She can say that again. Adrian certainly didn’t hesitate when he finished that man off.

“Now, hush, Stephanie,” Philippe scolds.

“Just saying.” She changes the music to Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto no. 2, ignoring Philippe’s sounds of displeasure.

I sink further into my seat, absorbing the information I just learned. So Adrian is from the mafia. It could be another rumor, but for some reason, I believe it.

The part that bugs me the most is his relation to Matt. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. But what else could it be?

We arrive at the club before I can find answers to my questions, not that they’ve been forthcoming when it’s about Adrian.

Stephanie and I loop an arm through each of Philippe’s as he makes a grand entry into the club called Blue Diamond.

Thumping music greets us once we’re inside. The place is packed with people drinking and grinding against each other. Blue lights cast a fantasy-like hue over them as the DJ works his magic with the latest trendy hits. Some of the ballet dancers are on the floor, too, dancing and shaking their asses. While many of us prefer classical music, others are chameleons and listen and dance to anything.

Philippe sways, twirling both Stephanie and me around, then shouts over the music, “Alors, smile a little. We have all night. Open bar, my treat.”

More like his husband’s treat since Blue Diamond is his. Which is why Philippe manages to book the VIP lounge whenever he wishes.

Steve, his husband, welcomes us with an exasperated sigh, probably because of Philippe’s show-off attitude. As much as the director is a drama queen sometimes, Steve is anything but.

He’s a big man with a trimmed beard and bulging muscles under his short-sleeved T-shirt from which tattoos of snakes peek through. He’s self-made and rose from underground fighting to owning this club and a few other chains across the States.

“Miss me, mon amour?” Philippe coos, tickling his husband’s beard.

Steve pats his hand, then motions for us to follow him upstairs. “I told you to stop attracting attention.”

“Romance is really dead with you, mon amour. I should’ve gotten myself a French lover.”

Steve grunts. “As if anyone in the world would put up with your antics.”

“You do.”

“Begrudgingly.”

“I’m also putting up with your grumpiness, aren’t I?” He levels him with a stare as he hugs me to his side. “Anyway, I brought my muse. Take care of us.”

“Good to have you, Lia.” Steve’s words are warm, but his expression is the same as usual. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him and he’s always been caring, even if it’s in a distanced kind of way. I just love his and Philippe’s old couple banter.

After he makes sure we’re comfy in the private VIP lounge upstairs, Steve leaves us to take care of management business. I sit with Stephanie and Philippe on a sofa that’s isolated from the others, which offers a direct view to the dancefloor below. The two of them order one shot after the other, but I only allow myself a glass of tequila because there’s no way in hell I’m getting drunk again.

It’s been a week, but I made more mistakes than I can count the last time I allowed the liquor to rule me.

I actively avoid the other dancers while I listen to my two companions’ conversation. The others know not to join Philippe’s table unless he invites them, so I’m somewhat safe. As soon as Philippe goes to the bathroom, or for a ‘quickie with Steve’ as Stephanie says with a scoff, Ryan comes over, dressed in trendy Italian slacks and a purple T-shirt. He sways on his legs a little, his focus on me. “Come dance with us, Lia.”

“No, thanks.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“She said no thanks, Ryan. Which part of that do you not understand?” Stephanie tells him with a smile.

His lips twist as he huffs and leaves.

I give Stephanie a thankful glance that she answers with a nod, obviously knowing that my complaints weren’t in vain. We continue watching the dancing crowd until Philippe comes back, practically jumping and with his eyes gleaming. He definitely got laid or got high. Or both.

“Let’s dance, mes belles.”

Stephanie stands. “I’m always game for some twerking.”

Philippe teasingly slaps her ass. “Work it, bébé.”

“I’ll just watch from here.” I smile.

“No way. You didn’t come all the way here to sit like a statue, chérie.” Philippe says as he and Stephanie drag me downstairs despite my protests. I move slowly, trying not to put pressure on my foot.

Philippe twirls me, then Stephanie, and then they both shake their asses, inviting me to join. I just laugh at the scene, feeling a bit lighthearted by simply watching them. They can be so fun together. No wonder they’ve had such perfect chemistry working with each other all these years.

I’m still not comfortable with the dancing, however, so I shout over the music, “I’m going to grab a drink!”

“Hurry back!” Philippe calls out.

I nod, even though I actually intend to go back upstairs and watch them make fools out of themselves. But as soon as I get there, I regret it.

The place is empty except for two ballerinas who are making out in the back booth, groping each other’s breasts. But that’s not what makes me want to bolt.

It’s Ryan.

He’s waiting for me at the sofa where we were seated when we got here.

His eyes are wrong. I don’t know what is it about them, but I dislike what I see in there. I turn to go downstairs and rejoin Philippe and Stephanie, but he grabs me by the arm and pulls me back so hard, I slam against his chest.

“What the hell, Ryan?”

“I thought you didn’t want to dance, but you did it so well just now.”

I try to wiggle my wrist from his hold. “Let me go.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll scream.”

He covers my mouth with his palm and pulls me to him, rubbing his erection against my stomach as he forces me to move with him. “Now, you won’t.”

“Mfahhm…” I attempt to scream against his hand.

“It’s just a fucking dance, Lia. Stop being a goddamn snob and do it.”

I don’t want to do it, because the way he’s looking at me doesn’t seem like it’s just a dance. The feel of his hard-on is even more disturbing than earlier.