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I’ve been trying to figure out the logistics of getting to all five of them at once for over a month. But after my last session with Dr. Fallon, I decided that hunting frat-boy pedos might be exactly the kind of group project Damiano and I needed.
Vesper wrangled an invite for Damiano by selling him to her contacts as exactly the kind of degenerate asshole these guys like. The catch is that nobody comes alone to a Wolf Pack party.
You bring a girl.
Enter: me, currently dressed like the world’s most morally corrupt sixteen-year-old in a dress made from approximately four square inches of fabric.
The party is upstairs in the private VIP room of a club two members of the Wolf Pack own, which neatly puts all five assholes in one place.
The plan is simple: get through whatever security they have, figure out how many girls are upstairs, and get them all the fuck out before we lock the doors behind them.
After that?
Group project time, baby.
A valet takes the G-wagon outside the “legit” club. Then, with me hanging off his arm, Damiano flashes the QR-code invite on his phone to one of the bouncers, who nods, lets us in, and escorts us to an elevator.
“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Fannybottom,” he nods stiffly as the doors ding shut.
Damiano scowls as I start to snicker.
“Tucker fucking Fannybottom?” he mutters through clenched teeth. “That’s what you and Vesper came up with?”
“Tucker Fannybottom the fourth,” I correct him with a grin before batting my eyes. “Why, whatever is the matter, dear?”
He shoots me a glare as he adjusts his tie.
…And yes, my brain short-circuits when I see the controlled little jerk of his fingers as he tightens the knot.
“The matter is I sound like a fucking dick,” he growls.
I wipe the grin off my face as the elevator jerks to a stop.
“Show time,” Damiano murmurs.
We step out into a small entryway, where two huge guys in dark suits give Damiano a quick pat down. I’m barely concealing my vagina in this dress, so I don’t warrant the same treatment.
After that, and after they scan Tucker’s invite code, we’re in.
Jesus Christ.
The place looks like a European nightclub fucked a vape shop and this is the wet spot left behind on the sheets.
Everything glows electric blue and EDM music pounds from hidden speakers. A fake digital fireplace flickers along one wall with freaking katana swords mounted above it, really tying together the whole “Sharper Image with a coke problem” aesthetic. White couches ring the perimeter, chrome stripper poles dot the open floor, and a backlit bar dominates the far side.
Basically, my personal fucking hell.
Eight of the most finance-bro fuckfaces ever to engage in fuck-facery are scattered around the room, grinning lecherously at shockingly young girls in tight club dresses.
My vision flickers as a clammy feeling wraps around my throat.
Darkness.
Stale cigarettes. Dank mold.
The laughter of unchecked power that gets off on cruelty.
A red night. A red room—
