The mess was the last thing I was worried about as we suddenly raced down a dark hallway, blowing past others who were scrambling to get out of the way. Cutting to the right, he pushed open a door.
A black void enveloped us as the door swung shut behind me. Terror rose as I threw up my free hand. “I can’t—I can’t see anything.”
“You’re fine.”
Luc charged ahead, walking at a fast clip I struggled to keep up with. There was a distinctive smell of laundry detergent. He reached another door and we slipped through it just as the door behind us exploded open.
“Stop!” a man yelled.
My heart was going to launch itself out of my chest. We darted into a dimly lit hallway. Luc twisted suddenly, grabbing me around the waist. I shrieked as he lifted me up.
“You’re too slow,” he complained.
Luc picked up speed, moving so fast the hall was nothing but a blur of hair and walls. He hung a sharp left and then I was sliding off him, down his side. I staggered back as he placed a hand on what appeared to be just a wall. A second later a door appeared, sliding open.
“What the . . . ?” I stared in shock. There were hidden rooms here? Why would they have hidden rooms? Only serial killers had hidden rooms!
Luc shushed me—he actually shushed me as he yanked me forward. I skidded into the dark room. He let go, and I stumbled, bumping into the wall. I whipped around. This wasn’t a room. It was the size of a closet! Barely big enough for one person, and he was sliding the hidden door to the right until the tiny sliver of light disappeared, pitching us into darkness.
Holy crapola . . .
I pressed against the wall. My pulse pounded so fast, it felt like an ocean roaring in my ears as I strained to see anything in the small space. There was nothing but darkness and Luc.
And Luc was practically on top of me.
His back was against my front, and no amount of trying to climb into the wall was going to help me put space between us. The piney scent from earlier was definitely coming from him. It was all I could smell. How in the world did I end up here? What series of really bad life choices had I made that led me to this very moment?
I could be at home, snapping pretty pictures with my phone or separating knee-high socks from the crew-cut ones—
Something slammed out in the hallway. I jumped, knocking into Luc. I reached out, my hands landing on his back. He shifted suddenly, and every muscle in my body locked up. My hands were suddenly flattened against his chest, and that wasn’t just a chest. Those were pecs—pecs as hard as the wall behind me.
I started to yank my hands away, but even in the complete darkness, he caught them, keeping them right where they were. I started to protest, but whatever I was about to say died on the tip of my tongue as I felt his breath skate over my forehead.
We were close, way too close.
“They have to be back here,” a disgruntled voice boomed from the hall. Static crackled over a radio. “I’ve checked the other rooms.”
My breath caught. What would happen if they came in here? Would they shoot first and ask questions later?
A heartbeat passed, and then the hair around my ear stirred as Luc whispered, “I hope you’re not claustrophobic.”
I turned my head, tensing as my nose grazed his cheek. “It’s a little late for that.”
“True.” He shifted again, and I felt his leg brush mine. I shivered. “We just need to play it cool in here for a little bit and then they’ll be gone.”
A little bit? We’d already been in here for far too long, but I could hear the guy out there, pacing back and forth. “Does this happen often?”
“About once a week.”
“Lovely,” I muttered, and I thought maybe he chuckled under his breath. I was going to smack Heidi for coming here, to a club that got raided once a week. “What are you guys doing here to get raided?”
“Why do you think we have to be doing something?”
“Because you’re getting raided,” I whispered-yelled back.
Luc’s fingers moved, and I felt his thumb smooth over mine, sending another acute shiver through me. “Do you really think they need a reason to come in here, search for people? To hurt people?”
I knew who “they” were without asking. The ART team answered to our government. “Are you registered?”
“I already told you.” His breath now coasted over my cheek. “I’m not a Luxen.” There was another pause. “You . . . you smell.”
“Excuse me?”
“You smell like . . . peaches.”
“It’s my lotion.” I closed my hands into fists as frustration mingled with fear and something . . . something heavy. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”