Page 6 of East

I still enjoy working as the club’s DJ in its centerpiece and namesake—a giant block of jade in the center where I program the music for the evening. My taste in music is second to none, and I’m good at reading the room as I curate the lineup for each evening.

But the new part of my job? The everyday administrative duties that come with the power?

That I could do without.

See, the Jade Sanctum was part of Rouge’s front. Her black market. A lot of the funds required for club upkeep came from the millions of dollars she made from selling nonconsenting hearts, lungs, and livers.

Once all that came to light, it was shut down immediately. But that loss of income hurt. It took a few months of tinkering with our budget before we were on steady ground, and even now we’re at most two unexpected expenses away from bankruptcy.

Luckily, we have a loyal clientele, and Bianca’s outreach efforts to bring in a younger crowd was successful for Aces Underground—Rouge’s original flagship club—and that trickled down to the secondary venues as Aces got more crowded. Our cover isn’t exactly cheap, and since we brew all our liquor in house, we’re able to mark up our prices for drinks to make a good profit.

But still, we’ve had to tighten our belts. I had to let go a lot of workers, and now I only have three full-time waitstaff. There’s room in the budget for a fourth, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to hire someone to take Tim’s place in the West section. So I didn’t. I have Leo Valori in the South, Scarlet Crowe in the North, and Jackie Carver covering both the East and the West. All three of them work for far less than what the waitstaff made when Rouge was in charge, but I do everything I can to give them enough to live on.

I gave myself a raise with my new responsibilities, but the extra money doesn’t make up for the added work. I should be making twice what I’m giving myself, but I can’t afford it. Especially since each section of the club has its own bartender as well.

I brought on a part-time accountant to help me out with some of the overhead, since—shocker!—a guy who spent his college years mastering sleight of hand didn’t know the first thing about balancing his books, but she’s become a bit of a hassle herself. Somehow she always seems to find room in the budget for me to pay her a hefty salary. Funny how that works out.

We’re doing okay, but like I said, we’re just a few strokes of bad luck away from complete ruin.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s even worth it.

I slam the brakes on my car as traffic comes to a complete and sudden stop on Lake Shore Drive. I look ahead. Flashing lights and sirens. An accident, probably.

I look at the time on my car’s dash again.

Fuck.

Now I’m really going to be late.

3

THEA

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

I’m used to the motion. It’s unconscious, completely disconnected from reality.

I don’t read their profiles, don’t try to glean anything about their personality, their interests. Nope. I’m relying purely on my personal taste, nothing more. Animal instincts. I might as well be a cavewoman in an animal pelt.

Most of the guys I’m swiping left on—rejecting. Every fifteen or so I see one I can stomach. None of them have matched with me yet, but that’s to be expected. My profile is new, so the only guys swiping on me are the ones who are on their phones right now.

And do I really want to match with a guy who’s attached to his phone? I’ve been on so many dates where they’ve kept their phone face-up on the table the entire time, never letting a text go by without taking their attention from me. I’ve had to grit my teeth to avoid blurting out “What the fuck?” every time it’s happened.

Ugh. Ladies and gentlemen, the men of the twenty-first century.

Yet I keep swiping. Surely at least one man in this huge-ass city will⁠—

A match!

A little shot of dopamine into my brain. For half a second, I’m a princess awaiting her noble knight.

The feeling is fleeting. Because I’ve matched with guys on the apps before, and I know what to expect. A flirty conversation over text followed by a big fat goose egg of a first date.

Though this guy—damn.

He’s my exact type. Big, hulking. Muscles for days, barely constrained by a tight button-down. Granite jaw, heavily stubbled cheeks, and long golden hair billowing in the breeze. He could be a model for the covers of those bargain-bin romance novels I love so much.

I swipe through the photos. Normally guys lead with their best look, but this guy gets sexier with each one. I hold back a gasp when I swipe to the final photo in his carousel.