Page 123 of Ice Me Out

“You look like you’re about to fight Daft Punk.”

“I’m about to fight somebody.”

Right as we reached the barricade, the masked DJ finally spared me a glance. His lips slid into a crooked grin before his hand settled against the small of Vera’s back.

Jealousy

Hart

Vera smiling and waving at me should’ve put me at ease, but the jealous, territorial part of my brain lit up like a Christmas tree. All I could see was the DJ with his hands on her.

And then it happened.

The masked DJ looked me over slowly—assessing me like I wasn’t worth his fucking time.

“Hart. Don’t do it,” Marlon warned.

“I haven’t done anything… yet,” I said, still staring the DJ down.

Marlon sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Why is that motherfucker eyeing you like that?” Christiansen asked.

“Knock it off, Chris. You kicked up enough shit tonight to last the rest of the season, and it barely started.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “That keyboard warrior needed to be put in his place.”

“Oh, yeah? You’ll be the next one put in his place when you’re sitting in the GM’s office tomorrow,” Marlon said.

I tuned out their back-and-forth when Vera passed security and headed towards me. I was still pissed, but my brain took a temporary detour from entertaining violence to fantasizing about tearing through fishnets.

“You found me,” she teased, throwing her arms around my neck and pressing herself into me.

“Yeah. Found you in the arms of another man,” I said, pulling her arms down. She snickered, making it worse.

“In the arms of another man? Really?” she yelled over the bass.

“You were damn near in his lap.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, and my eyes tracked back to the DJ booth, where ArKane stood with his tattooed arms folded across his broad chest.

“You want to tell me who he is?” I asked, nodding toward the booth. While distracted, Vera eased into my space again, and the scent of her hit me immediately. She smelled like vanilla perfume, sweat from hours on the dance floor, and cheap vodka. “Who’s your friend?”

Vera looked over her shoulder and returned her attention to me, grinning like she was about to ruin my night. “Nobody.”

“Bet,” I replied, moving her aside.

“Hart,” she laughed behind me as I approached security. “Hart. Wait.”

“Hey, man. Back up,” one of the security guards said, extending an arm across my chest. I stared past him toward the stage, and ArKane stared right back. The masked DJ tilted his head slightly, then handed off his headphones to whom I assumed was an assistant. The crowd immediately erupted in boos when ArKane stepped away from the DJ booth.

“Oh, hell,” Vera muttered behind me as ArKane descended the stairs from the platform with too much fucking confidence and swagger for my taste.

Up close, he looked even bigger. Six-one or six-two in the boots, tattooed arms, broad shoulders, black half-face mask, and black cargo pants. He looked equally comfortable headlining a rave or disposing a body.

The security guard who was pressing me stepped aside.

My fists clenched at my sides when ArKane stopped a few feet in front of me. We stared at each other until he eventually extended his tattooed hand.