks. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Gah, Gin, dial it back. Who knew being an investigator was so hard?
“You found me. Now you know my place.”
“Your place?”
“This”—he opens his arms to encompass the room—“this is my place, you know? Football, home, and here.”
“And the charity.” I smile, offering him a wink.
“Charities.” Donny draws out the s, a grin curving his lips.
He wraps one arm around my shoulders, while he puts his other hand on my knee, thumb stroking the inner skin of my thigh. A shot of lust zips from his thumb straight to my core. His lust, not mine. Right when the emotion morphs into his imagining us naked, I shift, hoping to dislodge his hand without looking obvious.
Yeah, he’s hot, and I could easily fall for his charms. But he could also be a killer, and I’m supposed to be solving a crime, not getting it on with the football star. As sad as it sounds, I’m holding out for a six-foot-five hunk with blue eyes and dark hair.
Gah.
Head in the game, Gin. Head in the game.
Steeling myself, I place my hand over his and scoot his hand back onto his knee. Giving him a wink, I pat his hand, while ignoring his lustful irritation pinging through my veins.
“Now, now.”
He raises both hands. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“I suppose not.” I offer him a grin.
“This your first time here?”
“How’d you know?”
“My place, remember?”
“Speaking of, how’d you know I was here?” I point to the door. “It’s not like you can see out there.”
One corner of his mouth kicks up. “Trade secret.”
“Right. Your place.”
He chuckles, takes our drinks from the server and hands me mine. “You got it.”
I glance at the amber liquid in my glass while the server flits to the guy sitting next to me. A thin bead of sweat slips down my spine.
“You gonna drink that or stare at it all night?” Donny smiles and clinks my glass.
I draw in a deep breath, offer him a half grin and take a sip. The whiskey slides down my throat and hits my stomach with a rush of heat and pleasure. Ten years have passed since I had a sip of the hard stuff. Ten long years. I’ve been good. And I’ll be good tonight. It’s just one drink.
I take another sip. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Anything for a pretty lady.”
“Aw, Donny, I bet you say that to all the ladies.”
“Not tonight.”
“I’m honored. But…” I let the words trail into silence as I sip my drink, staring at him over the rim of the glass.
“I know. You walked in with him.”
“Him?” He saw me with Smythe?
“The bigass FBI guy.”
Damn. He did see me with Smythe. “You know?”
“My place, remember?”
“Sorry.” Not even five minutes in and my cover is already blown.
“Nothing to be sorry for. Didn’t realize FBI agents could drink on the job.”
“I’m not an agent.” I raise my glass and down the whiskey, loving the burn. A few more of these and I won’t have to worry about the long sleeves, the alcohol will kill the empathic ability.
Without needing a gesture, the server appears with another round of drinks. I don’t need the second one, but expensive whiskey shouldn’t be wasted.
“Not an agent, eh. Then why are you here with one?”
So much for stealth. The truth feels foreign on my tongue. “We were hoping to catch a killer.”
He raises a brow, then takes a sip of his drink to hide the grin spreading across his lips. “What can I do to help?”
“Tell me what happened after you left Jenny.”
He settles back into the sofa, glass resting on his leg. A quick gesture to the bodyguard ends seconds later with a cleared room, leaving us alone with the guard and serving crew. Perfect for an in-depth interrogation.
“She was fine when I left her.” His gaze drops to his glass as he takes a sip. “I came back here and didn’t see where she went. I assumed she went back with her friends, but clearly that didn’t happen.”
Did he leave her in the bathroom? Or did she leave him? Since he doesn’t offer that little tidbit of TMI, and to tell him I knew would give away my super-secret empath ability, I move on to the next obvious question. “Who were her friends?”
“Don’t know. I mean, I’d never seen them before. I just met her that night. We danced, came back here, went to…dance again, then I came back here. Didn’t see her after that. Until, well, you know.”
“Yeah.” I take a long swallow of the whiskey. “Did you notice anything out of place that night?”
“No.” He starts to shake his head, then narrows his eyes. “Wait. There was this guy, called me by name. ‘Hey-ya, Donny.’ Like he knew me or something.”
Somebody tried to meet Donny. Like that never happens. But one look at the serious expression on his face stops my smartass remark. The fact this guy named him really bothers Donny. I offer him a grin, aiming, instead, for sympathetic. “You’re famous around here.”
“I guess. But he was different from the typical fan. I’m telling you, he acted like he knew me.”
I suppose being a celebrity means Donny possesses a finely tuned creep sense. Either that or he’s paranoid.
“How so?”
He shrugs. “The way he looked at me. How he tried to talk like we were friends or something. You could tell he was all jealous of Jenny. Like he belonged to me, you know? Weird.”
“Yeah, that is weird.” In more ways than o
ne. “What did he look like?”
“Normal. White guy. Brown hair, brown eyes. Nothing out of place. Come to think of it, he did look familiar. Like maybe I knew him. From long ago. I meet a lot of people.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his drink.
I debate whether or not to touch him in hopes of seeing the man. But only for a second. Intruding into the bathroom scene last night makes me wary of another trip into Donny’s head. Best to file away the man’s description for Smythe’s internet hacking skills.
“Weird.” Maybe he met the guy at a charity event. Would explain the guy acting like he knew Donny and Donny’s lack of remembrance.
“Yeah. Definitely.” He upends his drink. “Wanna dance?”
Hoping “dance” isn’t a euphemism for extracurricular bathroom activities, I swallow my drink, almost purring in ecstasy as the burn settles in my stomach. A tendril of guilt wends through my mind, but I squash it. Two drinks does not a relapse make. Placing my hand on his sleeved arm, I allow him to pull me to my feet.
And then the server plops two more drinks on our table. Geez Louise, how much does she make to be johnny-on-the-spot like that? Probably a lot.
I grab my drink, unwilling to let it sit by itself. No telling what might be in it when I return.
“Leave it.”
I look at the drink, then Donny. “Donny, Donny, Donny, don’tcha know a girl shouldn’t leave a drink sitting alone? No telling who might put what in it.”
“That won’t—” His words die on his tongue as I swallow half the drink in one fluid gulp and lightly shake the remainder before my face.
“No, it won’t. I’m taking it with me.”
Donny laughs. “I like you. Come on, let’s dance.”
This time when he grabs my hand, no annoying thoughts or emotions ping my mind. Mission accomplished. Thanks, whiskey.
We no sooner leave the room than a medium-sized guy with a bad dye job runs into us. More like runs into me. My drink sloshes over the rim onto my hand and part of my sleeve. Great. Now my new designer dress is going to smell like a brewery.
“Sorry,” he mutters, staggering out of the way.
“You okay?” Donny glares at the guy’s back before turning to me. For a second, I think he’s going to chase after the guy, instead he grips my hand hard enough for the bones to move.
I flinch, and he drops my hand.
“Sorry.”
“I’m tough.” Tougher than he’ll ever know.
“You might as well put down the glass. It’s almost empty.”
A glance proves him right. What a waste of fine whiskey.
I swallow the remaining few sips and place the glass on a conveniently located ledge that served well as a depository for empty glasses. My stomach lurches in protest of not enough food and too much liquor. A zip of electricity darts through my veins, courtesy of the justitia.
Strange. Maybe the loud music bothers the entity in the bracelet?
By the time we arrive at the dance floor, the room spins with lights. Or maybe the lights spin the room. Either way a remote possibility exists that I shouldn’t have thrown back two and a half whiskeys faster than a dehydrated man drinks from an oasis. But it’s just once in ten years.
Not bad. I’m still doing okay. I’m still in charge.
I trip on the dance floor, falling onto Donny. “Oops. It’s the heels.” Whiskey has nothing to do with my ability, or lack thereof, to walk.
He catches me one handed. Guess he’s used to one-handed catches. I chuckle.
“What?”
“You caught me one-handed. Like I’m a ball.” My words slur. They shouldn’t. Should they?
Donny shakes his head. Either he didn’t hear me over the music or was too put-off by my comment to answer.
Time slides by, spinning the room with it, until I’m no longer sure if dancing is such a great idea. Maybe I should leave. After all, I learned what I came here for.
I think. I’m no longer sure.
“I’m gonna go.” I shout close to Donny’s ear to make sure he hears me over the music.
He jerks. Maybe I yelled a bit too loud.
“Do you have to go?” He leans close, the liquor on his breath caressing my skin.
I pull back. “It might be best.”
“Whiskey caught up with you?”
“Don’t be silly.”
His expression indicates he sees through my lie. But he escorts me off the dance floor like a gentleman, one hand against my lower back.
“Will you come back?”
“Here?”
“Where else?”
“You want me to?”
He shrugs. “You interest me.”
“Why, Donny…” I slap a hand against his chest, pull it away in embarrassment. “That’shuch a nice thing to shay to a girl.”
His laughter coats me in good times. “Friends?”
“Shure, Donny. Friends. Shee you around?”
“The FBI dude taking you home, or should I call you a cab?”
“He’sh takin’ me home.” I hope. Smythe is here, right? Wherever here might be. I should know the answer to that question. Donny looks at me, one brow raised. Right. He asked me something I didn’t hear. I giggle. “Thanksh. Had fun. Thankss for the whish, whish, um, the drinksh.” Gah, what was wrong with me?
“You sure you’re fine?”
I nod. Bad idea. The room swirls a nasty jig.
“See ya ’round, then.” And with those words, he disappears into the crowd.
The music pulses in my chest, the deep beat thumping in time with my heart. Smythe?
Gin? Are you okay?
I don’t know.
Where are you?
Here.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?” A familiar-looking guy with a bad dye job grabs my arm. Good thing too, my legs wobble like a newborn calf.
I nod as he leads me away from the noise. Where’s Smythe? Weren’t we talking? A dull buzz takes up residence in my mind, obliterating any chance of telepathic conversation. My vision focuses on the man holding my arm as the club patrons fade into background noise.
He pushes open a door to a long hall. The door snaps shut behind us, an echo of finality. A ball of writhing snakes forms in my stomach. The thudding pulse of music lessens, replaced by the clip of our shoes against concrete as we head toward the end. Dim lights shine from recessed bulbs. I blink. The light hurts.
“We shhhhhhouldn’t be back here.”
“Nonsense. I’m going to help you.” He drags me down the hall, my legs refusing to resist.
A deep thump-thump thrashes in my ears, blood pumping a racing rhythm through tense veins. I shouldn’t be here. I need to leave.
But I can’t remember how.
The hall narrows to a small tunnel filled with dancing black spots as my legs wobble, unable to hold weight. Pain bruises my knees, my shoulder aches as the guy tightens his hold. My stomach roils, emptying its meager contents on the dark concrete floor.
“Damn it. You’re supposed to pass out, not throw up.”
What does he mean?
Under half-closed lids, I peer up his arm, over his clenched jaw, into his narrowed eyes. The light makes me blink. Pain spreads from his grip on my arm, nerve endings firing in protest. His outline blurs as my eyes water. Black spots dart around the periphery of my vision.
That means something. Something not good.
The man yanks, tearing the skin off my knees as he pulls me along the ground. At least he avoided the puddle of puke. I struggle to get my feet under me. I need to be upright.
But nothing works.
My knees refuse to hold my weight. My arm hangs limp and throbbing in his grasp. My other arm should hit him, should try to break free but, instead, drags along the ground like an arthritic monkey, in a vain attempt to keep my body upright. Black spots creep across my vision, a silent plea to close my eyes, to end this suffering.
I don’t want to close my eyes. Bad things happen when my eyes close.
Help! Help me! My mind cries the words, my lips unable to move.
And then my eyes close. My hearing fades until I’m muffled in the soundlessness of darkness.
Hold on, Gin! I’m coming!
Smythe’s voice screams through my mind, the bellow of a bear protecting its mate. But not even knowing he comes can rouse me. Hearing gone, I slip into unconsciousness, the scent of blood mingled with puke following me into the blackness.
Chapter Eight
I wake to the warm comfort of softness against my back. Voices hum in the background, pleasing, comforting. I nestle deeper into the warmth. I am safe.
Why that thought?
And then I remember, my mind tripping backward in time. Where was I?
I shoot upright as if propelled by an invisible hand. “Wh—”
The Agency healer, Eloise, and Smythe stand by the door to my bedroom. I’m lying on the bed still wearing my designer dress, my shoeless feet on the pillows, my head where my feet should rest. Nothing hurts, and my vision is clear and spotless.
I clear my throat. “What happened?”
“I should ask the same of you.” Smythe raises a brow.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and rub the bridge of my nose. “Thank you for the healing, Eloise.” Despite my lack of memory of her healing, I’m certain she didn’t show up to watch me sleep.
“You are welcome.” The melodious lilt of her voice turns my lips into a smile.
“T’s not here.”
A tinge of color flashes across her pale cheeks. “Did I ask for him?”
You didn’t have to sits on my tongue, erased by Smythe’s interruption.
“You are our topic of discussion, not your brother.” He moves to stand in front of me, arms crossed. “What the hell happened? You smelled like whiskey, and Eloise said you’d been drugged.”
Relief courses through me. Drugged, not drunk. Even after ten years I can handle a couple of drinks. Wait. Drugged? Anger sucker punches the relief out of my system.
“Drugged? Someone drugged me? Who would do that?”
Of course, Donny hops to the top of the list. I don’t need to read Smythe’s mind to see he reached the same conclusion. Donny might be on the top of the list, but I still don’t think he did it. Okay, maybe I just don’t want him to be guilty. He’s the Generous Charity-Giver, the all-around nice guy. However, he did call the club “his place.” The VIP server was speedy to hand us our drinks. Could he have arranged to have the server put something into my drink? How would he have known I was coming to the club?
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