MARISSA VANDERSON
"I can add to it if I want. It's my list."
He frowned and resumed studying the list.
Marissa realized now that she'd been lucky to find Dane and not some unscrupulous miscreant.
The only reason she'd gone to the Paradise Club was because of Gillie. In her sister's things, Marissa had found a shot glass with the bar's logo on it. Her heart clenched in anguish.
On that horrible night so long ago, she'd gone into Gillie's room, and cried herself to sleep in her sister's bed. When she awoke, she went through the entire room and stole items her parents would be shocked to discover: cigarettes, mini-bottles of alcohol, condoms, photographs of Gillie at wild parties.
She'd hidden it all from her parents—allowed them to enshrine the room, given them the wherewithal to remember their eldest daughter as angelic and virginal and perfect.
Ever since she'd escaped the confines of the mansion, she'd felt...happy freedom.
Yes, happy freedom was an excellent way to describe how she felt. She'd been happy, somewhat, in her parents' home, but they'd forgotten she'd grown up. She'd finished high school and college with private instructors. Her parents and Geoffrey had been her only companions since that fateful night when her sister had died.
A clip-slish-clip-slish sound interrupted Marissa's morbid thoughts. She stood on tippy-toe to see over Dane's shoulder and spotted a teenaged boy on Rollerblades racing toward them. He wore a black cap, jeans, and an oversized sweatshirt. His grin was shiny and mischievous.
Dane, still concentrating on the list, didn't glance up as he moved out of the boy's way. She tried to do the same, but the boy whipped past her before she could move an inch.
Marissa felt like her arm was being pulled out of its socket. She spun around, lost her balance, and fell. She skinned her palms on the rough sidewalk and, to her dismay, her hose tore at the left knee. The cuts on her hands stung, but not nearly as much as her pride. She sat up and stared at the retreating teenager.
The boy whirled and skated backwards just long enough to show off his thief's prize—her purse.
"Marissa, stay here!" yelled Dane.
The pink paper on which she'd written her list floated down and landed in front of her. Dane's sneakers rubber-scraped the concrete as he took off after the boy. Wow. Jeans looked really good in action, tightening in the right places.
What am I doing?
She grabbed her paper and, knees throbbing from the cuts incurred from her fall, managed to stand. Her legs felt like wet noodles and her breathing was unsteady.
She leaned against a stop-sign pole. Dane and the boy had disappeared.
The street ended at the freeway entrance. She doubted they'd gone toward the on-ramp; they must have gone west up the last street, just past the Paradise Club.
She squinted. Everything past the bar looked blurry and indistinct. Terrific. She'd tucked her glasses into the purse.
With Dane gone, her surroundings seemed more menacing. The dark, derelict buildings with broken windows and empty doorways looked like monsters with unseeing eyes and screaming mouths.
Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself. The nape of her neck tingled. She glanced around, unable to shake the feeling of being observed by someone...or something...in the shadows.
Her gaze flicked to the club's neon green sign glowing atop the square flamingo-pink building. While the club lacked the security of a castle keep with a hundred knights to protect her, and it looked like Miami Vice on acid, it was safer than standing alone in the creepy darkness of a barren sidewalk. It was only a couple blocks away. Taking a fortifying breath, she headed toward the bar.
Just as she reached the edge of the building, its doors burst open. Ear-deafening music blared; the minty-burn scent of cigarette smoke rolled out with two men clumsily exiting the club. They were propelled by a large gentleman who had their shirts twisted in his hands.
Taller than Dane and bigger than one of those professional wrestlers she'd seen on television, the mountainous fellow turned the intoxicated men toward each other and proceeded to bang their heads together. Marissa cringed as the men moaned in pain with each resounding thud.
The bouncer let go of their shirts and they slid to the ground. "You losers stay out of this club. Don't come back again or I'll get rough." He turned around and lumbered back into the noise-and-smoke-filled club.
Get rough? Marissa wondered what the giant thought attempted skull cracking constituted. She crept closer, wondering if they needed medical treatment. She stopped short and stared at the so-called losers.
Probably in their early 20s, both had spiked hair, pierced faces, and tattoo-covered arms. Dressed in tattered shirts, hole-riddled jeans, and Army boots, they looked like rejects from a punk-rock band. They had yet to realize that Marissa stood a mere foot away from them. Fascination outweighed fear. She felt like a biologist who'd just discovered a new species.
"Snipe?"
"What, Bullet?"
"That's the third club we've been tossed out of tonight."
"Fourth."
The one called Snipe grinned, revealing teeth that hadn't seen a toothbrush in years. "Wanna go for a fifth?"
Bullet, whose three eyebrow rings trumped Snipe's demure one, grinned back, also revealing a lack of concern about dental hygiene. "Yeah, man."
They stood up, whooping and hollering and dancing around like a pair of demented cranes. When the strange ritual ended, they turned toward Marissa. Surprise registered on their faces.
"Hey, it's a babe," said Snipe. "You working 'round here, girlfriend?"
"Yeah, little momma...you lookin' for a date?" asked Bullet.
Babe? Girlfriend?Little momma? Marissa didn't like their snide tones or the glazed looks of interest entering their red-rimmed eyes.
"Cease your name-calling," she said, pointing an imperious finger at them. "You should be more respectful of a lady."
"A lady?" Snipe's yellow grin promised trouble. "I don't see no lady. Hey, Bullet, you ever seen a lady?"
"Not on this street. Seen a lot of hookers, though."
Marissa's mouth dropped open in outrage. "I'll have you know I'm not a—" Her lips wouldn't form the word. "A woman who grants sexual favors for money."
Snipe and Bullet looked at each other, then at Marissa.
"What did she say?" Bullet scratched the side of his spiked head.
Snipe punched Bullet in the arm. "Never mind, stupid. We'll tape her mouth shut so we don't have to listen to her talk."
They slouched toward Marissa, their grins curled with gleeful malice.