You wove through the crowd, a sea of neon and denim, feeling a familiar, prickling heat on the back of your neck. You didn't have to look to know its source.

Eddie Munson was leaning against the archway to the kitchen, a red plastic cup dangling from his fingers. He was holding court with Gareth and Jeff, his laugh cutting through the din, but his eyes—dark and intent—were tracking you.

You finally slipped into the hallway, the relative quiet a relief. The bathroom door was just ahead, a sanctuary. You pushed it open, the cool tile a welcome change.

The door hadn't even clicked shut before it was pushed open again. A familiar scent of smoke, leather, and eucalyptus filled the small space as a tall, lean frame slid inside, blocking the light from the hall.