“Dropped her at a friend’s in NOPA,” he replied. “Some kind of party I guess.”
“Did she give the friend’s name?” Cassidy asked, her voice raspy with eagerness. She thought about Izzy’s voicemail and imagined it now in the context of a party. Maybe Izzy got drunk or high—‘sorry’ could mean anything in that situation: sorry I don’t have any more dope; sorry I don’t remember your name; sorry I don’t want to go home with you.
Saxon shook his head, his lips pinched in regret. A noise from the window caught her attention—a muffled cheer followed by hoots.
“Do you remember the address?” she asked. NOPA or “North of the Panhandle” was a region of the city near the University of San Francisco that she and Quinn had visited a few times for a restaurant he liked.
“No, but I have an errand to run near there,” he replied. “I could show you.”
Cassidy felt her entire body still. “Oh,” she replied. “Wow, yes,” she added quickly.
Saxon stood, and she couldn’t help following the movement with her eyes. He grinned but his gaze held a gleam that made her draw back—though due to fear or overexcitement, she couldn’t identify.
Saxon downed the last of his drink and tapped the empty glass with finality on the desk. “Let’s go,” he said, sliding into his black leather jacket that had been hanging on the back of his chair.
“But what about Dutch?” she asked. “I don’t want him to worry.”
“I don’t think Dutch is the worrying kind,” Saxon said, tilting his head, as if she had said something amusing. “See for yourself,” he added, nodding toward the window.
A chill tingled down her back as she approached the window and glanced down. The bar was standing room only now, the music pounding, mixing with the hoots and cries. A quick glance at the stage revealed two women dancing—though “dancing” was a generous term. The purple-tinted lights from the stage made it easy to pick out Dutch who was being led through the crowd by a woman in a tight red dress and heels, her delicate lips curved into a coy smile. Cassidy watched, transfixed as they turned into the hallway toward the V.I.P. rooms she’d seen on her way to the restroom.
“Plus, he wouldn’t pass our screening,” Saxon said, raising his eyebrows.
Cassidy felt like a cornered mouse looking up at a giant cat. Dutch carried a weapon? In that instant, everything came crashing down. She thought of the ride and how brave she thought she’d been. Of how she had let herself trust Dutch, thinking she was making some kind of advancement to being normal again.
She realized that Saxon was still watching her with his laser-beam eyes.
“Shall we?” he asked.
Cassidy realized she was trapped yet again, about to trust someone she shouldn’t. She exhaled a shaky breath, hoping to find some shred of courage. Her scattered mind snatched at an image of Izzy, curled up on a bare floor somewhere with dirty needle scattered around her. “Yes,” she said, but her pitch was high and thin, a voice she didn’t recognize.
Saxon exited the room and turned away from the stairs. Cassidy followed, stepping past the two bouncers who stood stoic, arms crossed.
Once again, the thumping music of the club and smell of the dingy walls and stale booze crowded her senses. Behind her, the office door closed with a soft click.
Everything seemed to swirl in her mind, like the drink in Saxon’s hand—round and round, the ice tinkling in the glass.
Saxon led her to a door at the back of the hall, which led to a brightly lit stairway. The bouncer behind her slipped away, melting back into the darkness. They descended to a doorway that opened to a dingy lot surrounded by construction fencing behind the club—the same lot she had seen during her approach with Dutch.
Thinking about him was too much. Instead, she returned to the image of Izzy. I just have to find her, then I can sort all of this out later.
Outside, night had fallen, and streetlights glowed white overhead. Cassidy hurried to keep up with Saxon as they walked toward the waterfront along Market. Traffic raced past them; a crowd of people dressed for a night out stood in a loose cluster near the edge of the esplanade. Saxon looked completely comfortable in his leather jacket and jeans while her skin prickled against the night’s chill. She had a sweatshirt in her backpack but didn’t want to stop to put it on.
“Do you remember what time you dropped off Izzy?” she asked as they turned down a side street.
Saxon seemed to think about this. “No, but we left the rally at around midnight.”
“Where did you go afterwards?” Cassidy asked.
His eyes flashed her way. “I came here to close up. These clubs don’t run themselves.”
Cassidy felt sweat dampen her armpits. She wanted to shrink away, just to get out from under his scornful, sharp gaze, but she pressed on, sensing that he would be glad to get rid of her as soon as possible. “Did she tell you why she wanted to come to San Francisco? Or why she ended up at the rally in the first place?”
“No,” Saxon said, shaking his head slowly. They reached the entrance to a garage. Saxon turned into it, pulling his wallet from the pocket of his pants, the chain connecting it to his belt flashing in the glare of the bright overhead lighting.
Cassidy thought about this. “So, she just comes up to you at the concert and asks you for a ride?”
He smiled, but it held little warmth. “She was bored and looking for a way out.”
“And you offered to
