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I obliged, and the moment I walked through them, my jaw dropped to the floor. Every inch of the hallway was aglow in silver and orange lights, and digital flames were dancing under my feet. At the far end, I could see flashing red lights from the main part of the club.
The bouncer led me onto a glass elevator, and we rode it up three floors. When we stepped off, I felt as if I was in a completely different world. I blinked a few times, taking several seconds to process things as I followed his lead.
I noticed tons of celebrities sitting around plush red and black booths—smoking cigars and tossing back champagne with ease.
“Here you are,” the bouncer said, stopping in front of a shiny black booth and table. “The waitress will come up in a few minutes to accommodate you. Welcome to Fahrenheit 900, and Happy New Year.” He walked away, and I moved to the balcony—looking at the dance floor below.
It was covered in flames, and they lapped against every inch of the walls, giving the effect of hell. The bar extended across the entire right side of the club, and hostesses waded through the crowd with their trays held high, offering champagne and shots.
On the main stage, the DJ spun hits on a table that featured oversized devil horns, and on the smaller stages, two exotic dancers dressed in shimmering gold twirled on poles–completely in sync with each other.
I need to capture all of this…
I looked over my shoulder to make sure that no one was watching. Then I pulled out the smaller cell phone that I often snuck into the private runway shows. I held it low and snapped a few pictures of the club. I managed to take eight shots before I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Okay, Miss,” a deep voice said. “It’s time for you to fucking leave now.”
“What?” I spun around and found myself face to face with a different, much scarier looking bouncer. “What did I do?”
“Cell phones are not allowed in our club.” He narrowed his eyes at me before redirecting his gaze to my cell. “We tell everyone that at the door and we don’t make any exceptions.”
“I’ll just put it away now, then,” I said. “Where is the pouch thing?”
“It’s too late for that.” He reached for my hand, and I stepped back.
“Ramon!” He called over his shoulder, and another muscular bouncer entered the booth. “Are you going to make this harder on yourself, Miss Thatchwood?”
“No…” I followed them out of the booth, then to the elevator. I tried to plead my case, promised not to take another picture, but my words fell on deaf ears. One bouncer had his hand around my wrist, and the other was standing in front of me—shielding the other guests from my unforgivable faux pas.
The elevator doors glided open, and the man who’d owned every second of my thoughts for the past few nights stepped off looking sinfully sexy. Dressed in a custom black suit and stone-grey tie, he stopped right in front of us once his eyes met mine.
Raising his eyebrow, he stared at the bouncer who was holding my arm—looking as if he was upset about him touching me.
“What the hell is happening here?” he asked, his tone terse.
“Miss Thatchwood has violated our phone policy,” he said. “We’re kicking her the hell out.”
“I see.” Michael looked at me, his lips curving into a smirk. “Let go of her, Ramon. Now.”
He dropped my hand, and Michael snapped his fingers.
“Yes, sir?” A hostess appeared at his side.
“Give me a phone pouch.”
She pulled one from her bag, and Michael gently grabbed my cell phone from my hands and tucked it inside.
“Place that at the desk so Miss Thatchwood can access it on her way out.” He stepped closer, closing the gap between us. “I’ll show her back to her booth and thoroughly go over my rules so we’re more than clear from here on out.”
The bouncers didn’t question his decision, and the hostess disappeared.
He pressed his hand against the small of my back and walked me to the table, keeping his eyes on me with every step. When we reached it, he let go of me and stared at my dress.
His gaze lingered on the low cut above my breasts, at the slit that went up my entire left side and stopped short of my bare ass.
“I told you I was coming here yesterday,” I said, swallowing as his eyes continued to move up and down my body. “Why didn’t you say that you worked at this club?”
“Because I don’t work at this club,” he said. “I own this club. And if I was being fair, I’d kick you out of it for breaking my number one rule.”
“You’re not going to?”
“Not yet.” He smiled. “I was actually coming up to personally deliver a message to your suite. The man you’re supposed to meet—” He pulled a card from his pocket and read it. “It’s from a Mr. Jameson Turner. He just called my office to say he’s still a little tied up, and he won’t be able to make it.”
