Chapter 1
Jax
The music pulses through my feet as I walk down the steps at the back of the club. It’s a familiar, reassuring rhythm, like a second heartbeat.
My heels click over the floor as I pass Tyrel, our head of security, and salute him. It’s been a busy night, the club floor heaving with dancers, and he’s already had to kick three people out, and it’s not even midnight yet. Still, he’s quick to give me a smile as he salutes me back.
I raise my eyebrows at him, an old routine meaning: ‘Everything ok?’
He rolls his eyes as he nods, and I continue along the hallway, heading down to the bar. My skirt is riding up, and I tug at it, checking that my vest is buttoned correctly. The club dress code is all black, which suits me, as it’s pretty much the only color I wear.
Pushing through the heavy door, the beat of the music hits me, and I scoop my long ponytail onto my other shoulder.
Julia, Neil, and Vash are behind the bar, mixing drinks with the efficiency and skill I hired them for. I stand silently at the edge of the room, unobserved, checking the lay of the land before I head into the main space.
There’s a long line of people clamoring for drinks, but that’s nothing new. What surprises me is the volume this early on. It’s Friday, so of course it’s going to be busy, but this is impressive for us and shows how popular the club is becoming.
Flynn is gonna be thrilled.
I move away from the bar, giving a nod to Julia, who flicks her pink bangs out of her eyes as she throws me a little wave.
I weave through some rowdy guests and head upstairs, keeping an eye out for anything that might need my attention—but everything’s running smoothly.
Jensons, our family-run nightclub, isn’t as big as some of the larger clubs in the city, but I like to think that’s what keeps people coming back. We pride ourselves on a more personal experience, and that still seems to count for something.
As I reach the central atrium, I skim a hand over the rail, glancing down into the main club. The dance floor below me is wide and spacious, with VIP spaces set at intervals along the edges. The DJ booth, banked against the top wall, is perfectly wired for sound; huge plasma screens behind the decks are pulsing to the beat thrown out by the speakers on either side.
Heading to the top floor, I nod to a few regulars on my way through.
Both the upper rooms are open tonight: The Green Room and The Blue. My brother Flynn isn’t into overcomplicating things and named them after the color of the furniture in each one.
The Green Room is the largest and opens out onto a wrap-around terrace above the city, which is usually frequented by vapers. I can see the clouds of white steam rising in the cold night air as I enter.
“Drinks flowing?” I ask Mitch, one of the security guards stationed on the left of the wide doorway. He glances at me.
“You bet, boss.”
I nod and move on, stepping up to the bar, catching the eye of both bartenders. Their happy smiles tell me all I need to know. It’s busy here, but not as crazy as downstairs, and they’re on top of things.
When I head into the blue room, however, I can tell immediately that something’s off.
The blue room is a chill space for groups to talk and wind down, deliberately kept separate from the heaving bodies on the main dance floor, with softer, more eclectic music. It’s become our most popular area for women to sit with their friends and chat the night away over cocktails.
Alexa, one of our servers, catches my eye the second I walk in, and my hackles rise, knowing that means trouble.
I remain outwardly relaxed, wandering the floor, keeping an eye out for whoever she’s alerted me to. Then I see them. It’s a group of guys at the table in the corner. One of them has kicked off his shoes; leather Tom Ford’s left haphazardly beside the booth for anyone to trip over.
Another server, Marty, is beside the table with a tray of drinks. I can tell by her body language that she’s uncomfortable, standing further back than she normally would. I remain still, watching as one of the guys reaches out, stretching his long fingers toward her ass.
I wait. I’ve acted too fast before and paid for it dearly. I need a reason to go over there, even though my gut is screaming at me to go and help.
Marty would usually get rid of a guy like this herself, but I can see that his friends are deliberately distracting her. This feels like a routine these guys carry out often. The hand of Mr. No Shoes brushes her thigh, and she steps away. Marty glances at him, and I see her lips move—a short response, polite but firm.
Then he does it again, and I advance.
His fingers are moving toward her inner thigh when I grab his wrist so hard my nails curl sharply against the vein.
“Fuck, get off me bitch,” he slurs, tugging at his arm as I stand motionlessly beside him. I nod my head for Marty to return to the bar.
