Ty finally glances over at me, and he whistles. “Jesus, Luke. You planning on causing an accident or giving everyone hard-ons?”
“Why not both?” I throw him a wink, grabbing my keys. “If I’m not back by morning, delete my browser history and tell my mom I died doing something stupid.”
Will groans. “You mean like every weekend?”
I blow him another kiss and head out.
Riot is practically home.
It’s the kind of gay club that smells like glitter—if glitter had a smell—tequila, and freedom. Neon lights pulse in time with the bass, rainbow strobes cutting through haze, and the bartender knows my name—and my drink—before I even hit the counter.
It’s wedged between a taco place that somehow never closes and a vape shop that probably sells more questionable substances than vapes.
Next door, there’s a straight club called Ignite, full of polos and heels and people pretending not to stare when someone fromRiotwalks by.
I prefer our kind of fun.
The bouncer grins when he sees me. “Back again, Trouble?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, sliding past with a wink.
Inside, the music thrums inside my chest like a heartbeat—deep, heavy, alive. The crowd is already moving, bodiespressed close, heat rolling off the dance floor. It’s loud; it’s messy; it’s perfect.
I weave through the crowd toward the bar, pulling my phone from my pocket to check Prism. No new notifications, so I find his profile and send a quick message.
BornforTrouble: Here yet?
The reply comes almost instantly.
WhiskeyAndInk: Already watching you.
My pulse kicks up.
I glance around the club, scanning the crowd, and my gaze snags on a man near the back—leaning against the wall by a tall round table like he owns the space without needing to announce it. His skin is a warm golden-brown that catches the lights beautifully, dark hair cropped short with a subtle wave to it, black so deep it reflects blue under the strobes. A whiskey glass rests loosely in his hand, tattoos curling up his forearms and disappearing beneath rolled black sleeves.
Even from here, I can tell he doesn’t belong. Too composed. Too grounded. Like he walked in carrying his own gravity. Too straight-club-next-door or motorcycle-club president—opposite ends of the spectrum, sure, but somehow he fits both.
And he’s too hot for his own damn good.
He lifts his glass in a silent toast.
I grin and turn in his direction, the leather of my jacket creaking softly as I move through the crowd.Hello, gorgeous, I’m going to let you ruin me tonight.
Up close, he’s even worse for my sanity. Sharp jaw,five-o’clock shadow dark against his skin, features all strong lines and quiet confidence. His eyes are a deep whiskey brown—warm, assessing, dangerous in a way that promises he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Born for trouble?” he says, voice deep enough to drown in.
“That depends.” I tilt my head, letting my lips curve. “Are you the bad idea I’m meeting tonight?”
His mouth twitches, somewhere between amusement and sin. “Could be.”
“Then, yeah—I’m trouble.” I step closer until we’re sharing breath. “You can call me Luke.”
He studies me, gaze dipping over my mouth, my throat, the bare skin under my mesh. His pupils darken, and something tightens between us—something magnetic.
“Nice to meet you, Luke.”
The way he says my name—low, warm, and almost reverent—makes my pulse stutter.
