1
Drew
I have a life most would kill for.
At twenty-eight, I own the hottest club in New York City.
There should be absolutely nothing to complain about . . .
But unfortunately, that’s not the case. I do, in fact, have one problem.
Cal Loche.
The bastard won’t stop calling me. I hate that little fuck, but as much as I don’t want to answer, I do business with him, and it’s a necessary evil.
“What do you want, man?” I hiss through the phone.
“I need a favor.”
A deep breath escapes my lungs. I shouldn’t have answered the call.
“And why would I do anything for you?” I pivot my chair away from my desk and lean back. This could take a while, so I might as well get comfortable.
“Word around town is you are looking at space uptown.”
“Is that the word? Maybe you should check your sources.”
I am looking for space, but I don’t like this douche knowing anything about my plans. I’m so close to getting what I want, and I don’t need him fucking it up.
“My source is just fine, and what he says is that you want to buy it.”
Shit.
Even though what he says is true, I don’t need anyone knowing it. I have too many competitors who would love that piece of information. They would scoop it up just to mess with me, regardless of my plans for the space.
“And why does this concern you?” My voice sounds steady and uninterested. I’m plenty interested but giving him that knowledge only plays right into whatever hand he’s playing.
“Well, as it so happens, I own it.”
My body jerks forward at his words. “How come I didn’t know this?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“It’s owned by a different holding company.”
“So basically, Mommy and Daddy own it,” I fire back. I probably shouldn’t poke the beast, but I’m too pissed to care. This is not what I want to hear tonight. I’m dealing with enough shit.
“Doesn’t matter who owns it. If you want it, you’ll do me a favor.”
I let out a sigh. He has me by the balls. He knows it, I know it. “And what exactly is this favor?”
“You still looking for a waitress?”
“I am.”
“I have one for you.”
“I’m not employing some girl you’re banging.”
“I’m not banging her. She’s my girl’s sister. She’s a charity case, just the way you like them. Actually, you’ll want to meet this one in particular. Trust me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“That would be too easy. But she’s exactly the kind of girl you have a soft spot for.” His words have me sitting forward in my chair. Cal knows my sordid past. He knows about Alexa. He knows my weakness. How much he knows is another problem, but I keep my voice steady.
“A druggie?”
“Recovering. But still. Look her up and make your own decision, man. But if you want the property, you’ll hire her.”
“Name.” It doesn’t matter what he says, I know I’ll offer her the job. My need to help, to fix, to save is too great.
“Bailey Jameson.”
Placing my hand down on the computer, I start to type, and the moment her picture pops up, my hands pause, hovering over the keyword. She’s gorgeous. Stunning in a girl next door sort of way. Her haunted eyes cause my stomach to turn. I don’t have time to process why I’ve had such a reaction because what I see on the page has my attention. I pull up the article on her.
My fingers freeze on the keyboard once again.
“What do you gain from this?” I grit through clenched teeth.
“I don’t need some recovering addict getting evicted and moving in with me and my girl. Her sister is a lead prosecutor with the city, and I can’t have Bailey fucking that up for me. That connection is gold. Do this for me, and you’ll get your property.”
“Fine.” I slam the phone down, knowing full well this is probably the biggest mistake of my life, but there is no going back now.
I reach across my desk and grab the decanter of scotch and pour myself a glass. The night hasn’t even begun, and it’s already off to a shit start. How can it get any worse?
The answer to my question walks in the door as if being summoned.
Another thorn in my side I can’t get rid of.
Monica.
She is here, yet again, begging for another night of what she claims only I can provide.
Hiring her to work at my club was another bad idea—a growing theme in the life of Drew Lawson—but at the time, I didn’t anticipate a problem. Why would I? We never dated. We just fucked.
Once.
The problem is, by bringing her into my world, she now thinks it means I want more.
I don’t. Never did.
Not from her. Not from anyone right now, to be honest.
For me, there is no time for a date, let alone a relationship. All of that shit isn’t in the cards for me and definitely not with Monica.
I have big things on the horizon, and I can’t have some indiscretion fucking that up.
She should know nothing will happen between us.
But apparently, the hints and flat-out refusals haven’t been enough to break through her thick skull.
So here we are at the club, and yet again, she comes up to my office trying for more.
There’s a bar full of people downstairs and a mountain of paperwork waiting for me to do. Letting this girl down easy is not something I’m in the mood for.
This might be some men’s fantasy, but right now, it’s my nightmare.
This gorgeous woman—I won’t deny her that—is throwing herself at me, and I’m not feeling it. Her hand slips the collar of her skintight black dress down her shoulder until she’s fully uncovered one breast.
“Monica,” I warn, hoping my tone is enough to finally have her seeing reason. It doesn’t. She slips the other side off so that she’s completely topless and slides the rest of the dress down her legs.
“Get out,” I say, rather lazily. She stops and stares at me.
The fact that nothing I say is getting through to her only manages to annoy the shit out of me. “I said. Get. Out.”
She’s a ten on any man’s scale: blonde, five foot ten, long-ass legs, and a nice, tight ass. She must see some change in my expression because she throws a coy smile my way as she saunters closer and runs her fingers down my chest.
“You don’t want me to go,” she says without a hint of shame. “Let me make you feel good.”
I can feel the bass of the system below pulsing at my feet. This was my life: the party, the music, the alcohol, the drugs. As the tempo from the club speeds up, I almost cave.
I run my hands roughly down my face before making my way out of the office.
“Where are you going?” she asks, looking at me with doe eyes as I walk past her.
“We’ve been over this, Monica. You’ve gotta go.” I open the door, and the deafening noise from below filters in, nearly drowning out her next words.
“But I—”
“But you what, Mon?”
A fucking nickname. What the hell is wrong with me? I see the glimmer of hope flash in her eyes. I’m going to crush her. I have to smash all that hope because it will never happen. I don’t do relationships, let alone commitments. If tonight is any indication that I’ve yet to make that perfectly clear, I need to rectify this situation. Might as well get it over with.