It’s quieter inside the car, and I can hear my hands shaking when I jam my key into the ignition, rattling the pepper spray canister against the metal. I rest there for a moment, dragging in a series of deep breaths, and I want to scream, because I just keep remembering.
Remembering the way those arms felt, bracketing me in.
Snap!
Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap!
2
Heston
* * *
I lick the liquid from the top of my lip, tasting it. It’s club soda, so at least I won’t have to worry about another goddamn ‘contribution to the delinquency of a minor’ charge. I’m going to have to talk to Kevin about carding everyone at the door—even my random Sunday night internet pussy.
Shit.
Especially my random Sunday night internet pussy.
I hear the obnoxious, wheezing laughter coming from the balcony above, but I ignore it, reaching behind the bar to snatch a towel from the shelf. We’d drawn some looks with that little show, but I can’t focus on anything but the paranoid whirr of my thoughts and the way it’s making my stomach burn.
Too tacky and unseemly for my father, and my brother’s off at Yale living large on what was supposed to be my life. Sebastian isn’t smart enough to come up with that, anyway. Had to be the Preston bitches. Most of them might have graduated, but they still have their little circle of scheming bullshit.
Am I just paranoid because I have—in the past, once or twice—recorded a few girls without their knowledge? Probably not. Georgia Haynes showing up at my club can’t be a coincidence. Not in that sexy little dress. Not after what she fucking did.
The bartender pulls a face when I throw the towel at him, stalking away to the stairs, but he won’t say anything. Not if he wants to keep his job. And the thing is, he does. Underworld has been booming since the start of winter.
Since I bought it.
I knew pretty much the second I walked onto campus that college wasn’t really my bag. But as the heir to the Wilcox fortune, there were expectations, standards. I played the role for a while, but my patience wore thin quick. I wanted to make money—my own money.
My father’s money always came with short strings attached. He wanted to oversee every investment, dipping his hands into my goddamn business. Every suggestion I made was wrong. Too risky. Too short-term. “Investment is a long game,” he’d say, shooing me aside like an annoying fly. My father’s all about tradition, too steeped in the old ways to see the big picture, like me.
My brother, Sebastian, was my first cash cow. He’s a fighter, through and through. All about talking with his fists and throwing tantrums. We might hate each other’s guts, but even I have to admit the kid excels at what he does. Naturally. He is a Wilcox. It was easy to set shit up, to get him into a makeshift ring and bet on him to win a fight. When he moved on to street racing, it was just as easy to exploit that. The kid doesn’t have an abundance of brains, but when it comes to speed and hitting things, he’s on.
It leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I climb the stairs to the VIP lounge. The bitches of Preston Prep turned me in and got me arrested, just because I recorded a couple videos of us fucking. It was all bullshit, though. Both Haynes and Sydney fully consented to everything that happened in those videos, and they fucking knew it. The whole thing was a stunt to save my dumbass brother from having to fight. The cops didn’t really seem to give a shit, though, and neither did my parents. My father cut me off. My mom banned me from the house. I got kicked out of school—not that I can pay for it, anyway. My trust fund is gone. My access to any Wilcox privileges has been solidly rescinded. I lost everything.
Everything except for this.
Underworld is the only thing I legally own. I won it in a bet I’d made on one of Sebastian’s fights, and now it’s my sole asset. It’s where I eat, fuck, shower, and sleep. It’s the sum of my parts. It’s the closest thing I’ve got to building a future anymore. Almost everything it’s earned has gone right back into making it stronger, better, more successful. A year ago, this place was a run-down rave dump. Now, I’m a few weeks shy of setting up valet. The streets are buzzing with the word of it. I took this pile of shit and made it fucking shine.
Just one minor problem, though.
“Struck out, eh, Wilcox?” Big Gene throws his arm around my neck as soon as I hit the VIP landing, boisterously dragging me to his usual table. It overlooks the dance floor and bar, and it’s exactly where I find his ass parked, every goddamn night, from open to closing. “I thought pretty boys like you could get pussy easier than all that. Must be the new lack of money thing.”
I cut him a thinly veiled glare as he slides back into his booth. Despite the name, Gene is short and twiggy, a deceptively small physical presence. “Are you comfortable?” I ask, giving him a haughty grin. “I can have Tara get you another drink.” I gesture with two fingers to Tara, who’s waiting behind the VIP bar. She knows the routine by now. If I get him nice and drunk, there’s a chance he’ll leave early. His flunkies, always camped out down below, probably won’t, but that’s another thing altogether.
He takes the drink, giving Tara a slimy grin. Embarrassing to watch, if I’m being honest. Gene’s probably forty-years-old and Tara’s barely twenty-one. She doesn’t even notice, though, since she only has eyes for me, sliding me a glass of whiskey before she leaves. Big Gene is right about one thing. It’d be easy for me to score pussy. Tara’s been gagging for my dick since I interviewed her back in March. She’s not really my type though. Too clingy. Plus, she has thick, hardy skin. I have an eye for these things. She doesn’t bruise easily.
And anyway, when it comes to business, I don’t shit where I eat.
“So what did you do?” Gene asks, spreading his arms across the back of the booth. “You neg her?” At my blank look, he adds, “You know, compliment her with an insult. Negging.”
“I know what negging is, Gene.” Jesus Christ, I was negging girls when I was in fourth fucking grade. I throw my drink back, swallowing it down in a single gulp. I regret it the second it hits my stomach, increasing the burn. “She’s one of the bitches who turned me in last spring. That shitty, anonymous hook-up app matched us. It was a fluke.”
Of course I swiped on her picture. In it, she was sprawled out on the deck of a yacht in this little green bikini, head thrown back, red hair tumbling down her shoulders, framing a pair of tits that would make anyone look twice. Even with her face too obscured by the angle and a pair of large sunglasses, I should have known it was her. I’ve seen those tits. Felt them. Watched them on video and committed them to memory. They’re a lot bigger now. More than once, I’ve heard some guys wondering if she went away freshman year to get implants, but I know better. Georgia’s just always been fucking stacked.
He lets out a low whistle. “Daddy’s girl doesn’t want to ride your carousel anymore, is that it?”
Scoffing, I reply, “I could fuck her if I wanted. Georgia Haynes doesn’t discriminate.”
“That’s not what it looked like to me.” He shrugs, taking a tiny sip from his glass. Classic fucking Gene, taking his time, making himself at home in my fucking club. “You know what I think it is? I think you’re losing your charm, son. Happens sometimes when men get out into the real world.”