Page 2

I fold my hands in my lap and watch as we leave the relative civilization of the corporate corridor for the neon graveyard on the edge of downtown. Elysium rises from the cracked asphalt like a forgotten god with columns of blinking LEDs, all-caps signage, and fountains spewing what I hope is just water.

Henderson tugs at his cuffs. “Listen, Eden. These guys—very sharp, very direct. Don’t get rattled if they say something… off-color. It’s how they do business. Don’t take it personally.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, then immediately regret opening my mouth.

He misreads the sarcasm as gratitude. “That’s my girl. Let me do the talking. You just smile, look attentive. You know how to do that, right?”

I stare at him. “I took theater in college.” But I doubt even an Oscar winner could pull this off.

He barks a laugh, delighted. “See? I knew you were the right choice for this.”

The Mercedes pulls up to the entrance, and a valet in a black jacket opens my door. I step out and instantly feel the place staring me down. The whole damn building is wrapped in so much secrecy you’d think it was a CIA black site, not a freaking casino. There’s no flashing neon sign out front, just a couple of blood-red columns and some weird flickering LEDs that look more like a threat than a welcome. One blink and you’d miss it, which is clearly the point.

Henderson acts like he’s royalty. He flashes this plain black card at the muscular guy guarding the door with the word “NO” written all over his face. The giant takes the card and slides it under a black light. Elysium’s logo appears. Island, palm tree, the whole paradise motif. Subtle, but it screams money and danger.

Inside, my heels hit crimson carpet, and it’s like getting kicked in the face by every bad decision in Vegas at once. The ground floor is packed with writhing bodies, pounding music, and club girls in barely-there outfits. The air smells like expensive perfume, whiskey, and sin. The bar glows a deep, hellish red. Booths are black leather. Even the walls look like they could swallow you whole.

Upstairs is the casino. No tourists, no cameras, just high-stakes players surrounded by MC muscle, and a tension so thick you’d need a machete to cut through it. If you’re not on the list, you’re invisible. If you are, your secrets stay secret.

Holy shit. I don’t belong here. And neither does my dipshit boss.

He leans over to whisper to me, all business. “Remember to smile. If anyone asks, you’re my top analyst. You went to Yale. You’re very discreet.” Oh, great. If Hender-slime thinks I’m going to lie for him, he has another thing coming.

I paste on my most neutral face because I guess that’s what top Yale analysts do. It’s either that or let my eyes roll right out of my head. “Of course,” I tell him, but really, I’m thinking there isn’t enough tequila in the world to get me through tonight.

We pass another bouncer in front of double doors covered in black leather. The guy checks Henderson’s name on a fucking tablet, then gives us a nod.

I walk next to my boss and try to make myself invisible. I’d rather drink bleach than have anyone in this place mistake me for a “club girl,” but apparently, my boobs and this ridiculously tight black dress have other plans.

Music pounds so hard I can feel my fillings vibrating. Henderson marches straight to the bar. When the fucker pats my ass, I know for a fact that it’s anything but “accidental.”

I resist the urge to elbow him in the spleen. “So, what’s the plan?” I hiss, just to keep up the appearance of giving a single shit about my job.

“Sit here. Order something expensive-looking. Don’t talk unless someone talks to you first,” he says, scanning the room. I don’t argue when he hands me his expense credit card.

Before I can respond, my asshole boss turns and heads off, moving through the crowd like he owns the place. Typical. I have no idea where he’s going, and honestly, I don’t give a shit. I just want to get through the night without being propositioned, roofied, or murdered and dumped in a desert. And screw Hender-slime’s offer of a half-day off. I’m taking the whole fucking day off.

I slide onto the nearest barstool, trying to cross my arms over my chest, but the stupid dress just shoves my boobs up higher. Of course, the bartender clocks me immediately. He’s got tattoos crawling up his neck and a stare like he’s seen it all and hated most of it.

“What’ll it be?”

I scan the menu, trying not to look at the shots called things like ‘Cherry Bomb’ or ‘Broken Jaw.’ Best to go with something expensive and hard to pronounce. “Uh… the Ardbeg Twenty-Five. Neat.”

His eyebrows jump, either surprised at my taste or at the fact I can pronounce it. He pours it, slides it to me, and then goes back to pretending I don’t exist, which is a relief.

I nurse the drink. Holy shit, that’s strong. Burns all the way down, but at least it burns out the nerves gnawing at my stomach. I keep my back straight and my eyes on the mirror behind the bar, watching the circus with as much detachment as I can muster.

This club is crazy. Bikers with arms like tree trunks, women in barely-there dresses doing tequila shots, and somewhere out there, my boss is probably getting into something way over his head and capabilities.

Fuck. If there’s anywhere on earth more out-of-my-league than this place, I haven’t heard of it. I’m just picturing Mr. Hender-slime getting himself killed or blackmailed by a guy with a neck tattoo when I realize I’ve officially been abandoned. Unbelievable. I’m left alone to marinate in the sleaze while my “boss” goes off to hump someone’s leg for a networking opportunity.

Cool, Eden. Totally fine. I drain half the glass in one go. Oh, damn. That’s enough fire to burn through my internal organs, but at least my boobs aren’t bugging me quite as much. There’s a woman next to me, all legs and cleavage, doing tequila shots with a dude who looks like he only blinks when he’s killing people. I avert my eyes and try not to stare, but the mirror behind the bar makes it impossible.

Great. Now I’m people watching at the MC version of Studio 54 and trying to look invisible.

No one bothers me at first. My guess is, the dress says “target,” but the resting bitch face and hunched posture say “not worth the effort.” I can live with that.

It gets old real fast, pretending I’m part of the scenery, but anything’s better than getting pawed by Henderson or groped by the steroid brigade in this expensive hellhole. I check my phone for the time, realize my “boss” has been MIA for nearly twenty minutes, and finally accept the truth that he’s not coming back. That absolute dickhead. Why bring me here if you plan on abandoning me? Oh well, trying to figure out why Hender-slime does shit isn’t worth my time.