Page 23 of Forged By Shadows
“It’ll be good for all of us to get out of here,” he says. I couldn’t agree more. The best way to get Avery out of my system is to replace her with someone else, someone available. Garrett drags Wyatt upright and somehow charms his way into a bear hug before leading him towards the house. We follow, arms and hands remaining tangled in mine.
I marvel for the hundredth time how I must be the most emotionally damaged of us, yet how I can be filled with so much love. These four men have saved me from myself time and again. We may not be conventional, or remotely functional at times but love is love, and I’ll take it in any form.
Chapter Fifteen
When Meg told me to make plans, she didn’t expect more than ice cream and PJS. At a stretch, maybe a movie. Opening the cab door, and holding out my hand for her to take, she gasps at the nightclub front. The girls and guys in my ballet class have been gushing about the grand opening all week. So much so, I called ahead and booked a VIP table on Nixon‘s credit card. We spoke briefly on the phone last night, and since my real birthday was basically a write off, he agreed I deserve a real celebration.
The building towers into the starless night and appears to have a tilted front. ‘Eclipse’ is brightly displayed above the sleek, glass doors, framed by velvet rope. A red carpet trails the length of the sidewalk, already filled with people dressed in their finest cocktail dresses and suits, hoping to get in. The dress code is strict, as is the security. We approach two huge men dressed in black, kitted out with earpieces and batons on their belts. I relay my name to the one with the clipboard, gaining us instant entry and a round of groans from those waiting in line.
Meg’s arm winds into the crook of mine, her posture so much straighter than mine. I may be the one ballet trained, but my best friend has always exuded the confidence I’ve lacked. Since she only brought fluffy socks and silk pajamas with her, Meg has raided my wardrobe for a mini dress with long sleeves. The red lace exposes her cleavage and thighs through the fabric. Her brown hair falls back in loose curls.
“I still can’t believe how scandalous you look,” Meg gushes. Lifting a glass from an offered tray, her eyes dip to my dress. I did have time to prepare for our evening, which included a spot of online shopping. The black material cuts across the top of my thighs, affixed to my body via a double-ended zip up the front. From crotch to bust, the silver metal glints. I’ve pinned my hair up into a messy bun, leaving my upper back exposed between the dress straps. It’s the first time I’ve ever shown this much skin in public, since my scar is artfully hidden behind the fully healed ink.
I stop by a waiter in a bow tie, selecting a tall flute for myself. A raspberry has been slotted onto the rim of the glass. The club is already filled, the atmosphere filled with music and laughter. Exhilaration bleeds through me as we edge around the dance floor in our six-inch heels, spotting hundreds of couples grinding and dancing, lost to themselves. A soft glow illuminates the room, leaving sofas around the edges to fall into shadow.
The VIP area is on an overhanging balcony, closed off from the rest of the club but another bouncer and velvet rope we need to pass. Ascending the stairs, I’m on another level of excitement. This is my first time at a club like this, and I suddenly can’t remember why I resisted venturing out to live my life for so long. The pink gin from the limo might have something to do with it.
Breaching the balcony, my smile is in full effect as I glance over the celebrities and influencers huddled in private booths, reveling in the privacy of this elevated sanctuary. Over the railing, I have an eagle-eyed view of the club, namely an empty circle in the center of the dancefloor cordoned off by tall barriers. The music is quieter up here, keeping the speakers across the far side of the club.
We’re met by a hostess who leads us to our booth, although we don’t make it all the way there. I stutter to a stop, dragging Meg to a halt with me.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I groan at the head of a table. The five suited men sitting around it, nursing a series of shot glasses and hands of playing cards, suddenly look up. Every damn one of them drops their jaws, their eyes raking down my body as if they have permission to violate me. Garrett is first to drop his cards and hold his hands up.
“I swear, this has nothing to do with me.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Wyatt scowls. Like the rest of them, his top button is popped open, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. There’s a hint of black ink trickling across his collarbone and disappearing beneath the cotton. I mimic his narrowed eyes and clench my jaw, deciding he’s not worth an answer. Moving towards the hostess, who is patiently waiting a few booths away with drinks menus in her hands, Wyatt shoots to his feet.
“I don’t fucking think so. You really believe I’d let you walk around a club like this, looking like that?!” He gapes at me with open disgust. I give him a look that I can only describe as, ‘Well, duh dickhead.’ I leave then, Meg at my side. We slide into our booth, finding a bottle of champagne on ice and a bouquet of red roses waiting. I slip the card free of its holder, reading the note inside.
‘Happy Birthday, Angel. I’ll see you soon. Love, Nixon.’
“Good, old Nixon!” Meg cheers. The hostess waits to pop the bottle and pour our glasses, instructing us to have a fantastic evening. I settle into the suede with my best friend, fully intending to. Sipping, tapping my foot to the music, the song has barely finished when we’re invaded by huge bodies muscling their way into our space.
“Seriously guys,” I moan, finding myself sandwiched between Dax and Meg. Huxley is on her other side, Wyatt nudging in on the end. Garrett and Axel bring stools, pushing them together as close as they’ll go. On the table, the bucket is pushed aside for Wyatt to start dealing out two playing cards to each person, Meg and I included. Once satisfied, he raises his hand to call the hostess back over.
“We’ll have Frozen Daiquiris for these two,” he moves his thumb between Axel and Garrett, “a Screwdriver for Hux. Whiskey Sour for me, and keep them coming,” Wyatt drawls with his eyebrow hitching in my direction. “And alcohol-free ciders for the rest. You’ve got a board meeting tomorrow, Dax. I’m cutting you off for the rest of the night.”
Dax nods while Meg launches herself towards the champagne bottle, snatching and clinging it to her body. I, too, hold my glass against my cleavage. The hostess closes her notepad, looking unsure but she leaves to fulfill Wyatt’s ridiculous requests.
“Why do you let him boss you around like that?” I huff into Dax’s ear. Every movement is tracked by all of them. His head tilts, a trace of his jawline passes over my cheek.
“He’s obsessive because he cares. It’s how he shows love.” Dax’s whisper brushes my ear. I release a bitter laugh.
“Well, thank fuck he doesn’t love me.” Breaking away, Garrett is giving me a strange side glance but for once, he doesn’t say anything. He lifts a small, silver case onto the table, revealing stacks of colored chips which are handed out to each person. Somehow, we’re entered into a game we didn’t ask to play.
“You just carry around a poker set everywhere you go?” Meg asks jokingly. Wyatt’s strict green gaze pierces her without a trace of humor.
“Courtesy of the club,” he responds and flips the first dealer’s card. Taking turns, they place bets until all eyes settle on me. Garrett grins, leaning forward on his elbows.
“How’s your poker face, Peach?” I scowl at him. Peering at my cards, a five and seven of clubs, I raise the bet. Meg does the same, shooting me a coy look. The boys probably missed it, but I heard the message loud and clear. The testosterone around here needs a serious reality check.
By the time Garrett realizes just how much poker I’ve played with Nixon over the years, he’s out of chips. He does offer to bet with items of clothing, but Wyatt swiftly declines. Instead, Garrett is forced to watch, pout, drink, and sneakily tease Axel under the table until he joins the loser’s club. Meg and I sneakily top up our flutes with champagne out of view, huddling together and giggling until it’s her turn to deal. Meg’s fumbling fingers shuffle the cards messily, much to the boy’s dismay. She jerks around, laughing and fumbling, her breasts resting on the table.
Once we all have our hands, she turns into me, resting her head on my shoulder while she pushes two cards in between my thighs. I sit back, swapping out my hands while Garrett is begging to play, around unbuttoning his shirt. It’s the distraction I needed. Now holding two aces, the first few rounds are typical, small bets being placed. On the table, the ace, two and five of hearts are glaring upwards. I can barely contain my giddiness, raising my chips. Everyone folds except Wyatt, his green eyes dark and boring into mine. Inclining my head, I take my turn.
“All in,” I push my mound of chips into the middle of the table. He doesn’t react, copying my move. Meg flips over the last card, the ace of spades. I don’t know how she’s done it, but she’s a genius. Sitting upright with my chest puffed out, Wyatt holds up a hand.
“Before we reveal,” he states, “I propose a forfeit for the loser.” The champagne and adrenaline bolster my actions. In fact, this is the most Wyatt has ever said to me, and that in itself has a strange rush spiking in my veins. He turns his hand in a slow, calculated move. “That empty space down there has a very specific purpose, due to be revealed at midnight. If I win, you have to sign up to be a part of the reveal. If you win, I’ll do it myself.”
