Page 32 of Gamble (Black Light #38)

REAGAN

R eagan had been sitting in her car watching dozens of partygoers climb the grand staircase to the entrance of Runway for over twenty minutes. Each time she felt brave enough to touch the handle to exit, she’d chickened out.

This was ridiculous. She either needed to get out and go inside already or to drive home. Sitting out here like a lost puppy was embarrassing.

Two weeks. That’s how long it had taken Reagan to move from crushing sadness to bitter anger at Elijah’s sudden rejection.

He’d blindsided her.

The irony wasn’t lost on her that she was a thousand times more upset about the demise of a relationship that had only lasted a few days than she had been over her breakup with Tristan… a man she’d moved hundreds of miles and upended her life to be with just a year before.

In her time wallowing the last few weeks, she realized that Tristan had been such a shitty boyfriend that the end had always seemed to be inevitable, but Elijah had fooled her. She’d fallen for him hard only to have the rug pulled out from under her.

Dammit, she wanted—no, needed—answers. Elijah didn’t get to just slink away without telling her to her face why he’d thrown their budding relationship away. Even if it hurt, she deserved the truth.

A wave of renewed anger finally got her car door open.

Taking a deep breath, Reagan smoothed down her little black dress and started weaving her way through the parked cars toward the well-lit entrance of Elijah’s club.

She was careful not to twist an ankle in the too-high heels she’d bought during one of her recent misguided online retail therapy sessions.

Her heart raced at the thought of confronting him here of all places, but he’d left her no choice. He wouldn’t take her calls or return her texts. Coming to his place of employment wasn’t ideal, but she wouldn’t be leaving without closure.

Reagan almost lost her nerve during the ten-minute delay in the Friday night line waiting to get into the popular club.

Even from outside, the pounding beat of the dance music could be heard, but it only made her heart race faster, knowing she wasn’t coming to party with friends or dance.

Although getting shitfaced on high-end cocktails didn’t sound half-bad, especially if Elijah shunned her to her face.

“ID?” the bouncer asked as she arrived at the front of the line.

This was it. The urge to turn and run back to her car was strong, but her anger at Elijah’s callous rebuff was stronger.

She thrust out her hand with her California driver’s license before she could chicken out.

“Welcome to Runway, Ms. Murphy. Have fun tonight,” the guard welcomed as he handed her ID back.

A pessimistic “Don’t I wish,” popped out before she could hold it in.

Refusing to back out, Reagan stepped out of the warm summer breeze into the cold wave of air-conditioned space of the grand foyer, where the line of revelers now waited to purchase their entry tickets.

Her pulse spiked faster with each minute that passed, knowing she was getting closer to confronting Elijah.

Only after stowing her cell phone in a locker did it dawn on her how crazy her plan had been to come here on a Friday night. The place was packed. Even before making it to the main dance club, the music pounded loud enough to make it difficult to carry on a conversation without shouting.

Still, she followed the crowd, winding through a wide hallway until she found herself at the entry to the massive dance club.

Revelers pressed at her back, forcing her to step deeper into the room, past dozens of tall bar-tables with partiers gathered around each one.

At the center of the room, at least a hundred dance pairs were grinding against each other to the sexy beat of the music.

Tucking herself in an out-of-the-way corner, Reagan squinted into the darkened room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man she’d come here for.

As her eyes adjusted to the low light, she could make out the two long bars with thirsty partiers waiting for their drinks on opposite sides of the room.

At the far end of the space, a raised platform was home to a couple of dancing DJ’s who were taking music requests from a short line of patrons.

What she didn’t find was Elijah.

After taking two full spins around the room, Reagan finally resorted to asking a bartender, “Have you seen Elijah Keaton?” She held her breath, not sure if she was ready to confront him but equally unsure if she was ready to find out everything Elijah had told her had been a lie.

Shouting over the loud music, the bartender answered. “I haven’t seen him up here tonight, but that’s not unusual. He rarely drinks when the club is open.”

Okay. Mixed results. Still no Elijah, but at least this proves he works here.

“Okay, thanks anyway,” she said, stepping aside so other revelers could place their drink orders.

Knowing now that he rarely hung out in the dance club, Reagan decided to explore the areas of the club farther away from the dance floor. She’d done some research online and knew that besides the music and DJ, Runway also had several game and billiards rooms and a full-service restaurant.

As she wandered from room to room, the opulence of every inch of the mansion turned club surpassed the photos online. Despite her emotional state of mind, she admired everything from the decor to the unique floor plan enabling different fun for the Friday night crowd.

It wasn’t until she arrived at the expansive kitchen full of eating patrons—still without finding what she was looking for—that her patience ran out. Before she could change her mind, Reagan approached the first employee she found and asked, “I’d like to see the manager, please.”

There. She’d done it. She was proud of herself for not chickening out.

The broad smile that had been on the chef named Avery’s face, at least if her name tag was correct, slipped some. “I’m sorry, is there a problem I can help you with?”

“No. No problem. I just need to speak with the manager.”

“May I ask if this is an emergency? The manager is in a meeting right now.”

The desire to apologize and run away rather than make a fuss was strong, but Reagan pushed the urge down. Fuck inconveniencing Elijah at work if he couldn’t even be bothered to return a call or a text.

“I’m afraid it can’t wait,” she ground out while her pulse spiked higher. She left off the part that if she had to wait too much longer to get this confrontation over, she might just run out the front door and never come back.

“Okay, please follow me,” Avery said, placing the towel she’d been holding down on the kitchen island and moving back toward the billiards room.

The chef led her to what looked like a wood-paneled wall. Only after Avery placed her palm print on a biometric security stand did the wall pop open, allowing her to slide it open like a barn door. The entrance was clever and yet secretive.

“Stay here. I’ll be back,” the chef ordered but was away before Reagan could reply.

The door was still cracked open just enough for Reagan to see the massive dining table with animated diners seated all around.

At a glance, it looked like seating for around twenty people, although a few of the seats were empty.

Scanning the room looking for Elijah threw her racing heart into a near panic attack.

It was bad enough that the man she’d come to find wasn’t among the diners, but the list of people who were in the room freaked her out.

The infamous trio of owners sat at one end of the table, and down each side of the table sat Hollywood’s true elite.

Shane Covington, Khloe Monroe, Piper Kole, Cash Carter—all the celebrities Elijah had assured her he knew when they’d seen the waxed version of them in Vegas.

At least he didn’t lie about knowing all of them.

That reassuring thought lasted mere seconds when Avery headed back toward the door with a petite blonde woman following behind her.

“Can I help you?” the beautiful woman asked.

Why hadn’t Avery come back with Elijah?

“Em… I need to speak with the manager,” Reagan repeated.

“That’s me. I’m Madison McLean. I’m the manager.”

What the fuck? The first inkling of realization seeped in.

“But… I thought Elijah Keaton was the manager?” Reagan heard the quaver in her own voice as she pressed down the urge to cry.

The blonde’s eyes widened before answering, “Elijah does work here, yes, but he’s not here right now. May I know who is asking?”

Relief that he at least did work here was replaced with anger that he’d still lied to her. Why would he do that? Was he maybe just a bartender or security guard, and he thought she’d think less of him?

She had just managed a simple, “My name is Reagan,” when a rowdy crowd behind her pressed closer to the open door, trying to peek into the private room.

A young woman’s piercing scream of, “I love you, Shane!” from just a few feet behind her startled her.

Without hesitation, the petite lady named Madison grabbed Reagan’s forearm and pulled her into the private room while apologizing. “Sorry, but we need to keep out the looky-loos,” she said while closing the door behind them.

The commotion had drawn the attention of everyone in the room.

She felt the heat creeping up her neck as the room full of celebrities stared at her in an oddly curious way that she couldn’t put her finger on.

Despite living in Los Angeles for over a year, she’d never come into contact with anyone more famous than a grown child actor who’d come in for foot surgery the month before.

Finding the eyes of so many truly famous people on her was freaking her out.

“I’m so sorry…” she stuttered. Her anger at Elijah had been replaced with embarrassment at interrupting what was clearly an intimate dinner party for friends. “I hate to interrupt… I just thought Elijah would be here.”