We walk outside. The sea air hits us, briny and clean. For a second it feels like the two hours inside never happened. Almost enough to wipe it from the edge of me.
“Viviana needs some pictures for a stylist.” Declan leans on the steel wall of the warehouse while I swing a leg over my bike.
“She wants me to model for him?” I grin. Declan chuckles; a sleeve rolls up, and tattoos peek from under his shirt.
“Arsehole.” He shakes his head. “She asked if they could use your club.”
“Which one?” I straddle the bike and pick my helmet. I need to take the edge off.
“Teine.”
I nod. “Sure.”
“She’ll text you the details later.” He claps my shoulder; I give him a smirk.
I start the bike. The beast rumbles under me; I put the helmet on and drive off. The wind is a blessing after two hours in a warehouse. My hands still taste faintly of iron.
The Callaghans love to torture; it’s their method, though Declan likes the fist fights as much as I do. When I’m in charge, we fight. I love the rush: the crack of bone under my knuckles, the sour heat that blooms when a man quits fighting. It makes me feel clean.
The street blurs. Darkness swallows the docks as I head toward town.
I have a house near Declan on the outskirts, barely used. I got it after his penthouse was attacked last year, a security thing. He was right: it’s harder to secure a building full of offices and tenants than a lonely mansion. Still, the centre of the city is where I’d like to be. From my penthouse I can see it all, including my club, Teine.
Red velvet, black leather, industrial furniture. Packed every night.
Insomnia keeps me awake; instead of staring at a wall, I go there, drink, watch, fuck. Could be worse.
My building comes into view, massive and modern. The gate opens at my nod. The bike’s sound echoes off the concrete as I roll down. Near the private elevator is Kaden, my chief of security and a close friend. He’s a wall. He moves like a man who’s ready for a fight.
“Finally,” he grunts. I smirk.
“Missed your shiny face.” I remove my helmet and walk toward him.
“How was the…drive?”
“It was good. Another one to feed the fish.” I shrug as we walk to the elevator. I punch the code, and the machine rises.
This elevator is private. Only I, Kaden and the Callaghans have the code. It stops at the penthouse.
When the doors open, Kaden steps in first, always playing the role of a bodyguard from hell waiting for someone to come at me. The apartment is dim, all black and grey. It’s my sanctuary.
“Are you going to Teine tonight?” Kaden tosses his jacket aside and collapses onto the couch. He’s six-foot-six and two-sixty, a walking brawl.
“Maybe.”
I head to my room, toss the bloody shirt into the bin and go to the bathroom. The mirror reflects the day: blood, sweat and boredom. I tilt my head and study my chest. I need a new tattoo. My arms are full, my back too, but the neck and chest still have room.
The water heats up, and I step into the shower, resting my forehead on the tiles as the heat tries to wash the day away. My muscles stay coiled; the veins at my temple throb with a leftover edge. I scrub the warehouse off me: the sour iron on my hands, the grit under my nails. I dress in a black shirt, suit pants, boots, leather jacket with simple, clean lines.
I walk out and hear Kaden laugh from the living room bar. “I knew we would be leaving.”
“You don’t have to come, mate.” I grab the bike keys.
“The fuck I don’t. You have that killer look in your eyes.” He follows me to the garage. I swing a leg over the bike while Kaden climbs into his bulletproof SUV with enough guns hidden in there to start a war.
The night’s cold and still; the streets are loud. We pull up behind the club, and the line snakes toward the alley. The bouncer already expecting me. I head straight for the VIP balcony. The waitress drops my drink as I sit; Kaden scans the room, hunting potential threats.
“Relax.” I grunt and down my whisky in one pull, the burn hot and sharp. Kaden finally settles and sips his Guinness, eyes flicking to the bar. “Dina’s here.” He murmurs, then looks to find her.
