Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance by Alexis Abbott, Alex Abbott

looks around for a long moment, surveying the area. Then she seems to get her bearings and starts leading me down the street.
    “If I remember correctly from the map I looked at this morning, Rue Amelot should be right around this corner,” she says, thinking aloud. “Aha! I was right.”
    We find ourselves across the street from a tiny bar with heavy graffiti coloring the shop front with indiscernible lettering and symbols. The words ZERO ZERO appear in weathered letters above the narrow doorway, and there doesn’t seem to be any light emanating from the place. However, we can certainly hear loud music sending thrills of bass through the ground to tickle our feet as we stand on the street corner. Maggie squeezes my arm.
    “Ready to go in?” she asks cheerily.
    I’m still surprised at how enthusiastic and brave she is for wanting to do this — at first glance she certainly doesn’t seem like the partying type. But I suppose all it takes is a miniature dose of courage and suddenly the reluctant wallflower can bloom into a vibrant rose.
    I still feel more like I’m wilting rather than blooming, though.
    Something instinctual in the back of my mind warns me not to step through the door. There’s a small, gloomy voice telling me that I’ve fallen too far off the beaten path, that I’m only two steps away from stumbling down the rabbit hole. And I don’t know if Wonderland is what awaits me at the bottom, or perhaps something much, much darker.
    But maybe I’m just being overly cautious. After all, it’s just a bar. It’s a public place, and it’s not like I’m totally alone here. I’m with Maggie, who has both money and the ability to speak French. No matter what happens, the two of us will make it out okay. I assure myself that everything is fine and there’s no need to overreact. With a nod to Maggie, we walk up and open the door, stepping over the threshold into a dimly-lit bar scene.
    There are neon signs on the walls, no chairs or tables whatsoever, and there’s graffiti absolutely everywhere. People are hanging over the bar counter, sipping cocktails and beers, while others are swaying and toe-tapping on the dance floor area. The whole bar could easily fit inside our little apartment, it’s so small. But what it lacks in size, it clearly makes up for in character. The crowd here is a little more edgy and hipster than what we’ve seen elsewhere, with jagged haircuts, tattoos, and piercings galore. Still, I don’t get a particularly bad vibe from the place, to my relief. It actually feels somewhat cozy, in a way.
    “This is awesome,” Maggie murmurs under her breath. “Let’s get drinks!”
    “I have no idea what to order,” I say worriedly. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
    “I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” she replies, dragging me up to the counter to order. The bartender is a tall, skinny guy with heavily-lidded eyes and a shock of dark hair. He looks cool and detached despite the noise and chaos happening all around him.
    Maggie leans in and hands him our driver’s licenses, tucking her hair back behind her ear and saying, “ Bonjour, que recommandez-vous ?”
    Before the bartender can even respond, a guy comes up and all but smashes into us, his hard body pressing up against me at the bar. I turn to look at him with a glare, only to fall back in surprise at the sight of Will’s smiling face. He looks back and forth between Maggie and me with a look of mingled glee and confusion on his handsome features.
    “No wonder you left in such a hurry this morning,” he says to me. “I had no idea you already had a beautiful French date to meet up with.”
    Maggie’s face goes bright pink and she stammers, “Oh n-no, we’re not together or anything, and I-I’m not French.”
    “Oh, you’re not…?” he presses, a twinkle in his eye suggesting to me that he never suspected that in the first place at all. But Maggie has fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.
    “We’re not