Date = 10 April
Place = San Francisco (Inferno) (7-Eleven)
POV – Aria
“I’ll go get my car and meet you in front of the VIP entrance,” Mel holds up her car keys and shakes them to reinforce her statement. I smile and nod my head. I fucking love that girl. She leaves me in the staff room to change and get my stuff ready.
I didn’t even need to ask permission to end my shift earlier, ’cause Enrique found us in here, still bedazzled by what we heard between Brian and Graham, and literally ordered me to leave. I look at my hands holding my purse. They’re still a little shaky. I’ve never done something like that … it’s not me. I’m not a physical type of fighter. The only other person I’ve ever laid a hand upon was that stupid reporter a while back. Okay, both of them deserved it, but still.
I smile again. Maybe Mel is rubbing off on me … not sure if it’s in a good way or bad. I walk downstairs and through the secret door, guarded by two insanely huge bouncers. They smile to greet me while holding open the door for me. I nod in acknowledgment. Being the owner’s girlfriend does come with its perks … even if it’s fake. I enter the room only the very very rich or very very famous ever get to see … well, excluding the workers and close friends and family. But then again, except for me and a few special cases, Enrique’s family and friends are mostly very very rich and very very famous. Ug. I’m so fake in every way.
The room is big and decorated much in the same way as the rest of the club – industrial chic – with the same color scheme as the American flag. Huge model aircraft, exact replicas of USA fighter planes, hang from the roof. This is Logan’s touch … he’s the one into history and wars and planes and all that shit. It’s not my thing, but I must admit it looks very nice.
There are comfortable sofas and chairs where guests can get … eh … well comfortable, while they wait for their rides. Luxurious bathrooms and a coat cupboard, equipped with private saves to store their belongings, are also part of the setup. You see, when you’re one of the chosen, you can leave your wallet and other expensive goodies here in a safe. All you need to do is open a tab and go party without worries. And when you exit … well, you pay your tab and you’re good to go.
Against one wall, the front end of a real airplane has been converted into a bar, where the fancy-suited bartender can help you with that last drink before you leave … or a first one before you enter the club. I walk to the huge doors that lead to the private parking area and a room where valets and drivers are eagerly waiting to either park your car, fetch your car, call you an Uber, or even drive you home privately, whatever you need. That’s what makes Inferno so popular among everybody that is anybody, in this country and even beyond – since I’ve been working here some princes from Denmark and Greece partied up a storm … and a princess from Belgium rented out the place for her birthday bash.
“Good evening, Miss Aria, Miss Mel is already waiting for you in her car,” a thin valet with mouse-gray hair, gestures with his hand to where the green Lambo is idling. She retracted the roof as the night is nice and warm enough to let our hair blow in the wind.
“Thanks, and have a good night,” I say awkwardly. I still can’t seem to get used to the staff in this area being so formal. They are specially chosen and trained … the best of the best.
“You too miss,” he replies with a huge smile.
“Can we stop to buy ice cream and pickles? I really really need some right now,” Mel swoons as soon as I’m buckled up.
“Sure, I’ll jump out and get some,” I say, cringing when I think about the disgusting concoction of ice cream, pickles, peanut butter, jam, and chocolate sauce she seems to be hooked on these days. I’ve tasted it once and it’s utterly disgusting. But anything to keep her happy … ’cause an upset Mel is not a pretty picture. She goes from crying to laughing to mad to crazy to sleepy to horny all in a matter of seconds. If that’s what it’s like to be pregnant I’m not so sure I want to have kids … ever. I turn my frown into a smile. It is kinda cute though, and the way she turns that smitten bad-boy, and all the other guys (including Luke and Jackson) for that matter, into little lambs following her every whim, is just fascinating. I’m even slightly jealous about how they treat her as if she’s a dainty porcelain doll that might break any second. But she deserves it too, after everything that happened.
Mel pulls into the parking at a 7-Eleven and I jump out.
“Remember the pickles,” she yells and I give her a frowny stare.
“What?” she asks pulling an innocent face, “Sometimes people forget the pickles.”
I roll my eyes and turn my back to her so she can’t see the smile on my face. I rush through the aisles and buy the ingredients for her disgusting cocktail. I get extra ice cream – peppermint flavor – for me. I can’t let her binge alone, now can I? I throw in some soda and other bits and bites, both healthy and not. These days my sister-in-law eats like a pig … no offense, but it’s true.
The fact that she hasn’t put on any extra weight is a miracle. The only indication of the little bean inside her is a tiny perfect bump that she hides under loose shirts, but she won’t be able to hide it much longer. And she won’t need to … since she plans to have a gender-reveal party on my sister’s birthday … well, they’re now going to have a gender-and-baby reveal party on my sister’s birthday. She’s going to tell the press that she’s the pregnant one.
I pay for all the stuff and push the trolley through the door to the car that’s one of about five in the parking area. At this time of night, there’s not a lot of traffic around. I scoot the trolley between the green beast and a black van. Mel is sitting in the car, typing on her phone, and I tap on the front window. She yelps out and looks up with a shocked frightened face. I hold up my hands. She still scares easily under certain circumstances… or when hearing certain sounds. That stalker of hers did a number on her, that’s for sure.
“Sorry,” I whisper. She shakes her head, her smile back on her face. She starts typing again, and I can only guess it must be Damion. At least she remembers to open the front bonnet of the Huracan Spyder. I concentrate on packing the groceries into the small boot space and don’t notice the person that walks up behind me until it’s too late.