Page 38 of Sugar

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 toa 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.

Anotherlobby? 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.