Date Me

He shoves his leg between mine, then moves his hands down my body. "I know what you're doing," he whispers.

Shit.

He knows.

"What am I doing?" I say, in my coyest and sexiest voice.

"You're trying to get me all turned on so I can't think straight."

Oh, thank god. He doesn’t know I’m trying to find the gun.

"Is it working?" I purr.

He gives me a grin that if I didn't know how sick he is, would have made my heart flutter.

My heart is fluttering, but it's a bad way.

I'm going to have a heart attack way.

"I almost forgot," he says. "I did something just for you." He pushes me back just a little, flips over his hand, and shows me the chaos tattoo on his wrist. "Now we match."

“I heard about Tiny. How he died in a mugging gone bad. Suspiciously the same way your mother died.”

Vincent smiles a sick smile. “I heard that too. You really have to be careful on the streets these days. Bad stuff can happen to anyone.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, Abby. It’s a promise.” He tucks his fingers under the waistband of my skirt and pushes it down slowly.

I know what he wants. He wants to see my tattoo.

I back away quickly, causing his hand to fall in front of him.

He grabs my arm and squeezes hard, pulls me back close, and gets in my face. "Don't even think about it. I want to see your tattoo. Now."

I hesitate.

“I said now."

I lean my back away from him and slide my skirt down a little further on my hips so that my tattoo is visible.

He puts his wrist against my skin.

Making our tattoos touch.

He keeps his hand in place but pulls the rest of my body back in closer.

"It's like our tattoos are making love," he says.

He pushes his hips further into mine so I can feel how this has aroused him.

I can barely choke back the bile in the back of my throat.

I really feel like I’m going to puke.

Maybe that would be a good idea. If I puked, wouldn’t someone come help me?

Or would he say that I’m sick and he is taking me home. No one would believe he was being anything other than helpful.

My chin is up by his shoulder so he can't see my face.

I allow myself a moment to be horrified.

To stop acting.

I shut my eyes tight. Breathe heavily and try to keep myself from crying.

"Keep doing that," Vincent says. "That way you’re breathing. Having our tattoos touch is turning you on too, isn’t it?"

I can't say anything.

I can't act anymore.

I ca

I just nod my head into his, so he thinks I am agreeing.

"Abby, god, this is amazing," he says, pulling me closer and rubbing his tattoo harder up and down against mine.

Gun.

Remember the gun.

Find the gun.

Get away.

I move my hands down his chest. To his front pants pockets.

He moans again. “Abby. Abby.”

I still don’t feel a gun.

Instead, I feel his erection.

Definitely not a gun.

That leaves his ankle. James always keeps a spare gun in an ankle holster.

I pull myself closer to Vincent and slide my foot down the side of his left leg.

I don’t feel a holster.

That leaves his right leg. Which I should have checked first. He’s right handed. Of course, it would be on the right side. A plan forms in my head. I’m going to find the gun. Shake into him or something. Drop it low. Get the gun. Tell him to get the fuck out of here and that if he touches my tattoo one more time, I’m going to shoot him.

But then I’d be the crazy person in the club with a gun.

I’d have to kill him, so he’d have no defense. So that he couldn’t make up a story.

I have to kill him.

"What the—” Vincent says.

Vincent is shoved away from me and knocked to the ground in a blur.

Dallas grabs my hand and pulls me off the dance floor, with Riley right behind us.

"No!" I yell at Dallas. "I have to go back there. He has a gun."

"He said that? That he has a gun?” Dallas’ face goes white and he looks scared.

"Yes, he said if I didn't do what he said that he'd start shooting people."

"Fuck," Dallas says. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends a text. Why he's doing that at a time like this, I have no idea. “I’m sorry,” he says, “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in this mess or put you in danger. Come on, we've got to leave."

He pulls my hand, bringing me and Riley with him.

I follow him, even though I have no idea how he could have put me in danger. I’m the one that’s putting them in danger.

I listen for gunshots. I'm praying Vincent doesn’t follow through with his promise to shoot Damian, who is still on stage singing.

I've got to warn him.

"I've got to go backstage first. I've got to tell Damian. He knows we came here with him. He threatened to shoot him.”

Dallas looks like he's ready to cry. He runs his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. This is all my fault."

I don't understand why he's rambling about it being his fault, but I do know I need to get to Damian.

Fast.

I run to the door leading backstage. Flash my backstage wristband to the guy standing in front of it.

I sprint through the hall, up the three black metal stairs leading to the stage, run across the stage and leap on Damian, bringing him and his guitar crashing to the ground.

Big guys dressed in black rush onto the stage, surrounding us and trying to pull me off Damian.

"What the hell did you do that for?" he whispers.

"He's here. Vincent is here. You've got to get off this stage."

The bouncers pull me off him and carry me off. They pull Damian to his feet, and he runs after me.

"Put her down," he says, once we're both safely offstage.

I can see the other backstage door from here. I see Vincent standing in front of it. He passes a wad of cash to the bouncer. The bouncer opens the door and lets him in. Riley and Dallas, who are both out of breath, come ru

"We're leaving out the back. This way," Dallas says as he pulls me to the back exit.

I don’t even have time to think. I just let him lead me. He seems to have a plan.

As we rush out into the back alley, I see three identical blacked out Suburbans. Men in dark suits pull me, Dallas, and Riley into one and Damian into another.

The trucks split up and we go flying down the street, slowing only to make numerous turns.

Dallas doesn't say anything, but I can tell he’s as tense and scared as I am.

I put my shaking hand on his leg and start to say something. He gives me a slight headshake and moves his eyes toward the guys.

How did Dallas get these men here so fast? And just who are they?

After a fifteen minute drive full of turns and doubling back, we pull into an underground parking lot and are hustled to a nondescript elevator.

After a short ride, we enter a plush hallway to a huge Presidential suite with sweeping views of Biscayne Bay.

Dallas stops to give me hug and whispers in my ear. "They are going to want to debrief us. Just agree with me. I’ll explain everything to you later. I’m so sorry that I put you in danger.”

“But . . .”

“We’ll talk later,” he says firmly.

I nod as he leads me to a sofa, which I promptly collapse on.

I look out at the beach.

Try to pretend I'm back in Malibu and Vincent doesn't exist.

Two guys in suits sit down.

"Tell us what happened," one of them says to Dallas.

"I did what I was told to do if I ever felt threatened. An old guy had ahold of her on the dance floor and wouldn't let go. He grabbed her arm hard. At first, I thought it was just because she's pretty and turned him down or something. But I could tell he was threatening her. Riley and I decided to get her away from him. When we did, she told me he had a gun. That's when I texted."