“Let’s go,” I say evenly, defying the lingering apprehension that’s still rooted deep. I take the steps steadily and with purpose, me leading Miller for once, until I’m being blocked from proceeding farther by the ominous double doors. I’m astounded when Miller reaches over and punches in the keypad code from memory. What in the world?
“You know the code?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Yes,” he answers, flat and with utter finality.
“How?” I splutter. I’m not accepting any of the usual signs that tell me the subject is exhausted. It isn’t. William and Miller despise each other. There’s no good reason why Miller would know the code that can grant him access to William’s establishment.
He halts in his attempt of shifting me and starts fiddling with his suit jacket sleeves, brushing each down. “I’ve stopped by one or twice.”
“Stopped by?” I laugh. “What for? Cigars and laughs over a mature whiskey?”
“There’s no need for insolence, Olivia.”
I shake my head, not needing to correct him or ask what the topic of conversation was during those visits. I bet there have been some quite colorful words exchanged. Yet my damn curiosity won’t allow me to shut the hell up. “What for?” I watch as his lids perform a lazy, patience-gathering blink. His jaw is tight, too.
“We may not like each other, but when it comes to you, Anderson and I rub along just fine.” His head cocks expectantly. “Now, let’s go.”
I feel my bottom lip curl in condemnation, but I follow through on his order, brisling from head to toe.
The grand entrance hall of the Society gleams with elegance. The original wooden floor is clearly still polished weekly, and the décor, although now cream and gold instead of deep red and gold, is opulent. It’s dripping in money. It’s luxurious. It’s magnificent. But all of the lovely décor now just seems like a disguise—something to fool people from seeing what this building truly represents and what happens here. And who frequents this posh establishment.
Preventing my eyes from familiarizing themselves with my surroundings any more, I push on, begrudgingly knowing where I’ll find William’s office, but Miller grabs my upper arm, swinging me around to face him. “The bar,” he says quietly.
My bristling returns. It’s unwarranted and unnecessary, but I can’t help it. I hate that I know this place, probably better than Miller. “Which one?” I retort, harsher than I mean to. “The Lounge Bar, the Music Bar, the Mingle Bar?” He drops my arm, and his hands slide into his trouser pockets as he regards me closely, clearly wondering if the sass is going to subside any time soon. I can’t confirm that. The farther into the Society I venture, the more I can see my sass getting harder to control. All of Miller’s words outside are suddenly forgotten. I can’t remember them. I need to remember them.
“The Lounge Bar,” he responds calmly, and signals to the left with a sweep of his arm. “After you.” Miller is taking all the sass I’m throwing his way without retaliation. He’s not biting. He’s calm, cool, and aware of the irritation flaring within his sweet girl. On the longest gulp of air I’m ever likely to take, I yank some reason from God knows where and follow Miller’s gesturing arm.
It’s busy but quiet. The Lounge Bar, just as I remember, is almost tranquil. Plush velvet armchairs litter the space, suited bodies reclined in many, all with tumblers of dark liquid grasped in their palms. The lighting is dim, the chatter quiet. It’s civilized. Respectful. It defies everything William’s underworld signifies. My nervous feet cross the threshold of the double doors. I can feel Miller behind me, my body’s natural reaction to his closeness ever present. I’m simmering but unable to enjoy the usual delicious sensations of internal sparks because of the exquisite surroundings that are torturing my wrought mind.
A few heads turn as we make for the bar. They recognize Miller. I can tell because of the surprised expressions replacing the initial curiosity. Or do they recognize me? I quickly rein in my disturbing thoughts and push on, finding myself at the bar fast. I can’t think like that. I mustn’t think like that. I’ll be dashing for the exit any moment if I don’t halt these thoughts. Miller needs me with him.
“What can I get you?”
I direct my attention to the impeccably turned out barman and immediately blurt out my order. “Wine. Whatever you have.” My bum drops to one of the leather barstools as I gather every reasonable fiber of my being in an attempt to calm myself down. Alcohol. Alcohol will help. The barman nods acceptingly and begins making my order while he looks on to Miller in question.