1
Ryker
I entered the club via a set of stairs covered in threadbare carpeting that stuck to my shoes, evidence of years of spilled drinks and trodden-in food. As the narrow stairwell gave way to a large open-plan space, the first thing to greet me was a thick blanket of smoke, the orange tips of cigarettes lighting the room like a bunch of concertgoers holding up their mobile phones on command. The acrid smell sank into the weave of my bespoke Alexander Amosu suit and burned the back of my throat. Through the haze, I made out an outline of a half-naked woman gyrating around a pole, a bunch of sweaty men watching her with their tongues hanging out. One made a grab for her calf, but she nimbly slipped out of reach.
The United States got many things wrong, but banning smoking wasn’t one of them. Unfortunately, not every country had yet capitulated; Japan—my current location—being one of them. A toothless law had been bound into the constitution a couple of years ago, but it paid lip service to the problem. The tobacco industry exuded far too much power for a blanket ban.
“Change number one. Enforce a smoking ban,” I yelled to my best friend and business partner, Elliot Bancroft, over the heavy beat of dance music. I fanned my hand in front of my face to try to clear my vision. “This is my favorite suit, yet now I might have to dump it in the trash the second I get back to the hotel room. Even a miracle worker won’t get the stench out.”
Elliot sniggered. “Turnover will take a hit. Smoking is entrenched in the very fabric of Japan.”
I shrugged. Made no difference to me. I liked swimming against the tide. Not conforming to societal rules attracted curiosity. Besides, when I converted this club from a sleazy, rat-infested hovel to a classy dance joint worthy of the Poles Apart brand, if it fell on its ass, it wouldn’t even make a dent in the number of zeros in my bank account. Hell, if every business I owned went into liquidation tomorrow, I’d still have more money than ninety-eight percent of the world’s population.
How had I amassed such wealth at the tender age of twenty-eight, you might ask? A stroke of luck as it turned out. Six college buddies, bored with what the education system offered, dabbled in gaming apps. The thrill of creating a fun product from scratch was a far more interesting pastime than sitting in lecture halls listening to dull professors blather on as they tried, in vain, to impart information that was about as useful in the real world as my cock to a lesbian.
The first few apps crashed and burned. Then, for a reason none of us have ever managed to figure out, one of them took off, went viral, and ROGUES. Inc was born. Now, seven years later, me and five of my closest friends were among the richest men in the world, living the ultimate dream.
In case you were wondering about our company name, ROGUES simply spelled the initials of our first names. Me (Ryker), Oliver, Garen, Upton, Elliot—my current companion and best friend since kindergarten—and Sebastian.
The acronym, though, holds more than a modicum of truth. We are rogues. Every one of us.
Except for one.
Oliver.
But that was a very long, complicated story without a happy ending.
The rest of the fabulous five? Testosterone-fueled young men with the world at our feet and, hell, do we take advantage of our privileged positions.
If we’d taken more time to brainstorm, we might have come up with something slicker, but after the money started rolling in, we’d had to create somewhere to funnel it, and quick. Elliot originally floated the idea of playing around with the initials of our first names, and Sebastian figured out the order to form a suitable word.
I hadn’t always had money to burn. Far from it. Growing up, it had just been Mom and me after my father died before I could talk. She’d worked three jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. She might not have been around as much as I’d have liked, but I knew I was loved. And besides, the lack of material possessions had lit a fire within me, a desperate burn to achieve success. I worked my ass off at school, achieved a scholarship to college, and the rest, as they say, is history.
This was my first trip to Japan. I tended to spend most of my time traveling The Triangle, as I’d nicknamed it: New York, London, Paris. I owned luxury homes in each location, my favorite destination changing in line with my mood. Over the years, I’d gained a reputation as a workaholic, the theory being that my poor upbringing drove me to chase an even greater bank balance, despite the fact that the interest I earned in a year would comfortably keep me for the rest of my life.
That belief was wrong.
It was distraction I sought. The work gave me a shot at diverting my attention away from her. The woman who could bring my whole world crashing down.
“Let’s get a drink.” I pointed my chin at the crowded bar.
“You don’t want to find Tanaka?” Elliot asked, referring to the manager of this establishment.
Manager… for now.
Assessing staff performance was one of the primary tasks I carried out when I made a business purchase, and given what I’d seen so far, Hiroto Tanaka wasn’t exactly making a good first impression: dirty, uncleared tables, customers without a drink, a bad bar offering. Barely legal girls offering far more than a sexy dance for sweaty, overweight men puffing away on a cigar, their leering gazes roving slowly over too much exposed skin.
A man snorting coke off a woman’s exposed breasts drew my attention. Yep, this place needed an overhaul of its clientele if it was to truly fulfil its potential—and my vision—as the club in Tokyo for men to hang out, drink quality alcohol, and watch attractive women dance. The location couldn’t be better, but its current setup wouldn’t do. The Poles Apart brand oozed class, hence the name, and by the time my team had finished, this place would, too.
“Not yet,” I said, answering Elliot’s earlier question regarding Tanaka.
We weaved through the crowds and located a space at the end of the bar. I held up my hand to the bartender.
“Two iced waters,” I said.
The bartender slapped down a couple of napkins and snorted a laugh. “Living it up, huh, my man? Come on. Let yourself go. This is the place.”
I stared pointedly at the Aussie surfer dude, my gaze cold, unwavering. He was probably working here to fund the next leg of his trip around the world, a way to stave off adulthood for a little while longer, yet by my reckoning, he was closer to thirty than twenty.
He broke first and turned away muttering, probably something about what an asshole he thought I was.
Buddy, you have no idea.
The bartender slammed two glasses of water on the bar and moved on to the next waiting customer.
“Lots to do,” Elliot said, his gaze drifting around the club.
I sipped my water. “Exactly as I like it.”
I cast my eyes along the bar, assessing the type of customer my new club presently attracted. Middle-aged men, dissatisfied with their lives, dipping into their meager retirement funds for a moment of oblivion.
Not the dynamic I intended to create at all. I was after the new money, nouveau riche like myself, young men who would think nothing of dropping a hundred grand on a single night, who’d pay ten G’s for a bottle of wine without blinking.
“Bartender is skimming,” I said, drawing Elliot’s attention away from the room and back to me.
His brows formed a deep V, his eyes narrowing into barely there slits. “You sure?”