He smiles at me before opening the door and I find myself frozen and waiting for something that might not happen.
"After you." He says and I roll my eyes.
What a gentleman.
---
We walk down the hallways, and when we come out and start walking down the steps, Icar locks his fingers in mine and I have no qualms against it. It feels natural. And I like it.
And when we pass the reception area, I make sure the bitch can see us together and holding hands. Icar will meet with her in two days to renew our booking. Let's see if she tries to flirt with him then.
Outside, I feel Icar's hold on me tighten and the whole of him tense. His sharp eyes survey our surroundings as we move. Then he stops when his phone pings and pulls it out. I watch lines mar his forehead as he reads what's on the screen. Then he looks at me, then at his phone again, and then he sighs and pockets the device.
His gaze is now fixed on the grey Camry parked ahead.
"What's wrong?" I ask, sensing we're about to face a slight inconvenience.
He remains silent, and I can see the cogwheels turning in his brain. He seems to be choosing his words carefully when he says,
"There's been a change of plans."
"What?"
"I... have an appointment I need to catch."
"Where?"
His jaw locks. He doesn't answer me.
"I'll go with you."
That is when he snaps to look at me. I don't back down.
"I'm not a child," I say, feeling insulted by the way he underestimates me.
His eyes narrow, and he cocks his head, his expression morphing from doubt to something that tells me he's seeing me from a new angle.
"You're right," he says. "Maybe you could learn one or two."
And then he starts heading to the Camry, leaving me more confused than I already am.
"Learn one or two about what?" I call out, but he doesn't answer me, so I follow him and take the passenger seat while he drives. The rest of the drive is silent until he parks the car in the driveway of what seems to be a fusion of a gambling den and a nightclub.
I can hear the loud music blasting and reverberating through my bones from where we are outside.
"Keep your hat on at all costs." He shifts and pulls something out from a compartment and hands it to me. It's a face mask.
"Wear it," he says, like I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it. He steps out and closes the door, and I wait for him to walk over and open mine.
He does, while giving me his hand. I take it. He locks the car, and I let him lead me into the club.
"Don't talk to anybody. If anybody provokes you, leave them to me," Icar instructs. His pace is leisurely and his hold on me is firm, but I catch the way he's talking faster than normal, as well as the fluctuations in his heart. He's nervous.
I squeeze his hand back, and he looks at me.
"Got it," I say, and he visibly untenses.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
I look around to distract myself from the flutter in my chest.
There are other cars parked in the lot, most of them sleek and expensive. I watch a particular Range Rover open, and a man walks out with one, two, three women, skimpily dressed and giggling. He's all chains, and when he smiles, I can catch the gold light in his teeth as me and Icar walk past him.
The vehicles right now are few, but I can already deduce that in the next three hours, this lot is going to be jam-packed, because more cars are trickling in by the minute, and as nighttime speedily approaches, the neon lights brighten and flicker. Then I can easily read the sign that says 'Nightshift'.
"Stop making your glances too obvious."
Icar tells me, and I scowl. "Yes, Officer."
"You don't know these people."
"I get it," I snap, but I don't let go of him like I usually do. "Do your thing and let's get the fuck out."
His frown shifts to a smile as we weave through the dark and crowded club.
The music thumps, and bodies fill up and dance endlessly. It gets more and more difficult to pass, and frustrating. I almost shove aside a drunk, chuckling couple when they block my way, but Icar's warning squeeze tells me he knows what I'm thinking, and I control myself.
Barely.
And I hope this is not how we're going to be moving the entire night, because I can't stand this crowd and the heat and the loud music and the screams of joy and the chuckling and the strong smell of alcohol and cocaine that makes my nose itch.
We soon stop in front of a counter. A man in a tank top mixes a cocktail. His tanned, muscular hand is inked with these cool tattoos. There's a subtle shift in the air, and I snap up at Icar.
"Showoff." His voice climbs over the music, finally catching the man's attention. He stops, and when he grins, I'm aware he knows his charm.
"Icar! Been a while. What brings you here tonight?"
"I'm here for the thing they called me for."
"The thing, huh?" His gaze lands on me, and his brows climb in understanding.
"Right. The thing," he says.
So much for being covert. I know Icar is already facepalming in his mind.
"The fun starts out back in about..." he checks his watch, "fifteen minutes."
"Okay," Icar says, already grabbing my wrist and ready to move.
"So soon? Why don't you stay and have a drink?" he offers, already shaking something up. "On the house."
"I'll pass."
"How about you?" He faces me. "Would the lady love a drink?"
"No," Icar answers for me. And I find myself being dragged away from the counter.
"But I'm thirsty," I tell him, and his jaw locks.
He looks at me. Really looks at me. Then sighs and leads me back to the counter. The bartender welcomes us again with a grin.
"Alright John. One drink. Mild," Icar tells him before he can say something teasing.
John salutes, and his hands get to work. "Coming right up."
His handling expertise is really something to write home about. He pours different flavours of drinks into one cup with a speed and detached effortlessness that's so cool, I'm scared of the end product because the process is so rich and complex.
He shakes the mixer in his hands before pouring it into the cup while sliding it closer to me.
"Enjoy." He winks, and I smile then peel off my facemask. I take a sip. A sweet burn rolls down my throat, and I sigh.
"Thanks, John. It's really good."
John grins. Icar smacks a crumpled note on the counter.
"It's on the house," says John.
"I insist," Icar clips out before grabbing my wrist and leading me away from the counter. We round it, and a beaded curtain greets us. Icar opens it, and it's like we're in a different dimension. He doesn't stop walking, and because of that, I finish my drink in one swallow and follow.