Page 89 of The Sun & Her Burn

“I guess that answers that, eh, Meyers!” someone shouted.

The smile that curled my mouth was thin and curved like the edge of a dagger. I hated these vultures, but they served a purpose. By morning, Linnea and I would be all over the place, and Oscar’s trite interview about his time as my chauffeur and that smiling selfie would be half-buried beneath us.

We caught up to Giselle and Sinclair, following them inside the dark mouth of the club and through a series of doorways until we emerged into a cavernous hall that must have once been a warehouse. Now, it was transformed by massive chandeliers that tinkled and swayed with the bass of the heavy, pulsating music, and the black velvet fabric that hung in swathes across the walls and ceilings. Everything was sumptuous. The floor reflected back in the antique mirrored bar. The servers all wore sultry uniforms of black hot pants or trousers with suspenders and sleeveless white button-ups.

“Wow,” Linnea said, blinking owlishly.

Sinclair chuckled. “My clubs are about excess.”

I watched a lower-level VIP section balcony where a rapper I admired was surrounded by a coterie of women dancing for him while he drank from magnum-sized gold bottles of champagne. Another scene was a buffet of desserts glinting like jewels as a bachelorette party feasted, toasted, and shimmied together in shades reminiscent of a summer sunset.

“Quite the place you have,” I said, tone rich with admiration.

Sinclair shrugged modestly, but his expression was all arrogance. “Let me show you to the private VIP section I enjoy when I drop into the city. I think you will find it to your tastes.”

Without another word, we followed him through the hot masses of churning, drinking bodies and to a curling staircase manned by two huge security guards who merely nodded at Sinclair before unclipping a red rope to let us go past.

We climbed the stairs past one level, then two, then three.

“The levels of sin,” Giselle explained as she dropped beside Linnea and took her arm. “Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Lust, Pride, Envy, and Wrath.”

“Wrath?” Linnea asked, wide-eyed.

“In the basement,” Giselle explained. “It’s where fights are held sometimes.”

“Clever,” I muttered.

“Sinclair is that,” Seb agreed, appearing beside me. “He knows how to indulge better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I must have made a face because Seb laughed, and for a moment, I stopped walking because I forgot how.

God, he was bloody gorgeous.

“The ‘Lust’ floor is a private sex club on the top floor. He only seems buttoned up,” Seb whispered conspiratorially. “Much like someone else I know.”

“It’s been a long ten years,” I said, because I had a special ability to self-flagellate. “I could have changed.”

Seb’s mouth thinned, but he shrugged one shoulder. “Si,I think you have. But under the layers of ash, I still see the burning heart of you.”

And do you like it?I wanted to ask. Do you still want it?

But I didn’t because I couldn’t.

Finally, we stopped before an ornate wood-carved door with a brass plaque that labeled it “The Den.” Sinclair opened it without fanfare, exposing a large room open to the four-story drop below, where bodies writhed like coiled, brightly flashing snakes. A sweep of heavy black velvet curtains had been pulled back from the opening and tied with gold tassels, much like in a theatre, giving the entire space a dramatic, voyeuristic quality. The music was funneled up here, too, thrumming through the speakers with a bass beat that shook the floor. Velvet booths and opulent furniture decorated the space. To the right and left were a small stage and a bar, where a team of two bartenders was ready for service.

“I thought we could invite some friends,” Giselle said as she tugged Linnea, and by extension me, toward the bar. “I already called some of mine and Sin’s. Just write down their names and they’ll be let in at the door.”

“Wow,” Linnea said, more breath than sound, eyes wide as she took in the VIP space, the ease with which Sinclair took off his suit jacket and tossed it over the end of a booth before rolling up his shirtsleeves. Sebastian was already on the phone, hands moving animatedly as he spoke to someone even though they couldn’t see him.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I protested again, my stomach tightening at the idea of the celebrities that would no doubt flood this space in the coming hour.

It was one thing to play pretend as Linnea’s boyfriend for the paps and strangers, for the Lombardis who didn’t know any better. But I had been in Hollywood a very long time, and there were people who could ferret out my secrets and lies.

“You mentioned,” Giselle said, a little tease accompanied by a genuine smile. “Don’t worry, our friends keep their business to themselves. This is a safe place for you to let your hair down.”

I hummed, not agreeing with her but reluctant to pull Linnea away from what would undoubtedly be a night of fun. She deserved to let loose and forget her responsibilities for a moment.

Maybe so did I.