Crimson Groves by Ashley Robertson Page A

me.
    At quarter ’til midnight, I sat alone in the living room wearing the baby doll dress and black boots. Adam had picked Lily up over an hour ago and Bronx was in the bedroom getting ready. I nervously twisted strands of my hair. The anxiety and excitement for the night ahead was overwhelming. I would most likely need to run the brush through my hair again before leaving.
    Bronx strolled out from the hallway and made a beeline for the sofa where I was sitting. He wore black jeans and a long-sleeved, black button-up shirt with a red cross-shaped graphic on the back and extra stitching around the pockets on each pectoral. His hair was slicked to the sides and neatly tucked behind his ears. This was the first time I thought he looked nice since he’d turned me.
    Because he loved to hear himself talk, he broke the silence and pretty much talked my ear off until we heard a car pull into the driveway. We were both outside in the blink of a human eye, and once I saw the wheels we were riding in, I felt my jaw drop open.
    A black stretch hummer limo sprawled out, taking up most of the extended driveway. Holy crap! I’d never ridden in a limo before, let alone a hummer limo. The streetlights provided minimal light, but the limo still glistened in it.
    The driver stepped out and greeted us. He was forty-something, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, a narrow face, and a pointed chin. The black suit he wore fit loosely on his tall, lanky frame. He guided us to the back door, the door you’d see the celebrities exit when heading to a premier event.
    Bronx helped me crawl inside and I scooted down a slick leather sofa. Vegas-style neon pink and green lights lined the ceiling and around the dark-tinted windows. Bronx crawled in beside me and popped the top off a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, which conveniently sat in an iced bucket on the mini built in bar directly across from us. It was my favorite champagne.
    He offered me a glass, sparkling white bubbles dancing at the top, and toasted to our evening. It was going to be a tough night to have a bad time. Cheers.
     
     

 
    7
     
    Pulse
     
     
    OUR DRIVER PULLED UP TO THE CLUB, which was located on the bottom floor of a huge, three-story, rectangular-shaped building. The name of the club was in red neon script on an oval-shaped black sign dangling below a red awning. A line of people wrapped around the side of the building, waiting to get inside. They gaped at our fancy vehicle as we came to a stop near the entrance. It made me feel nervous, and a little insecure, while I waited for the driver to come retrieve us. He motioned for me to exit first, taking my hand with his long, boney fingers. Once I was completely out of the limo, I felt a chill in the air. Out of habit, I brushed my arms with my hands even though I wasn’t cold. Bronx tipped the driver and took my hand. This obviously wasn’t an optional handholding. When I tried to pull away, his grip just tightened.
    Instead of getting in line behind all the other people, we walked straight up to the front. The dirty looks we got from the impatient crowd made me wonder if they’d stone us to death right here.
    “Hey Bronx, this must be your new lady friend.” The enormous doorman observed me with small, piggy eyes, moving up and down very slowly. He was a little taller than Bronx, maybe six two, with dark skin, a round pillowy face, and weighed at least three hundred pounds. He was holding a tiny black flashlight with his left hand, and reached out to shake Bronx’s with his right one, forcing Bronx to let go of me. Thank God.
    “Abigail, this is G,” Bronx said. “G, this is the lovely Abigail.”
    “It’s nice to meet you,” I said as I shook his hand. His chubby fingers felt squishy.
    “Likewise.” G stepped to the side and then hurried us in. Bronx slipped some cash into his awaiting fingers as we passed by.
    “Your room’s ready whenever you are,” G called out to us and then turned around to address the next