Page 12 of Sugar (Gilded #1)

Golden

MADDIE

I turned back to see the door being held open by a muscled man. There was no other description for him. He was massively tall, and his muscles had muscles that strained his black tee. He made Benji at Wells Law look like a kindergartener.

Contrary to his intimidating size, his smile was soft and friendly. “You’re looking for the bar, right?”

“I am,” I lied.

“Like I said, you’re in the right place. Just a little early. It won’t get hopping for another couple hours.”

“I’m always early,” I lied again. It was a frantic effort for me to get anywhere on time. That was as good as I was getting.

The man stepped aside so I could join him in the entryway.

Oh.

Oh no.

This is how I die.

There’s literally a saying about curiosity killing the cat, and I fell for it anyway.

There was no bar. No early crowds. There was nothing but an old, black rotary phone on a little golden table and a matching stool.

If I was smart, I would’ve retreated right back out the door, but I didn’t.

“Are you meeting anyone here?” the man asked, offering me a protective pretext without me scrambling to think of it.

I just hoped it didn’t backfire. “Yes. A whole group of friends. They should be here soon.”

“How many?”

“Eight of us,” I lied yet again.

“Good thing you came early then. ID?”

My fingers trembled as I slid it from my pocket and handed it over.

He gave it a cursory glance that was nowhere near long enough for him to memorize any details. Not unless he had an eidetic memory. He reached for the phone before pausing to look at me.

Why is my dumbass playing along instead of running?

“The password,” he prompted. At my extended silence, his expression softened as he quietly whispered, “It’s golden.”

“Oh. Uh, golden?”

“Wow, how did you ever guess that?” he drawled with a teasing smile.

“Make sure the rest of your party knows it because we’re supposed to turn people away who don’t.

And if it gets busy by the time they arrive, they’ll have to wait.

Any later than ten, and they’re better off trying a different night. Got it?”

I wondered if he was messing with me. Toying with his prey before he got to the murdering.

That didn’t stop me from nodding. “Got it.”

He lifted the phone but didn’t press any buttons. “One for now.”

I wasn’t sure who was crazier. The man speaking to no one on the vintage phone he hadn’t dialed.

Or me for still standing there like a too-stupid-to-live character in a horror movie.

A click echoed in the space, making me jump out of my skin.

The man returned the handset and tilted his head to the door. “Enjoy your night.”

Run.

Run.

Turn and run.

“Thanks,” I muttered and did not, in fact, run.

I opened the heavy door to find a small landing and a golden spiral staircase that led down. It was too bizarre. All of it. Everything. I was about to finally listen to common sense when the sound of laughter, music, and chatter drifted my way.

The kind of noises one would hear at a bar.

With one last pause—and my last act of good judgment—I pulled my phone free and dropped a location pin to Wren and Greer in case I turned up missing.

Then I started down.

When I reached the bottom, another door was being held open by a second beefy guy. “Welcome.”

“Thanks,” I said as I walked inside. My steps slowed to a stop until I rudely blocked the walkway, but I couldn’t help it.

Done in dark woods and plush leather, the space was sophisticated and old-fashioned, yet undeniably cool.

Gold details were tastefully interspersed throughout, adding an elegance to it.

It was far more expansive than I would’ve thought from the outside, which was good because it was already busy.

I couldn’t imagine how packed it would become during peak time.

I started across the room toward the lengthy bar. Every stool that lined it was filled, and more people stood between them. Mounted on the mirrored backdrop was a twisted wrought iron sign with what I assumed to be the name of the bar.

Golden.

That explains the passcode and the decor.

I’d been lying to the guy upstairs, but I should totally have Greer and Wren meet me here. Then I won’t need whatever feeble excuse I scramble for if Easton…

Shit.

Easton.

I’d been so distracted with the prospect of being murdered and my fascination with the secret bar that I’d completely forgotten what’d brought me there to begin with. I paused to scan the high tops, packed booths, and dotted armchairs.

Everywhere I looked, I saw the same thing.

Glamorous people dressed in glamorous clothes in a glamorous atmosphere. But none of them were the attorney I was ineptly stalking.

I kept a closer eye out as I continued moving to the corner of the bar where I would have a better view.

There was still no sign of him, which was probably for the best. It was unlikely he was there meeting a client.

Certainly not one that would lead to a groundbreaking story that showcased my investigative skills and set me up with job stability for life.

It was far more likely that it was something personal.

Like a date.

That alone should’ve made me hightail it out of there. I had no desire to see a leggy brunette pressed to him—that time in person rather than in a photo. But I must’ve been a glutton for punishment because I stayed right where I was, searching him out.

“What can I get you?” someone asked after a minute.

I looked over to see a handsome bartender set a cocktail napkin on the gleaming wood in front of me. Like the rest of the place, the black napkin was branded with gold detailing.

I was tempted to order one of the fun cocktails that required the use of smoke, bubbles, or intricate garnishes that I saw lining the bar. I reluctantly decided against it. If I was going to indulge, it was going to be done properly with Greer and Wren.

And not when I was playing sleuth.

“I’m all set for now, thanks,” I said.

He didn’t push and instead set a drink menu next to the napkin. “Wave me down if you change your mind.”

With one last scan of the room, it became clear that Easton must’ve gone into one of the other darkened buildings because he wasn’t there. I grudgingly started toward the exit when my phone vibrated, and I pulled it free.

Greer: Is this a distress text or a hookup check-in?

Wren: We thought you had a newspaper thing. Were you lying? If you ditched bestie laundry night for dick… Okay, we wouldn’t blame you.

I hadn’t told either of them who I was interviewing. I don’t even know why I’d kept it a secret other than I just… hadn’t wanted to share. With the turn the night had taken, it would make for a far better story now.

I was about to pocket my cell again to deal with later when another text popped up.

Greer: I googled the address and nothing showed. What’s happening? Where are you?

Not wanting my wonderfully protective friend to call in the cavalry, I fired off a quick message.

Me: Checking out a local bar. Will explain later. Definitely doing girls’ night soon. One that doesn’t involve chores.

I looked up from my phone just in time to stop myself from ramming into a ridiculously expensive-looking man—though not the one I’d been looking for.

“Hey there.” He gestured for me to go first. “After you, beautiful.”

Where do I know him from?

I took a few steps and then paused to watch as he continued all the way to the far corner of the room where a set of double doors were tucked in the shadows. The familiarity of his face needled at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place him.

Assuming he was headed for the bathroom, I changed direction to follow after. Partially because I was hoping to see him again since there were only so many mysteries I could stand in one day, but mostly because I also had to go before I drove home.

Maybe it’s not my nosiness that drives me to be a journalist.

Maybe my true calling is a stalker.

He paused for a moment, and I slowed so I didn’t slam into his back. He finally opened one of the doors and walked through, and I confidently strode after like there was nothing suspicious about it.

Except my ploy crumbled the moment we were both in the hall, and the man turned to offer me a quizzical look.

So much for cloak-and-dagger subterfuge.

My dilemma was made worse when I glanced around to see there were no bathrooms. It was just a lone door at the end of the hall. It didn’t look like the industrial kind that would lead to a break or storage room. The matte black was coated in intricate golden embellishments.

And the plot thickens.

What the hell is this place, and why do I suddenly feel like Alice getting lost in Wonderland?

I could’ve given an honest excuse—that I was looking for the bathroom. I also could’ve just turned around without a word since I didn’t owe a response. But none of those would answer the mountain of questions that were quickly stacking up.

For a long moment, my brain buffered before an idea hit. I’d been to enough bars and parties to know there was one surefire way to get a man to pretend I didn’t exist.

Act like I was in the throes of drama.

I lifted my phone to my ear and made my voice whiny and slurred as I cried, “ David , where are you? You said you were meeting me… Who was that?” I spun away from the man. “Are you with that bitch? Again ? You promised that was a one-time fuck up. I can’t believe…”

My outrage at my fictional lover cheating on me tapered off when I glanced over my shoulder to see the unidentified man had hauled ass through the lone exit. Entrance? I wasn’t sure.

Well. I’ve gone this far.

Let’s see what’s behind door number one.

Heart hammering in my chest, I pulled the handle.

Another lobby? Why?

Unlike the one upstairs, the space was significantly larger. A few lush armchairs were dotted throughout, and there was an open doorway that appeared to be a coat check. A matching matte black and gold door was up against the far wall with an intimidating guard next to it.

In front of me, a gorgeous blonde woman in a little black dress stood behind a tall podium that was positioned near yet another etched glass door.

I got what they were going for with the clandestine speakeasy vibe.

I especially understood the importance of having security—LA was not all glamor and Hollywood stars.

But that level of concealment seemed overkill.

I was no nightlife reporter, but if I were, Golden’s review would be teetering on a three out of five thanks to the sheer quantity of entrances, lobbies, and hoopla.

Maybe this is a restaurant.

“And your guest, Mr. Stavros?” the blonde asked, her tone urgent as my latest target opened the door.

Three things hit me at once.

One, the man I’d been following was Niko Stavros, the trust fund playboy who’d allegedly never seen a yacht he didn’t want to snort cocaine on.

Two, he, the woman, and the alert guard were all now staring straight at me.

Three—and probably most important—the open door gave me a clear view of a leather-clad woman walking a man.

Literally.

On a leash and everything.

“She’s not with me,” Niko said, unconcerned with my existence and what he was exposing through the open doorway.

Oh hell.

My frantic gaze darted between the woman who was already picking up a phone and the guard who was storming toward me. I knew I was about to get escorted off the premises.

That was bad enough. Mortifying enough.

But the universe wasn’t done with me.

Because a familiar gruff voice cut through the chaos. “Maddie?”

Oh, double hell.