Devil You Know(46)

Where are you, Dylan?

“What’d you say this time?” Malice takes Bronx’s seat, and slides a fresh drink over.

“Nothing. I swear.” He lifts his hands.

Tigger emerges from the mob of people, and slumps on to the spare stool. He mumbles, and then springs up as fast as he landed to head for the bar.

“What’s his problem?” Malice asks Bronx.

“He had a squealer on Tuesday. I think it might have been one too many.”

“Shit,” Malice says, looking at the table. “That stuff always screws with your head.”

A squealer? “Are you all butchers?” I ask.

Bronx nods, and looks sideways at Malice. Something passes between them.

“Yeah, we are.” Malice rubs a hand over his head, and downs his drink. “How about a slow dance?” he asks, holding out a hand.

I throw back the new vodka drink, and take him up on the offer. We walk over to the dance floor, and find a spot near the edge where I won’t get elbowed, or shunted around. He wraps his hands around my waist, and pulls me close. Our hips connect, and desire courses strong through my veins.

We sway, and move to the beat; Malice’s arms protect my ribs. The ache is there, but I’d dare say the alcohol has helped dull the pain tonight. People move around us, but I’m lost in our little bubble. Our square foot of dance floor is ours alone, and I relish it.

Until I hear a voice that sends chills across my skin.

“What are you doing here?” he roars.

I pull back from Malice, and search the crowd. Why? How? People move between corners of the club, some dance, and others jostle as they talk amongst their groups.

“Told you that you couldn’t get away.”

Sweat beads on the nape of my neck. My eyes dance across the faces around me. Finally, I pin the man the voice belongs to—and it’s not Dylan.

“Good to see you though!” The mystery man pulls his friend into an embrace, and I push back the tears.

It’s not Dylan.

“Jane?”

I realize Malice has been repeating my name the whole time.

“I’m sorry,” I say, brushing him off. “I need to sit down.”

I push through the people that stand between me and my stool, in betwwen Bronx and Tigger. Malice drops onto his after me, and stares across the table.

“What happened out there, Jane?” He watches for my answer.

Bronx pushes from the table, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

“Can I get another drink?” I ask him.

He smiles, and takes my offered five-dollar note. “Sure.”

Malice watches him leave the table, and I look to Tigger for help avoiding the question I’m yet to answer. He watches some girl grind against her friend. Great.

“Jane?” Malice prompts.

“I thought I saw Dylan,” I blurt out.

He slides around the table to sit next to me. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I panicked, okay?”

“Totally okay. Understandable, even.”

I offer a weak smile. Sure, it’s understandable, but I’m still not happy about it. How long will I live on eggshells, paranoid that I’ll run into him? How long will Dylan still control my life?

Bronx returns with a round, and I snatch up my vodka. It burns going down. This shit’s a double shot. The boys strike up conversation—or should I say, Bronx and Malice do. Tigger sits, looking as lost as I feel.

The drinks continue through the night, and before I know it I’ve consumed five, or was it six, of the things. Whatever I’ve ordered this time tastes a shitload stronger, but the name was cute.

“How you holding up?” Malice asks as I sway to the beat beside his stool. I haven’t tried to return to the dance floor yet.

“Good,” I reply a little louder than planned.

He smiles, but I can see the same concern I spotted the first night we met creep in around the edges of his eyes.

“What’s that?” He points to the drink I’m currently slamming back.

I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, and place the empty cocktail glass on the table.

He catches it before it hits the floor.

I swear that was on the table.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “But I’m going to dance.”

“Are you sure?” His eyes grow wide, and I can’t fathom why.

“Yeah. Why not?”

“No reason.” He waves me off. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself; just stay close this time.”

“Yes, Dad,” I chastise.

My legs aren’t quite as co-operative as they were when I entered the place, but I’m certain for how much I’ve had to drink that I’m doing pretty well. My ankle rolls in the ridiculously high heels I chose to wear with this dress, and by the grace of God I manage to recover before planting face-first into a throng of dancing bodies.