Iyisha gripped Malcolm's hand harder as they moved toward the club.
The music slammed into her the moment they crossed the threshold, loud enough to press against her chest, lights flashing hard and fast until the room felt broken into fragments instead of whole. Fog is seeping into the corridor.
Guards stood everywhere she looked, at the walls, near the stage, along every clear line of sight, watching without moving.
The crowd was arranged, not packed. Sectioned seating with low sofas and tables, groups of four or five at a time, spaced apart like each group was meant to be seen. People leaned back, drinks in hand, relaxed, expectant.
They looked like they belonged.
So did they.
The black polo fit tight across Malcolm's shoulders and chest, tucked cleanly into slacks that made him look composed and deliberate, like he had stepped into a role without effort.
He looked so hot, he could be a model.
Iyisha felt it then, the wrongness of how easily they fit.
