My temper flares, because I hate being told what to do. “Maybe you could rephrase that as a question.”
He just blinks down at me, and then his enormous paw slides around my waist and pulls me into motion. I have no option but to move as directed or fall, so I start walking—I drop my cane into my hand and lean on it. Just the relatively short walk through the crowd without my cane left my knee throbbing something fierce, so I’m forced to lean on it rather heavily as I follow him through the crowd. Follow isn’t quite the right word—accompany is closer. He stays right beside me and slightly in front of me, clearing a path through the heaving, shifting throng of dancing patrons with both his massive bulk and an outstretched arm. People take one look at who bumped them, then look up, and up again, see him scowling down at them, and clear out of the way fast. His other hand remains at the small of my back, applying gentle but firm pressure. There’s no struggling through the crowd for me, this time, which I must admit is sort of nice.
We reach the bar running roughly parallel to the wall, and he lifts a section of the bar up, moves through, holds it for me, and then lowers it back in place. Once through, he fishes a keycard from his pocket, touches it to a reader on the wall, which turns green. The door, which was disguised as merely part of the wall, pops open. Again he holds the door for me and closes the door behind himself. The moment the door is pulled to, the noise and clamor and thudding music fades to a muffled throb. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, ducking my head and sucking in a breath.
“Chaotic out there, yeah?” His voice, here in the quiet of a service corridor, is deep, powerful, gravelly; from mere inches away, it thrums in my belly almost like standing too near a speaker at a concert.
“Yeah.” I straighten. Look at him. “What do you want?”
He just peers down at me, implacable, unreadable. “Got your breath back?”
I nod. “Yes. I’ll repeat, what do you want?”
He doesn’t answer, just places that hand at my back again—and again, I’m six-three, so in no way am I dainty or small, but when he places that hand at the small of my back, his thumb extends nearly to my bra strap. It’s ridiculous, the size of that hand.
I’m propelled into a walk again, and I give a growl of frustration, pull away from his touch, and stamp my cane against the floor. “Stop—for fuck’s sake! Where are we going? What do you want from me?”
He turns in place, staring at me without expression. “Get you somewhere you can sit down, get a drink, and relax away from the crowd till I’m off. That work for you?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t need to sit down. I’m fine.”
He laughs. “You’re gonna stand around until four in the morning just to be stubborn and prove a point?”
I huff. “No, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He steps closer, into my space, until I smell him—sweat, an earthy, almost musky scent that’s likely his cologne. “What’s your name?”
“Annika,” I answer—AH-nick-uh.
“Last name?”
I lift an eyebrow at him. “What is this, an interview?” When he just stares at me, I snort a laugh. “Scott. My name is Annika Scott.”
“Annika Scott.” He muses. “Beautiful name.”
“Thank you.” I gesture at him. “And your last name is? Since we’re interviewing each other and all.”
“Kapule.”
“Chance Kapule.” I nod. “It’s a good, strong name. What kind of name is that?”
“Hawaiian.”
I notice his arms in more detail, now—there are tattoos all over both of them, down to his wrists. Black ink, frequently using blank space to artistic effect, with geometric designs, intricate, wave-like swirls, nearly abstract flower designs. They go up under the tight sleeves of his shirt, making me wonder how far over his chest they go.
“I’m half Hawaiian,” he says, after a moment of awkward silence. “My mother was from Mexico, my father from Hawaii.”
I notice for both mother and father, he used past tense, but I opt to not ask the obvious question. “Your tattoos—they have meaning?”
He nods. “Yes.”
Nothing else.
I gesture at the corridor. “Lead on, Chance Kapule.”
The corridor is narrow with high ceilings, racks of paper and plastic goods stocked on large industrial racks, along with cases of beer stacked on the floor three and four high and cases of liquor on yet more racks. A few paces away from the door, the stacks and racks fade and it’s just the corridor, dimly lit, our shoes squeaking on the epoxy floor.
A long walk, then—we pass another door which I assume leads out to the club, judging by the bartending supplies around the door. We go by two more of these supply stations; at the last one, there’s an exit to the exterior, which is propped open by a box of plastic cocktail straws; I hear low voices, a male and a female, murmuring and laughing, smell cigarettes—employees taking a break.
Chance halts here, shoves open the door. “Don’t prop open the door. Use your keycards. That’s what they’re for.”
He takes up the whole doorway, so I only hear the reply: “Yeah, Chance. Got it.” He kicks the box inside and back over near the rack, but leaves it on the floor rather than placing it back on the shelf.
At the end of the long, long hallway, we reach a corner. The hallway continues on at a right angle, but an exit sign here indicates a stairwell. He scans his card, the light turns green, and he yanks open the door, gesturing me through. Stairs go up and down.
He pauses beside me. “Alone, or company with a stranger?”
I blink up at him. “What?”
He enunciates overly clearly. “Would you like to be alone, or hang out with someone you don’t know?”
“Alone,” I answer right away.
He nods, his only reply, and heads down the stairs. They turn at the first landing, with another closed door at the bottom—another card reader.
I stand a couple stairs up from him, watching as he scans his card again. “Serious about security, aren’t you?”
He just nods. Steps through the door and holds it for me. I move through: to my right, a serious-as-shit gym, and considering the muscles on Chance, I surmise it’s where he works out. I eye the gear with a professional eye: Rogue equipment, mainly, with some other high-end brands here and there. Power racks, barbells, Olympic plates, dumbbells, battle ropes, several assault air-bikes, a heavy bag, a deadlifting platform, and incline/decline benches. An old part of me, which I’d thought long dead, stirs at the sight. It’s a beautiful gym, lots of space, brightly lit, with mirrors on the wall, thick mats on the floor. It’s neat, clean, and organized. For a moment, I almost want to go in there, slap some chalk onto my hands…
I shake my head and turn away.
Chance doesn’t move. “You lift?”
I lift my cane, wiggle it. “Not anymore.”
He looks at me, his hard eyes penetrating, assessing, yet giving nothing away. “Not anymore, huh?” The question is there, but I decline to answer it.
I shake my head. “No. Not anymore.”
He just nods, seeming to recognize I’m unwilling to discuss it.