Page 76 of Midnight Curfew

“Can I leave when I want?” I press.

“Of course.” His tone is light and calm. “Whether you can get away is another question.”

My plan is to let him play with my head but show him that I know far more than he does. If he thinks I have tricks, he’ll want me there—maybe again on another night, too. I want as many opportunities as possible to get whatever is useful to Macon.

Callum undoubtedly has a plan of his own, though.

“Am I expected to participate?” I ask next.

His gaze falters, and he turns away, toward the window. “Not in the first room.”

“The first room?”

It’s called the Wolfe Room. I guess it should’ve occurred to me that it would be more sophisticated.

“When you get into the Den…” He furrows his brow a little. “It’s a little more aggressive.”

He avoids my eyes, looking like a memory is playing in his head.

I study him. “Did you ever not like it?”

He lifts the glass to his lips. “I’ve never been in the Den.”

Then how does he know?

I want to ask him other questions. I want to know how many times he’s been in the Wolfe Room and what he’s done, but then I remember I don’t give a shit.

He slips his glass into a cup holder and starts making another one.

As long as I can leave at will, and I can decide who I touch and when, it should be easy. I’m not getting my hopes up that these Saints can shock me, but I’d love to be surprised.

Remembering one more question, I turn back to him. “Are there safe words?”

He pours Belvedere in a rocks glass. “In the Wolfe Room, there’s no need for fantasizing about power dynamics, because you’re in one,” he explains. “No means no.”

But…

“But whether you can do anything about it,” I add, “if they don’t listen is another question, right?”

Callum doesn’t reply, but I see the flex in his jaw as he caps the liquor.

You can’t convince me that every person who ever walked into this place left feeling like they weren’t at least coerced in some way. There weren’t a few nights when things got out of hand? When someone did it anyway, knowing they were too powerful and rich to suffer any consequences?

Didn’t he take my sister into the anteroom of that fucking place once?

I’m a dick, and I’ll always be a dick, but I’m not cruel or a criminal. Nothing feels better than when they really want it.

He felt especially good, actually.

Sitting back, he holds out a drink for me. “Vodka, right?”

I take the glass, roll down the window, and dump it. Dropping the glass into my cup holder, I raise the window again.

“Oh, come on,” he teases. “You never needed persuasion.”

But slipping me a roofie so he can get me into a compromising position in that room might be the kind of persuasion he needs.

I’m not fucking drinking anything, unless it’s from a bottle I see opened in front of me.