The Lotus Club is a swanky joint downtown, a notorious celebrity haunt, but also a meat market where the crème de la crème go to hook up. I feel a tinge of pity for whoever gets in my way, pedestrian, security guard, police officer—because I’ll simply kill to get to Natayla right now, no questions asked. The world is about to see how street Dance Prop’s Dashiell Cunningham can get.
I put the lead on it and blow every red light without so much as a glance. If I die on the way to the Lotus Club, maybe it will work out in Natayla’s favor. She won’t have to watch me break the legs of every mother fucker who dared to lay eyes on her.
At the exclusive club, the line to the velvet rope stretches for blocks. Instead of parking, I drive to the front of the joint and exit my car. Marching up the stairs past the plebs who’ve been waiting for hours, I look the bouncer in the face and attempt to convey how close I am to murder. The other patrons whine about my skipping the line until a few of them recognize me from Dance Props and point their phones in my direction instead. The bouncer must recognize me since he lets me in without a blip of hesitation. I stride through the coat check and skip the bar, making my way to the dance floor like a big cat on the prowl for blood.
I spot her immediately. What does a girl who’s tossed her entire wardrobe to the wind wear? Ballet clothes, if she’s a dancer. Sam’s clad in a cut-out unitard, nothing else. And apparently, she didn’t toss all of her shoes because she’s sporting six-inch red bottoms. The ensemble makes her look like a whore. Everyone can see every line and curve, from her perky little ass to her taut tits and upward-pointing nipples. She’s surrounded by men, and when one snakes an arm around her tiny waist, I see nothing but red.
I storm across the floor and grab her in one fell swoop, dragging her by the waist before hoisting her to my shoulder. Natayla screams in protest, but the supple sway of her body tells me she’s drunk.
“Hey, wait a second. I was dancing with her,” a man makes the mistake of saying.
I turn back, one hand over Natayla’s lower back to secure her. “You want to fucking dance with death tonight?” I ask him.
“Put me down, Dash!” Natayla protests and begins to kick her feet against my chest. I grab her ass and squeeze to shut her up.
“Nope,” the guy says and scurries away, disappearing into the crowd.
“Dash, come on. I was only dancing, trying to blow off some steam. What are you gonna do? Tell me how I can and can’t behave, like Mother?” she chides.
I walk straight out of the club, ignoring her cries to retrieve her coat and bag. My car’s still in the same spot and I walk down the stairs, open the back door, and toss her in, dodging the razor-sharp kicks of her “fuck me” heels. She’s wearing a diamond tennis bracelet on her ankle and it appears to be the one I gave her. Guess Sam didn’t get rid of the few items that meant something to her.
I fall into the driver’s seat and take off at an ungodly speed.
“You’re not my keeper,” she says.
I glance in the rearview and see her pout like the spoiled brat she is. “I’m your fucking boss now and you will do whatever I say, whenever I say it.”
“That’s not fair. It’s like you tricked me. You told me it would be freedom but you’re as bad as her.”
“Oh, believe me, Princess. You haven’t even seen how tough I can get,” I grit through my teeth.
I should have locked all the doors because as soon as we hit a red light and come to a stop like a sane person, Natayla opens the back door, slips out, and takes off running. Without even grabbing my wallet, keys, or pulling over, I’m out of the car two seconds behind her and full-speed running. She sprints down the sidewalk and ducks into an alley. I slam full force into two drunks exiting a bar and power right through them, unwilling to lose sight of her.
The alley is pitch black and might even be a dead end, but it’s full of dumpsters and metal garbage cans and some unsavory characters passed out or nodding. This end of town is suspect, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone is driving off in my Maserati right this instant. But keeping Sam safe is more important.
By the silver light of the moon, I spot Natayla’s fingers wrapped around the edge of a dumpster. She’s crouching out of view, but when I look down, I can see the tip of her high heel. I’m done playing games, and rage seethes in my veins, bringing my blood to a boil.