Unlike the rough-looking exterior, the inside of the club was far from run-down. The floor gleamed like polished marble. Running the length of one side of the room was a long, black bar. It wasn’t wood or metal, but it looked too thick for glass. As the rotating club lights hit the bar, Leslie saw streaks of color—purples and greens—shimmering in it. She gasped.
“Obsidian,” said a raspy voice beside her ear. “Keeps the patrons calm.”
A waitress in a skin-suit with shimmering silver scales all over her legs and arms stood there. She circled behind Leslie and sniffed her hair.
Leslie took a step away from her.
Although neither Niall nor Seth had ordered yet, the waitress handed them drinks—a golden-colored wine for Niall and a microbrew for Seth.
“No drinking age in here?” Leslie’s gaze wandered over the room. The people in their odd costumes all had drinks, though some of them looked younger than she was. Dreadlocks was with a group of four other guys with pale brown dreads. They were sharing a pitcher that looked like it was filled with the same golden wine Niall was drinking.
A pitcher of wine?
“Now you see why I prefer to come here. Seth cannot relax as well at the Crow’s Nest, and they do not carry my preferred vintage”—Niall lifted his glass and sipped—“at any other club.”
“Welcome to the Rath, Leslie.” Seth leaned back in his chair and motioned to the dance floor, where several almost normal-looking people were dancing. “Weirder than anywhere else you’ll ever see…if you’re lucky.”
The music grew immediately louder, and Niall tipped back his glass one more time. “You could relax more fully, Seth. Some of the girls—”
“Go dance, Niall. If we don’t hear from Ash within the next couple hours, we’ll need to get Leslie to work.”
Beside her, Niall stood. He sat his half-full glass on the table and gestured to the dance floor. “Come join the dance.”
At his words, Leslie felt a whispering need to refuse and a simultaneous tug of impatience to go toward the small group of costumed people who were dancing almost manically. The music, the movement, his voice—they all beckoned her, pulled her as if she were a marionette with too many strings. Out there in the throng of swaying, shifting bodies, she’d find pleasure. A sea of lust and laughter floated in the air around the dancers, and she wanted to swim in it.
To buy a moment to steady her nerves, she grabbed for Niall’s glass. When she lifted it to her lips, it was empty. She stared at it, turning it in her hand by the fragile stem.
“We don’t drink this in anger or fear.” Niall put his hand over hers so that they were both holding on to his glass.
It wasn’t anger or fear she felt; it was longing. But she wasn’t telling him that. She couldn’t.
The waitress stepped from somewhere behind them. Silently, she tilted a heavy bottle over the glass Niall and Leslie both held. From this close the wine looked thick as honey. Spirals of iridescent color shimmered as it filled t
he cup. It was tempting, smelling sweeter and richer than anything she’d ever known.
Her hand was still under his when Niall lifted the glass to his lips. “Would you like to share my glass, Leslie? In friendship? In celebration?”
He watched her as he sipped the golden drink.
“No, she wouldn’t.” Seth slid his beer across the table. “If she wants a drink, it’ll be from my glass or my hand.”
“If she wants to share my cup, Seth, it’s her choice.” Niall lowered the glass, still holding her hand over the stem.
The drink, the dance, Niall—too many temptations were in front of Leslie. She wanted them all. Despite how weirdly Niall was acting, she wanted that tumble into pleasure. The fears that had been binding her since the rape were loosening lately. The decision to get tattooed did that. Freed me. Leslie licked her lips. “Why not?”
Niall lifted the glass until the rim was touching her lips, close enough that her lipstick smudged the glass, but he didn’t tilt it, didn’t pour that strange-sweet wine into her mouth. “Indeed, why not?”
Seth sighed. “Think for a minute, Niall. Do you really want to deal with the consequences?”
“Right now, more than anything I can think of, but”—Niall pulled the glass away from Leslie’s lips and curled their hands until her lipstick smudge was against his mouth—“you deserve more respect than this, don’t you, Leslie?”
He drained the glass and set it on the table but kept hold of her hand.
Leslie wanted to run. His hand still held hers on the glass, but his attention was no longer intense. Her confidence faltered. Maybe Aislinn had good reasons to keep Keenan’s family away from her: Niall alternated between fascinating and bizarre. She licked her suddenly dry lips, feeling denied, rejected, and angry. She shook off his hand. “You know what? I’m not sure what game you’re playing, but I’m not interested in it.”
“You’re right.” Niall lowered his gaze. “I don’t mean to…I don’t want…I’m sorry. I’m not myself lately.”
“Whatever.” She backed up.