Overture (North Security 1)

“Hell,” Cody says, and I close the door against the ache in his voice. He wants to be the one escorting her into a nightclub like the line of couples behind a velvet rope. Not as part of a secret night out and definitely not as our designated driver.

“You’re mean,” I whisper as Laney links our arms together.

“Maybe,” she says, sounding a little sad. “But this is for his own good.”

“I still think we should tell him what we’re doing.”

“He would never have driven us here if he knew.”

Laney tosses her hair back, marching right up to the bouncer, bypassing the line of people. “Hey, sweetheart. We’re looking for a good time.”

The man has arms the size of my head. He looks intimidating, and considering I live in a sprawling complex that houses armed mercenaries, that’s saying something. His dark gaze sweeps down Laney’s body, leaving no doubt that he’s weighing what he’s seeing.

My impromptu blouse and short shorts might look sassy enough to get into a club, but her red dress is the star of the show.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“The name’s Jennifer,” she lies.

“Sure it is,” he says, stepping aside to let us in. “I go on break in thirty.”

Laney waves at him as we slip past.

“How are we going to find this guy?” I shout to be heard over the thump thump thump. Someone stamps my hand, and then I’m shoved into a sea of people.

Bodies move me back and forth, interchangeable, indistinguishable. My stomach clenches. I’ve never been around this many people at once. Strobe lights flash over the blinding white smile of a woman. The heavy-lidded eyes of a man. Writhing bodies that make plain the kind of sexual knowledge I could only pretend earlier, humping my pillow alone.

CHAPTER TEN

The word “music” comes from the word “muse” in Greek. The Muses were daughters to Zeus and Mnemosyne, and protected the arts, including writing, dance, and music.

SAMANTHA

The front looks like a warehouse with a bar installed. Laney slips a wad of hundreds to a bouncer, and we wind up in the VIP section in the back.

Once we slip past the red velvet curtain, the scene changes completely. Deep leather couches create little islands for people to talk… or other, more physical activity. Raised sections of the floor surrounded by a metal railing put on a show.

“Women only,” the bouncer says, nodding to the platform.

“Sweet,” Laney says, grabbing my hand. “Let’s dance.”

I linger near the entrance, reluctant to be the center of attention. There are other women dancing, and Laney was right about one thing—my impromptu outfit doesn’t look out of place. “We’re not here to dance,” I say. Laney is crazy smart, but she’s like a hummingbird, drifting from flower to flower, her body held in suspension only because of how fast she moves.

She snorts. “Yeah, sure. Let’s stand at the door asking every person whether they’re going to sell us incriminating photos. We’re trying to appear normal, remember?”

That’s enough to push me up the short steps to join the other women. I can be normal, damn it. I can do normal things like dance in front of a bunch of men I don’t know in what basically amounts to my underwear… Acid rises in my throat. Oh God, I can’t do this.

I’ve never heard the song that plays over the speakers, loud enough that the bass reverberates in my bones. That’s just another sign that I’m not actually normal. I can name the composer in a handful of opening notes for most classical music, but I don’t know what’s popular on the radio right now.

A man reclines on the black leather, his skin a sharp contrast to the shadows, his gaze locked on mine. Most of the men are looking at the bodies in motion. He’s looking at me—with amusement.

Panic wraps itself around my throat, and I close my eyes against the strobe lights.

The darkness settles over me, and I can block out the dancing around me and the men surrounding us. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know the song. I know the beat. The notes. The rhythm. Music is a universal language, and it speaks through me now, moving my hips in time.

In the best moments I don’t move the bow or the strings. It’s they who move me the way they need. That’s what happens now, a kind of perfect passivity. The bass takes hold of me. My body reacts to the overt sexuality of the lyrics, turning warm and then hot, molten by the time the track thump thumps its way to transition to a new song.

I open my eyes and realize that Laney’s watching me, her eyes wide. And she’s not the only one. “I didn’t know you could dance,” she says, something like awe in her voice.