Some Girls Bite (Chicagoland Vampires #1)(36)
Author: Chloe Neill

I pointed at it. "I got one of those, too. They must be papering the city."

Catcher shrugged, refolded the paper, and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Anyone wanna dance?"

"Oh, Jesus," Mallory muttered.

"Dance?" I asked. "I could dance. I need to change, but I can dance." I could always dance. My hips didn’t lie.

Mallory tucked her tongue into her cheek, then gave Catcher a look of mock irritation. "Nice going, Gandalf. You’ll rile her up, and I’ll never get her tucked in. You wanna give her candy and caffeine while you’re at it?"

Catcher smiled at her, and even though the smile wasn’t for me, it was hot enough to curl my toes. "Sorcerer, not wizard. Yes?"

After a beat, she nodded, a flush high on her cheeks.

I’d have nodded, too, if I was her. Probably even thrown in an eyelash batting for good measure.

"I’ll let you two deal with him," Jeff said, and unlocked the doors of his hatchback. "Have fun dancing. And if you get bored later" – he winged up his eyebrows – "you give me a call." He winked, then climbed into the car and drove away.

"One of these days, I’m going to kiss him just for the principle of the thing," I told Mallory as we walked toward the Volvo.

"You should have done it just then. You’d have made his weekend."

I walked around and unlocked the door. "But his cute blonde would have missed out. Can’t have that."

Mallory nodded solemnly. "True. You’re so munificent."

I slid into the car, unlocked the passenger door, and waited while Mallory and Catcher argued over something. Issue apparently decided, Mallory slid inside, blushing furiously. I nearly asked what they’d argued about, but the subconscious way she touched her fingers to her lips answered the question. I stifled a laugh, pulled the car out of the parking lot, and headed home.

Catcher, who’d followed us to Wicker Park, camped on the couch in front of the television while Mallory and I switched outfits. We both came downstairs in trendy jeans and heels and cute, club-worthy tops. Mine was black with tiny white dots and cap sleeves – a bargain vintage find. Mallory wore a sleeveless, high-collared top with a long tie at the neck that glinted silver in the light.

"Great shirt," she told me, fingering a sleeve as we strode down the stairs. "It’s like you’ve blossomed style overnight."

I was taking serious hits on my fashion choices this week, probably not surprising for a girl whose dressing decision was usually between colors of layered T-shirts. I wasn’t a shopper, much to my mother’s (and Mallory’s . . . and Ethan’s) chagrin.

But I thanked Mallory anyway and had the satisfaction of watching her flick fingers self- consciously through her shoulder-length hair as we neared the living room.

"I’m sure he’ll like your hair," I poked, then grabbed keys and stuffed my wallet into a small black clutch purse. Mallory stuck out her tongue. We gathered up Catcher – who guiltily flipped off a Lifetime movie – and headed out.

Red was located in a stand-alone building, a three-story brick structure that looked, architecturally, like it might house a design studio. The facade was dominated by three rows of high, arched windows, each topped with an intricately carved relief. We parked the car on a side street and approached the door, bass thumping through the walls. We were headed for the back of the short waiting line, but the guard at the door – bald, clad in a black T-shirt and fatigues, and wearing a headset – waved a clipboard at us.

"We aren’t on the list," Catcher told him.

"Names?" he asked anyway, his voice flat and deep.

"Catcher Bell, Mallory Carmichael, and Merit," Catcher told him. Face bunched, the bouncer flipped through the sheath of paper clipped to his board. But then his gaze rose, and he stared blankly ahead and nodded as, I imagined, he listened to someone on the other end of the headset. Then he stepped back from the door and waved us inside.

Weird, but who were we to argue with VIP service?

We entered to the rhythmic thump of a slow bass beat that carried enough power to vibrate my core. But while the music was raucously loud, the decor was chic. Elegant. Drinks were served from an enormous mirror-backed bar that was tucked against the building’s front wall, while the side walls were lined in curtain-edged mirrors and red leather booths, tables in front of them. Tiny lamps lit the tables and reflected against the mirrors, giving the club the look of a European coffeehouse. A wrought-iron spiral staircase was positioned near the bar, and a small but completely filled dance floor dominated the back of the room. The clientele was as classy as the decor – chicly dressed couples in the booths along the wall, chatting over martinis and cosmopolitans. They were all oddly attractive – lots of Louis Vuitton bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes, carefully coiffed hair and perfectly tailored clothes.

Some, I knew, were vampires. I’m not sure how I knew that – although the fact that they were all, to a one, weirdly attractive was a sure tip-off. They just had a different vibe, a different sense about them. And here they were, sipping ten-dollar drinks, flirting, and swaying to the music just like people.

Catcher took our drink orders – vodka tonic for Mal, gin and tonic for me – while we headed for the last available mirror-backed table. We slid against the wall, leaving the outside seat for Catcher.

"Gorgeous place," Mallory yelled over the din, surveying the room. "I can’t believe we haven’t been here before."

I nodded, watching the dancers move, taking the drinks Catcher handed us when he returned. One song ended and a second began instantaneously, the opening beats of Muse’s "Hysteria" ringing through the club. Eager to dance, I took a quick sip of my drink and grabbed Mallory’s hand, pulling her to the dance floor. We shuffled through the throng, finding a gap in the crush of designer-clad bodies, and danced. We shifted, moved, swayed hips and arms, and let the music overtake us, swallow us, beat the worries from our minds in time to the raging synthesizer. We stayed on the dance floor through that song and another, and another, and another, before tunneling back through the bodies for a break, a seat, a drink. (And we’d left Catcher guarding our purses, so we felt a little duty-bound to go back.)

Mallory slid into the chair next to him, filling him in on her fabulous dance experience, his eyes alight with amusement as she chatted with vital animation, pushing her hair behind her ears as she talked. I sipped at my cocktail and downed the water that waited for us.

Suddenly, the song ended and the club became silent, even as strobes flashed around us. A haze of fog began to flow around our feet, a prelude to the ominous beating vibe of Roisin Murphy’s "Ramalama," which began to spill through the room. The club’s dancers, who’d paused tremulously between songs, waiting for the signal to move again, screamed joyously, and began thrusting to the music once again.