Page 108 of Into the Dark
“All right, Jess. Rach about?” Jake asks, casting a look over her shoulder.
“She’s on the second floor with Gem.” She nods gravely. Gem? Gemma? This involves Gemma?
Jake nods. “Seen Kev about?”
“No. But Xan said he saw him on the fire exit about a half hour ago.”
“Well, if he comes back in through this door, tell him I’m looking for him, yeah?”
“Will do,” she says with a flick of her hair. She only briefly glances at me, a tight smile on her face that does nothing for the Gemma-style déjà vu I’m currently experiencing.
Jake takes the same door Kevin did last night, and once inside the cool hallway I follow him up the stairs in silence. The faint sound of the bass beyond the walls fights against the sound of our footsteps. When we reach the second floor, he uses his wallet to unlock another door, beyond which is another fairly long hallway with several doors leading off it. It’s painted white like the rest of the backroom areas, the doors black metal and closed tight. Jake scans inside each of the rooms briefly as we pass them, and I’m opening my mouth to ask him what he’s looking for when we hear the sound of feminine voices coming from behind the last door on the left-hand side. The doors are thick, so I can’t hear exactly what’s being said, but the voices sound raised and agitated to my ears.
Jake stops and turns to face me, looking tense. “I honestly don’t know what I’m walking into here, baby. It might be better if you wait for me upstairs, yeah? In my office?”
I glance behind him at the closed door. “Are you going to be all right? Do I need to worry about you?” I feel tense too, but since I know nothing I don’t really understand why.
He smiles softly and steps into my body. “No, you don’t have to worry.” He brushes his lips over mine. “I just think this might go better if I’m alone, that’s all. I’ll explain later.”
I look up into his eyes as I nod. “Okay. I’ll wait upstairs.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can. Promise.”
Just then, the closed door of the dressing room opens behind Jake, startling us both, and a good-looking dark-skinned woman pokes her head through the open door. She’s wearing a black lanyard around her neck with the club’s logo on it and a faintly worried look on her face.
“Jake, it’s you. Thank fuck,” she gasps before her eyes move between us.
“Hey, Rach,” Jake says.
She comes fully out the door then and pulls it closed behind her. “Hi, I’m Rachel.” She stretches her hand out to me, and I shake it. “You must be Alex. So sorry to spoil your night—kinda needed the boss to sort this one,” she tells me in a rush, sounding genuinely sorry.
“Yes, Alex, nice to meet you. And it’s fine, don’t worry. We’d finished eating anyway—good timing.”
“Okay, I won’t be long. Make yourself a drink or something, yeah?” He kisses me quickly once more before following Rachel back toward the closed door. Then he remembers something and turns back. Reaching into his wallet, he pulls out the black key card and hands it to me. Then, with a smile, he disappears inside the room
Upstairs, I use the key card to slip quietly into the back kitchen area of his office and close the door behind me. The air in here is warmer and smells faintly male—faintly like Jake. To my left is the door to the small, windowless bathroom, and once inside it I push the door closed and relieve myself with a contented sigh. In the corner there’s a decent-size shower cubicle with a towel drying over the top of the glass screen and a tall red locker, which is open to reveal a few shirts on hangers and a dark gray suit bag with the Burberry logo on it.
After flushing, I wash my hands in the small corner sink and inspect myself in the mirror. My face looks a little sunburned, perhaps from the park, the freckles across my nose, cheeks, and forehead more prominent than normal. I rummage through my clutch bag for my lip balm and rub it into my dry lips before puckering them loudly a few times. There’s no point in touching up my makeup since we’re going home to go to bed after he deals with whatever’s going on downstairs.
Why didn’t I ask what Kevin did? Perhaps I just don’t care. It doesn’t involve Freddy Ward or this thing Jake is trying to navigate with Mark, and so it doesn’t matter. It’s not important. Kevin is not important in this theater of our lives. I don’t need to know.
Make myself a drink, he said. I could have some Coke, I suppose. Or tea. He probably has tea somewhere in here, I think as I scan the small, compact kitchen. But since it looks practically unused and extremely tidy I decide not to disturb it.
In the main part of the office, I go directly toward the cupboard below the TV, which I know has a mini-fridge hidden within it. I rest my bag on top and bend low to survey the contents. Lots of cans of Coke and Diet Coke, bottled water, and those little branded bottles of spirit mixers. It’s a well-stocked mini-fridge. Better stocked than my actual fridge. There are shelves on either side of it with more bottles of alcohol than I can count. Mainly Jack Daniels and those blue bottles of designer whiskey David Beckham used to advertise, but rum too and vodka and gin. There are also several bottles of tequila and some of those liqueurs people drink toward the end of the night when they’re feeling brave. I’ve never seen Jake drink anything except Jack Daniels—once—and beer, so I wonder who all this is for. I try not to let my mind think of Russian brunettes in tight business suits. Instead, reaching into the fridge, I retrieve a can of ice-cold Coca Cola.
As I stand up and pull open the can I feel something crawl up my spine. A realization. The distinct sensation of a presence.
I spin around and gasp out loud in fright.
Kevin sits behind Jake’s desk, a bottle of something dark resting in front of him. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his head tilted to the side as he studies me. My skin tightens when his mouth lifts into a lazy smirk. “Well, look who it is,” he says, his voice thick, a little slurred. He reaches forward and lifts the bottle. “If it’s not the good little doctor herself.”
My breathing feels too fast, and the hairs on my neck dance a waltz across my skin. “Jake’s downstairs. He’s looking for you,” I tell him.
He lifts the bottle to his mouth. “Oh, I bet he’s looking for me,” he says, taking a long gulp, followed by another, thick throat working the alcohol down his gullet. When he trains his glassy stare back on me, he draws it down my body and back up slowly. “You look good, darlin’. You and my boy out somewhere nice, were you?”
I swallow my retort back down. He’s not your bloody boy. “We were at dinner.”
“Oooohhh, you were at dinner, was you? Somewhere nice I’m betting? He knows how to treat you a lot, that’s for sure.” He finds this very amusing, breaking out into a thin cackle.