Chapter one
~JESSICA~
The bass in this place is so violent I can feel it in my teeth. It rattles up my legs, climbs my spine, and shakes me until I’m half-convinced my ribcage will split open just to let the beat out. Lights slice through the haze—strobe, neon, smoke machine—rinse and repeat. Somewhere in the back, a DJ screams something unintelligible into the mic like he’s announcing the end of the world.
Dannie and I have been hopping clubs all night, but this one is the one. We didn’t even need the line outside to tell us. A line we delicately skipped since, apparently, being a micro-celebrity on the internet comes with perks—not enough money to supportmyself and my family, but at least I’m skipping club lines, right?
Everyone inside is vibrating on some primal frequency. Glasses slosh, sequins cling to sweaty skin, champagne sprays across the dance floor like liquid confetti. A girl twirls by in a rhinestone corset dress, and my brain does what it always does—tears it apart. The boning is crooked, the zipper is cheap, and the sequins will start shedding before she even gets an Uber home. I can already see a dozen ways I’d have made it better.
“It’s chaos in here,” I yell over the music.
“That’s the point!” Dannie throws her head back and grins, eyes glassy from tequila. “Look over there!”
My eyes scan the room, trying to see how deep the club goes, but all I see are bodies under flashing lights. The VIP section at the far end catches my eye. It isn’t just roped off. It’s barricaded. A human wall of broad shoulders, thick necks, and sharp profiles stands shoulder to shoulder. Behind them, the space glitters brighter with sparklers stuck in champagne bottles, the air thick with smoke, hotter from the sheer gravity of all that testosterone in one place. Womenhover at the ropes like moths, waiting for one of the gods inside to pick them, as if a hand might shoot out of the crowd and drag them into Olympus.
“What am I looking at?” I ask, because this is not normal.
Dannie leans into me, shouting in my ear. “Miami Blazers! They just clinched the playoffs!”
“You’re gonna have to say that again in English.” I blink at her.
“They’re the hometown team, Jess. Hockey! This is their celebration.”
Ah. Hockey. The only thing I know about it is that it involves ice, fights, and big men—which, judging by the giants in VIP, checks out.
I lean on the bar and watch them, sipping the watery excuse for a vodka soda the bartender handed me. A few women have managed to make it past the bouncers and are currently rubbing against a few players.
It’s absurd.
“So that’s why Miami looks like a casting call for Greek gods tonight?” I say, deadpan.
“Perfect time for our girl date.” Dannie clinks her glass against mine, eyes glittering.
Our little “girl date” was supposed to be a night in with movies and crafts. I’m not sure how I agreed to this and ended up at a club after four slices of pizza and three glasses of wine, but I’m not mad about it.
“Pretty sure this doesn’t really qualify as a girl date,” I snort, but I don’t look away from the men in the corner. It’s pure curiosity. Anthropological research. Men like that don’t exist where I come from. These guys look like they could hold up the ceiling if it fell, and ruin-your-life is written all over every single one of them. I don’t care about hockey, but the testosterone Olympics happening behind that velvet rope and wall of bouncers might change my mind.
“I’m gonna pee myself.” Dannie puts her drink next to mine and taps the top. “Make sure I don’t get roofied.”
“On it,” I laugh, sliding her drink closer and taking my own.
Dannie disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone, drink in hand, swaying against the bar whilethe bass does its best to give me permanent hearing damage.
This… is fun. I don’t go out much these days. I’m too busy making social media content, which would be easy enough if I didn’t have to design and sew clothing in order to make said content.
“Good evening.”
The voice is smooth, velvety, confident. I turn to find a man beside me in a sharp suit with a sharper smile. He’s tall, brown hair slicked back—the kind of guy who probably Googles himself daily. Handsome in the way a showroom mannequin is handsome.
“Didn’t mean to intrude,” he says, leaning one elbow on the bar. “But I couldn’t help noticing you look… out of place here.”
“Out of place?” I arch a brow.
“I think you’d fit better in my bed,” he says, clearly proud of himself.
A line, rehearsed. But he delivers it with enough confidence to make me laugh. “That your opening pitch?”
“Depends. Did it work?” His grin widens.
