Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I blow the bouncer a kiss and step inside.
My very first nightclub.
I expect the movie version. Red-rope fantasy, velvet shadows, and bartenders flipping bottles.
None of that is here.
It’s exactly what Crowe would build. Minimalist. Expensive. Black marble and gold accents. Soft lighting designed to flatter and conceal. Music engineered to vibrate bones without distorting thought. The air smells like citrus, smoke, and money.
Before I step out of the entryway, a security guard materializes.
“This way.” His dead tone matches his dead eyes and boring suit.
I follow him past the main bar, past a second bar tucked behind a half-wall, and around the dance floor pulsing with beautiful, sweaty bodies.
We veer toward the back, away from the noise, into corridors where the lighting dims, and past doors that look decorative.
A biometric scanner flashes green without the guard breaking stride.
The VIP lounge waits on the other side, filled with plush seating, muted sound, and one-way glass looking out on the club like it’s an exhibit. The people here aren’t dancing. They’re watching, talking low, and smiling like sharks.
Somewhere below this room, deeper still, Jag and Dove are waiting.
Adrian Crowe knows I’m here. He sits alone in the darkest corner of the lounge, a small pool of shadow carved out just for him. A table. One glass.
Half a dozen men in tailored suits stand guard around him, their arms close to their sides and jackets cut to hide intent, all of them armed.
My pulse races as I start toward him.
Until a straight arm snaps out across my chest, stopping me.
“Need to check you for weapons,” my escort says.
“By all means, frisk me.” Lifting my arms, palms out, I touch my tongue against the blade in my cheek. “Don’t rush.”
He does it quickly and professionally, head to shoulders, down my sides, hands firm and impersonal. He checks my waist, my thighs, my boots. Then his hand hits the vest.
Here we go.
“You need to open this.” His forehead creases.
“You do it, sugar.” I wink.
A flicker of irritation crosses his face, but duty wins. He fingers the seam, finds the release, and pulls.
The vest falls open.
“What the hell is that?” He reaches for his gun.
“A pacemaker.” I flutter my lashes. “Very temperamental.”
Weapons come up all at once, and the lounge starts to empty as security barks orders, and staff ushers out patrons.
My escort casts me a murderous glare.
“Whoopsie?” I widen my eyes an expression that promises nothing good.
Across the VIP lounge, the bodyguards rush Adrian Crowe toward a private exit.
Hope in motion. Adorable. I almost admire the optimism.
I set two fingers in my mouth and release a loud whistle, drawing their attention.
“I’ll level the place before you make it to that door.” I hold up my hand and point to the small switch on the underside of my rings. “If you shoot me, the bomb blows. If you piss me off, the bomb blows. If Mr. Crowe doesn’t return his ass to that chair, guess what?” I look at my sour-faced escort. “Tell them, baby doll.”
“The bomb blows,” he grumbles.
The weapons trained on me don’t matter. Everyone in the room knows my weapon is bigger.
Crowe studies my face, my inked smile, and the open vest. He swallows and lowers himself back into the chair.
I clock the one man at the bar who doesn’t move. He chews a toothpick like it owes him money. A wicked scar divides his face, and his eyes stay with me. No flinch. No rush. Just watching and measuring.
He takes his time standing, gives me a look that promises it won’t be the last, and follows the others out. As he passes through the door, the creepy smile he flings over his shoulder rivals mine.
I shake it off and cross the room.
Every step pulls a dozen guns with me, muzzles tracking, fingers on triggers, and breaths held.
I don’t rush. Rushing looks nervous.
At Crowe’s table, I hook a chair with my boot, drag it out slow enough to be annoying, and sit with a heavy sigh.
Up close, he’s exactly what the world pays for and consumes. Mid-sixties, physically fit in the curated way money buys, silver threaded neatly through dark hair. His smile is practiced, meant to reassure donors, clients, and anyone young enough to mistake charisma for kindness.
But his eyes won’t settle. They dart to the vest, to my hands, to the exits that won’t help him.
“The guns are making me twitchy.” I wriggle my thumb over the switch near my palm, close enough to be suggestive.
A ripple moves through the guards.
Crowe lifts one hand, palm down.
They pull back a step. Then another. Still close. Still armed. But no longer breathing down my neck.
Better.
“Wow.” I lean forward, elbows on the table, grin stretching psycho-wide. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Crowe blinks.
“I mean… You,” I gush, pitching it high and bright, all cracked enthusiasm. “I’ve never met a famous person. This is insane. Can we take a selfie? Because, you know, if there’s no photo, it never happened.”