Page 7 of A Secret Escape

T he thump of the bass vibrates through my skull, making my stomach churn. I wince, blinking hard against the club’s flashing lights, and do my best to smile as Angela lifts her drink to me from across the booth.

Carter’s disappeared into the crowd somewhere, not for the first time tonight.

His friend Harrison is here with us, sat opposite another girl from the office, Becky, who’s making flirty eyes at him and laughing too loudly at everything he says.

I’m pretty sure they’ve been playing footsie all night, because Harrison’s foot accidentally brushed against mine earlier and when I looked at him, he quickly apologised before redirecting it to its intended recipient.

“I think I’m going to head home soon,” I call across the table to Angela. The words feel thick on my tongue, like my brain is moving half a beat slower than usual. I’m more drunk than I meant to be and the warm fuzziness has tipped into a spinning edge I don’t like.

She pouts dramatically. “Noooo, Lila. It’s your birthday drinks. You can’t leave yet!”

We had already celebrated my birthday last week, but decided to come out tonight to get some B-roll for an upcoming bar promo for the club, which happens to be one of Catalyst’s biggest clients. We’ll pretend it’s a night out and get some organic footage, Carter had said.

“I’ve got a headache,” I say .

“Give me twenty minutes, and you can crash at mine,” she offers.

I sigh, weighing the effort it would take to walk back to my single mattress in my tiny shoebox, compared to crashing in her king size bed at her parents’ place less than five minutes away.

“Fine. I need another drink then.”

She grins in victory as I pull myself upright and stumble slightly, catching myself on the edge of the booth.

I make my way to the bar, pushing through the crowd, focusing on keeping my balance.

The bartender is swamped so I lean against the sleek countertop at the far end and dig my phone out, hoping that scrolling through Instagram will make the minutes pass faster.

I’m midway through attempting to comment on a post when I feel the heat of someone brush against me. Too close. Too deliberate.

“Hey. Lila, right? Drew. From Meridian.”

I look up at him, taking a second too long to place the name. Then I remember – one of Meridian Capital’s ‘finance bros’ with over-gelled hair and cocky smirk. He had spent most of the meeting eyeing me up like a piece of candy. My stomach rolls.

“Hi,” I say, giving him a polite smile but looking over his shoulder for the bartender.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, leaning in a bit too close to my ear. He reeks of vodka and cheap body spray.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, returning my eyes back to my phone.

“Come on, why not? It’s just a drink.” His hand brushes my arm, and my entire body goes rigid.

“Sorry, I have a boyfriend,” I say, my eyes scanning the crowd for Carter or any sign of a familiar face. The bar has grown even more crowded, bodies pressed together three rows deep - a sea of strangers without a single recognizable face among them .

A sickening grin spreads across his face, making my skin crawl. “He’s not here now, is he?” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “So let me buy you a drink.”

“No. Thank you, but I’m good,” I say firmly, trying to push past him, but he blocks me with his body. His hands find my waist, and a sharp bite of bile rises up the back of my throat. The panic that spikes through me slices clean through the fog of alcohol.

“One drink.” His voice is insistent, edged with entitlement. “Come on. You look like you could use some fun.”

“I said no ,” I repeat, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands as I push him off me.

His expression shifts – that dangerous moment when rejection morphs from disappointment to anger. His jaw tightens and his eyes darken.

I tense, calculating my options.

Then, a shadow materialises behind him, a good six inches taller, with broad shoulders I recognise instinctively, blocking out the ambient light of the bar like a storm cloud.

“Pretty sure I heard her say no,” Marcus says, his hand clamping down on Drew’s shoulder. His tone is calm and firm – but the danger in it is unmistakable. His eyes pierce the smaller man with an icy coldness that sends a shiver down my spine.

Fuck. Remind me never to get on his bad side.

Drew’s eyes dart back and forth between us.

“Whatever,” he mutters, the bravado deflating. “She’s all yours,” he says as he turns and walks off. I swallow a lump in my throat. If only.

As he disappears into the crowd, I release a shaky breath, the tension in my body slowly uncoiling.

“Thank you,” I say, looking up at Marcus as our eyes meet .

“Are you alright?” he asks, his icy glare softening as he scans my face.

I nod. “I am now.” A slight smile creeps across my face, though it feels fragile. “I was trying to get away, but didn’t want to make a scene.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” His voice is firm. “I could see him making you uncomfortable from across the room. I’m glad I got here when I did.”

“Me too,” I say.

His eyes linger on mine. He’s close – probably closer than he’s ever been before – close enough for me to notice the faint shadow of stubble growing in along his neck, and the tired but gentle crease around his eyes.

His scent – something warm and clean, with hints of sandalwood and nutmeg – washes over me, replacing the nausea from earlier.

His gaze drops briefly to my lips before flicking quickly back to my eyes, and my heart stutters.

Suddenly, something barrels into me from behind, sending me flying forward - straight into Marcus’s chest. His arms wrap around me, steadying me. My palm lands flat against his chest. And my brain can’t string together a coherent thought.

“Liiii – la,” Carter slurs, arms draping around my shoulders as I reluctantly force myself to straighten up, despite every cell in my body begging to stay pressed against Marcus.

I look over at Carter. He’s completely plastered. His cheeks are red, his eyes glassy, and he reeks of tequila. I sigh, wrapping my arm around his waist to prop him up as Marcus’s arms fall back to his sides.

“Did – did you know…” he slurs, “that… the floor is doing the wave? Like at… at… net…sport…ball games!” he exclaims, as though proud of himself for figuring out the word he meant to say.

He flings his free arm out, nearly toppling us both over, and I notice Marcus flinch, as though holding himself back from catching us. Or catching me.

“Whoa! See! The floor is moving!” Carter laughs.

I struggle to keep him upright while giving Marcus an apologetic look.

Carter’s head lolls forward then snaps to look at me. “You’re so pretty,” he says, letting his head drop down to rest against mine.

I close my eyes. If he remembers any of this tomorrow, he better fucking make it up to me big time.

No. Screw that. Even if he doesn’t remember it, he’s buying me lunch for a week. A month.

“I should get him home,” I mutter, struggling to keep Carter upright. The adrenaline, the music, the heat, the alcohol all mix together now, making my head spin.

Marcus nods, and I catch a flicker of something in his eyes – disappointment? – before his expression shifts back into his usual calm exterior.

“I’ll help you get him outside,” he says, already moving to take Carter’s other arm. The relief is instant. Carter’s weight shifts off me and I take a deep breath.

“You’re the best,” Carter mumbles to Marcus, his head swinging between us as Marcus clears a path toward the door. I cling to Carter’s side, trying my best to keep his feet somewhat under him.

The freezing cold January air hits us like a wave as we push out onto the pavement. Carter sways, then manages to straighten up slightly, dragging in heavy, uneven breaths like the cold might help sober him .

“Are you going to be alright?” Marcus asks quietly, his voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.

I nod, wanting to hug him, but feeling an obligation to keep one hand on Carter to stop him from falling over and hitting his head on the ground.

“How are you getting home?” Marcus asks, pulling out his phone.

“I think we’re crashing at Angela’s,” I say, looking around in hopes that she’s seen us and followed us out.

“I’ll find her,” he says.

“Thank you.” I try to hold his gaze, but he’s already walking back inside.

Carter groans beside me, leaning on the wall. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

For fuck’s sake!