Page 43 of Savage Roses
As we await the first round of security to give us a verdict, I place a hand on my hip and channel my persona for the night.
Sasha Newton is a part-time med student, full-time socialite from Lunbury, great-granddaughter of real estate mogul Clive Newton. She’s not the type to worry about trivialities like invitations.
I cause a diversion. Tugging on Stitches’ tie, I yank him closer. “If they don’t hurry up, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to keep my hands off you. We need to finish what we started in the limo.”
One of the men checking our invitation glances up.
Stitches blinks, thrown by my curveball for only a second before playing along. “Uh, yeah… things were getting hot and heavy. You know how we get. We’re like a couple of bunny rabbits.”
“There’s a table right here. Don’t tempt me,” I purr.
By the time I’m trailing a finger along Stitches’ jawline, the men have forgotten about our invitation. They wear similar expressions of restrained horror as they thrust the gold-sealed black card back into our hands and direct us through the entry point.
Stitches grabs my hand and hurries me along. “What was that about?!”
“I figured we’d distract them! They were staring at our invite a little too closely.”
“You trying to land me in the ER? Let Psycho see you purring at me, and I’ll have no kneecaps by tomorrow.”
I don’t argue with him on this. That’s definitely something Salvatore would do.
The second and third security points are hardly easier—once again we’re subjected to thorough checks by unidentified men in tuxedos. At the third security check point, I spotarmedguards.
The last guy to check our invite and verify our names and identity waves us through. The mood changes within a single stride.
We’re bathed in the bright, sparkling lights of the chandeliers in the atrium as we pass through. A giant, pot-bellied older man with a bushy mustache, donning the same white tuxedo as the others before him, greets us by the elevator.
“I hope you enjoy tonight’s festivities,” he says, guiding us inside. “If you need anything at all, please feel free to seek me out. My name is Gene. I’m the event organizer. Up you go.”
We soar up in the glass box Gene has led us into. My stomach lurches along with it as though I’m about to be sick.
The sensation intensifies when the glass doors slide open and we’re confronted with the Neptune Society itself.
A large party room filled withdozensof members socializing—the din of their many voices, the blend of their many scents, an array of luxurious masks covering their smug faces, surrounded by the plush setting of the club.
But I zero in on only one thing.
The rings.
Silver braided bands and sapphire stones. Representative of the city of Northam and our mascot, Neptune, and his trident.
Almost everyone has one on. Some don rings with variations—a man behind a scarlet Venetian mask who looks suspiciously like my high school best friend Ashley’s father wears a gold version of the ring.
At once it’s all I can do not to stare. Obsessively, my gaze slides from hand to hand, seeking his out of the crowd. I’d know them anywhere. I have them memorized down to the last detail. Even his touch—you could blindfold me, and I’d be able to pick it out of a lineup. The cold, cruel feel of his grimy, chewed up fingers on my body, my hips, between my thighs, inside me, is something I’ll never forget. I’m sure of it—
“Hey,” Stitches whispers, nudging me. “You okay?”
“Hmmm?”
“My arm. Your nails.”
I glance down. I’ve grabbed hold of his forearm and sunk my long nails into his sleeve so hard he must feel it through the fabric.
“Sorry,” I mutter, letting go. “I… I was distracted.”
As months have gone by, my blackouts have happened fewer and farther between. Occasionally, I lose concept of time and get stuck in a moment. It happens when spotting something that triggers my memory of that night.
The club ring. The stench of a cigarette. Even if someone walks too closely behind me.