"Should I go over it again?"

My lips part slightly, and with a few smears of lipstick they are painted blood red. The color blazes in the light of the car's visor mirror.

"Ashford."

Angling the mirror higher, I check the rest of my face—the black strokes of eyeliner on my lower lids, the mascara coating my lashes. My cheeks, now powdered down, are colorless, ghoulish. Having forgotten to buy blush, I pinch them and warm pink blooms under my skin.

"Ashford." Trip's voice comes again. More agitated. He has been standing outside the parallel parked car, hovering over my open passenger's side door for a while now.

I know he has.

Without acknowledging him, I go about brushing my fingers through my hair, loosening tangles and knots. It's almost funny how he expects me to speak to him. This entire ride here I haven't uttered a word, haven't answered a single question he fired my way. I haven't even looked at him. You would think he'd get the picture by now.

But he is as persistent as I am, if not more.

In the corner of my eyes, I see Trip shift. Pause. And suddenly, he snaps the visor mirror up with one quick swipe and a loud smack.

I jolt, and my gaze darts up at him.

Gleaming in the dark, his eyes bore down on me. Cold and serious. Apparently, the one thing he hates more than repeating himself is being ignored. And he's just had enough. "I. Asked. You. A question."

Glaring back at him, I spit, "I. Heard. You."

Trip's jaw sets.

I realize too late I should have kept my mouth shut. The next thing I know I am being yanked from the car. The spikes of my heels clack against the pavement as I stumble and try to twist my arm out of Trip's grasp. His grip tightens.

"Let go," I grind out, though the confidence in my voice is dwindling, fast. In the back of my mind, I am praying I haven't just pissed him off too bad. The entire street is empty. No one is here to stop him from beating me into the ground.

"I hope," he says, slowly, grimly, "that you're not thinking about trying something stupid in there."

I stare daggers at him, refusing to break eye contact—if only to prove to myself I can look him in the eyes. "Are you going to threaten me too now?"

Before we left Glasses alone in the apartment, Trip's lecture had reduced Dax to a quivering puddle of submission in two minutes flat. He told Dax to keep a cell phone on him. But no calls. No idiotic attempts to leave. No stupidity. Period. Or else. By the time Trip's lecture was over, Dax would have imitated a chicken if asked to.

It was wrong. It was wrong to drag Dax so low. And for what? A selfish need to keep Dax under control? I find myself hating Trip even more for that.

Yet, Trip has the nerve to shrug. "That depends on if you need me to threaten you or not, Ashford."

Vicious now, I wrench away, and at the same time his fingers spring open, releasing me, causing me to stagger back against the bumper of the car. One heel slips over the damp pavement, and my arms flail for a split second before I can grab hold of the car.

Trip watches the whole thing—a very faint, yet noticeable jeer in his eyes. Though it doesn't touch the rest of his face, it's a smirk.

Thick anger churns my stomach. My mouth goes dry, and for just a moment, I feel like I could breathe fire. "Threaten what? What would you do?" I ask, sharply. "Would you beat me? Kill me? That kind of defeats the whole purpose of having me around, doesn't it? I wouldn't be able to do your stupid bidding. You couldn't use me as your little puppet."

The jeering look vanishes. Trip steps forward. "You won't last long on the streets, especially with Government hunting you down. So, if I were you, I wouldn't forget that I can leave you here to fend for yourself." He cocks his head to the side, just slightly—a motion daring me to argue. "How is that for a threat?"

Like that, I've been put in my place.

Nice one, Triple Threat.

A slight breeze works up, and chilling air nips at my exposed legs. My fingers latch onto my coat. My eyes lower to the pavement. Both of us fall into silence. From all around us the purr of engines and distant blares of horns sound. Still, this street remains quiet, motionless. We're alone for now, it seems—cut off from the rest of the world.

"We need to go," Trip says finally. "Leave the coat."

The coat? Fear flutters through me. Eyes widening, I shrink away and clutch my coat tighter—as if I am a child and it's my blanket and Trip is the monster it is protecting me from. I knew the time would come, but I do not want to take it off.

At my reluctance, a huff presses from Trip. His breath clouds in front of him. "We don't have all night."

"It's cold."

"You'll live."

I hesitate, shifting my weight from one foot to the other and glancing down the lonely street.

"I swear to God, Ashford—"

"Okay, okay. Fine," I hiss, and with a fluster of movement, I yank the coat off my shoulders and sling it into the car. The instant I do, I feel defenseless, naked. I have nothing protecting me from him anymore.

The ice devil's eyes flicker over the dress—the tight-fitted, thigh-high, strapless red dress—once. But his eyes don't linger. Just one quick flicker, and they are shifting towards the sound of laughter. A group of men and women have come strolling down the other side of the street, all minding their own business.

I busy myself with snatching my purse from the floorboard of the car, cursing the glitzy owner of the Chichi Boutique who proclaimed this was the dress I would buy. I had given in. Not only was the woman impossible to argue with, but none of the other dresses were any less immodest.

I hate it. I despise it, especially now, standing vulnerable in an empty, dark street, with Trip. Each move I make feels panicky and jerky. My cheeks grow warmer by the second.

"You're sure you remember what to do?" Trip asks.

I slam the door and turn to find his gaze now cast towards the mouth of the alley beside us. "Yes. You went over it the entire way here. But if you'd like to stand here and waste more time..."

My attitude earns a look. A quick one. Warning me. He starts into the alley.

I follow.

The air is even colder between these walls. Tiny, minuscule droplets of water hang in the air and cling to my bare legs, making me shiver and glare into Trip's back. With each clack of my heels, an echo comes skipping back. It all starts to sound off beat by the time we reach the middle of the alley. Keeping up with Trip becomes more of a chore. Blisters already form on the back of my ankles, and the pain causes each step to become more wobbly than the last. Even the echoing clacks start to sound like I am stumbling around like a drunk.

Glittering over the damp pavement, one single light shines in the alley. It doesn't reach far. The rays only touch upon the corner of a large trash bin and illuminate a thick, metal door—no handle on the outside. A fire escape, I am guessing. Steady, muffled booming vibrates the door from the inside.

On the other side of the block there is more life. As we emerge from the alley, my gaze trails men and women crossing the road, taxis stopping and going. To our immediate left, two small lines of people stand outside of a nightclub. Purple and red neon lights overhead read: The Pulse.

No other name could fit this place better. Because that's exactly what the heavy rumble of bass pouring into the street sounds like: a living pulse, a heartbeat, as if the whole building itself is alive. And the closer we get to the living, beating pulse, the more my attitude dissolves. The reality of this situation starts to sink in.

Now, my hands shake. My breathing grows shallow. I throw a glance at Trip, who is studying the bouncers at the doors of the club. Both bouncers are checking IDs.

I lean closer to whisper, "What if this doesn't work?"

Without taking his eyes off the bouncers, Trip answers, "It will." There is nothing cocky about his reply. It's just certainty.

I wish I was so sure.

We weave our way through the small groups of people—some only hanging around, chatting, others waving down taxis. Luckily, being a weekday, the lines to get into the club are short, and we take our place at the back of the line, behind two young women.

I honestly don't know which is worse: being around Trip or them. Both girls look like they've just stepped off a runway. Hair falling just so. Nails immaculate. Long legs tanned and glistening. Both immediately take an interest in Trip, and almost in unison, they crank up the volume of their conversation in hopes of gaining his attention.

I think Trip is too preoccupied to care. The bouncer handling our line—who I can't tell whether is more muscle than fat, or fat than muscle—lets three men into the club, and the line moves forward.

I gnaw my bottom lip. "You don't think he'll recognize you, do you?"

Trip shakes his head.

"What if he does? You said you've been here before."

"He won't. I've never seen this one."

My eyes flash towards the other line, the other bouncer. "And that one?"

Trip follows my gaze. "He wouldn't recognize me."

"The news has been playing your description over and over for days."

"No one is expecting me to come here."

Nothing Trip says can reassure me. I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest, not only to warm myself, but in a self-conscious attempt to cover myself from prying eyes. One of the super-models has turned slightly to look down her nose at me. Her critical gaze glides over my dress.

Listen, chick, I don't even like the damn thing.

It feels like hours, but it only takes minutes for the super-models to show their IDs and disappear through the doors of the club. Trip and I approach the bouncer, and upon seeing Trip, the guy instantly straightens.

This slight movement causes my heart to slam again my chest.

We've been caught—the bouncer has recognized Trip.

We're going to die.

But when the bouncer lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, the image of a rooster pops into my mind—puffing out his chest, ruffling his feathers. Some form of intimidation. Too much testosterone.

Instead of ruffling his feathers back, Trip nods and in that same considerate voice I heard him use before at the gas station, he says, "How's it going tonight?" He still sounds serious. Of course. He's not capable of being happy, or even pretending to be happy. But it's weird to hear him be nice. It's almost likable, even if it is fake.

"Alright," the bouncer says flatly. His feathers smooth, just a bit. "IDs."

Trip looks at me.

And here we go.

I whip up a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, of course." Sliding my purse off my shoulder, I unzip it and make a show of rummaging around.

"I'm surprised they haven't let you check IDs in the lobby," Trip says. "It's freezing out here."

"Yeah, well." The bouncer shrugs. "They don't want to crowd the lobby."

"Kind of ridiculous."

A short laugh escapes the bouncer. "You're telling me. I don't get paid enough to freeze my ass off out here." A second passes, and when I glance up from my purse, the bouncer's eyebrows are raised at me. "Something wrong?" he asks.

I start another frantic search through receipts and make-up. "I can't find them."

Trip feigns surprise. "I gave them to you."

"Yes, I know. I put them right here. I know I did."

"Tell me you didn't leave them."

"I don't know. I thought I put them here. I just..." I close my eyes and press my fingertips to my forehead. "I can't believe this. I might have left them. They're not here." Lungs swelling with a dramatic sigh, I lift my gaze to find the bouncer and Trip exchanging a look. One of irritation from Trip, which isn't hard for him to pull off. And one of understanding from the bouncer.

I don't know how he did it, but it seems Trip already has the bouncer on his side.

"I'm sorry. I really am," Trip says, shaking his head. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a hundred dollar bill. "Do you think you can let us slide tonight?"

The bouncer's eyes light up when he sees the bill. He takes a sly glance around. The group of men and women behind us are deep in excited chatter, and the other bouncer is examining a man's ID. "Yeah..." The bouncer nods. "Yeah. I'll let you guys in."

Trip offers the hundred dollar bill, and the bouncer quickly snags it. He motions us to move forward. "Go on in and have a nice night."

The music playing morphs into a new song, and the beat drives through my body, right in the center of my abdomen, as we walk through the double doors. Toying with a lip ring between her teeth, the girl at the front desk watches us approach. Over the music she calls out a price I don't hear, and Trip draws out a fifty dollar bill and slides it across the counter.

I am sad to see it go. I know, after tonight, our cash will begin to dwindle.

All of this better work.

Once the woman hands over the change, Trip starts around the desk, down a small flight of stair, and into the life of the club. I can tell he wasn't lying; he's been here before. He knows where he's going. I follow alongside him, down the edges of the dance floor, where a sea of bodies shift and roll to the music. Streaks of purple and red lights sweep across the entire room, dimming, brightening, and flashing with each beat of the song.

Every step I take feels like it brings me closer to the music. It pounds through my gut, against my eardrums. Combined with the shouts of the crowd, it's almost deafening.

We pass a group of girls, some dancing, some sipping from cocktails, some attempting to do both. Each one seems to smile and eye Trip as he passes. Men shark the edges of the dance floor looking for prey. Many of their eyes wander towards me. They size me up, roam over my body from head to toe, but when they are drawn to Trip, no eyes linger. With him so close to me, no man seems to take the chance of being caught checking me out.

We draw near the bar, where my eyes flicker towards a man who is sliding his hand up a woman's dress. Her shrill, drunken laugh as she swats his hand away carries over the room and the music. Bottles of liquor behind them flare in the streaks of light. Smoke from hundreds of cigarettes looms in the air, and it's not long before my eyes start to burn.

Suddenly, Trip snatches my arm. Alarm registers through me immediately. Instinctively, I let him pull me to the side, into a hallway.

We may have been seen. Someone may be after us—that's all that is going through my mind—until I am pressed back against the wall by Trip's body.

My breath hitches.

My eyes go wide.

I'm frozen.

"What are you doing?" I gasp, breathless, my lips barely moving.

I'm sure he doesn't hear me over the music. His eyes dart across the room, and then down the hall. And his hand is at my waist, I realize. His thumb presses firmly into my hip bone. From that very spot, I can feel his heat radiating through the fabric of my dress. It makes me angry.

I squirm and attempt to push him off me.

"Stop it." Trip's grip tightens, holding me in place. He lowers his head to speak in my ear. "Look to your right."

My eyes—frantic—dart to the side. There is a couple not far from us practically sucking each other's face. Not sure what to think, my gaze shoots back to Trip.

He gives an annoyed look. "The doors."

I look past the couple and see the sign hanging over two doors.

Restrooms. Ah.

"That's where I'll be," Trip says. A red streak of light glides over us, making his eyes flash for just a second. "Look to your left."

I turn my head.

"Across the room. Up the stairs. The man sitting alone at the blue table."

I search, and eventually my gaze lands on a lone man, lounging back in his booth. The table itself pulses with a soft blue light, beating with the music. "That's him?" I ask.

"Yes."

I take in a shaky breath.

"If anything goes wrong—" Trip draws back enough to look at me "—get out."

I nod quickly. My hip is burning, and he is exceptionally close—close enough for me to feel his chest rising and falling against mine as he breathes. And I'm pretty sure he's close enough to feel my chest as well. I scowl.

As if reading my mind, Trip shifts, allowing some space between us. "Wait in the alley when it's done," he says. "I'll meet you there."

"I guess you won't give me the keys to the car, huh?"

That same jeering look enters his eyes. For a second, he looks slightly amused. "I don't think so." He releases my waist.

And his heat is gone in an instant.