by Meghan March
The offer sounds seductive, especially coming from those full lips on that dangerously attractive face. But is it too good to be true? And what is that accent? It has a Southern twang, but it’s almost undetectable.
I swallow another lump in my throat. His accent doesn’t matter. Getting out of here alive does.
I lift my chin and stare him down, because that seems to be working best. And it’s no hardship to stare at the man. Jesus Christ. I’ve never seen such harsh splendor in my life.
Stop thinking about that and focus on getting the hell out of here, my inner voice snaps.
“How do I know this isn’t some kind of trick?”
His expression doesn’t change at all. It’s like his face is carved into the side of a mountain and completely devoid of emotion. Except . . . there’s a nearly imperceptible flex of his jaw from side to side.
“You don’t know it isn’t. But you’ll listen to me anyway.”
The words carry so much power, I can practically feel it envelop me. I want to sink into one of the leather chairs and wrap my arms around myself protectively. No, not into a chair. I want to back away from his foreboding presence and all the chaos it has unleashed on my system and run straight for the door. Except there’s the other man in the room who somehow managed to kidnap me while I was jogging home from a photo op. Yeah, probably not getting too far past him.
Instead, I clutch one thing no one can ever take from me—my bravado. “Then talk. I have a rather busy evening planned, and it won’t take long for someone to notice I’m gone.”
Mom would be proud of my haughty tone and subtle threat. She taught me that confidence is the most important accessory you can ever wear, and even if you’re not truly feeling it, you have a duty to fake it.
I just wish she were still here to tell me that in person. The pang of loss shoots through me as I stare down my adversary.
His jaw flexes again, and I wonder if that means I’ve annoyed him. Not smart, Scarlett.
He rakes those piercing blue eyes over me as if he’s trying to drill beneath the expertly applied makeup on my face—not by me, but my stylist—for the shoot. Well, it was expertly applied before the rug incident. But I don’t really give a single shit about my appearance right now. It won’t do me much good if I’m dead.
“She’s got some balls on her.” This comes from the guy off to my left. His accent is thicker, and that drawl is unmistakably from somewhere in the Deep South.
A big brindle dog lies on the floor at his side, and holy Jesus. It looks like it could eat me. Thankfully, it doesn’t move.
“Shut up, Bump,” the man in front of me says, his gaze spearing me.
Bump? What the hell kind of name is Bump? I can’t help but wonder, but the question disappears as soon as the blue-eyed devil in front of me nods to the chair.
“Sit and listen.”
I want to object to being spoken to like a dog, but I decide silence is the better part of valor right now. As soon as my butt hits the leather, he opens his mouth to tell me exactly how I can save myself.
Four
Legend
She stares up at me from a leather chair that Zoe, one of my employees, picked out when we were decorating the club. After my first few selections, Zoe decided I couldn’t be trusted not to make the place look like a French whorehouse. She was probably right. Class and I don’t exactly run in the same circles.
They say you can’t buy taste, and they’re fucking right. But you can learn it. One piece at a time. But the woman in front of me doesn’t need to learn a damn thing about what looks good and what doesn’t.
Her mother was a high-fashion model whose name even I recognized when I read the article. Hell, I think every teenage boy used to dream about her while they jacked off. She was right up there with Cindy Crawford and Christie Brinkley, back in the day. The entire country mourned when she passed away about five years ago.
Even though Scarlett is noticeably shorter than her mother and definitely not runway height, there’s no mistaking the resemblance. She has the same trademark blond hair, stormy gray eyes, and curves that’ll never go out of style.
She’s the kind of woman I would never cross paths with before opening Legend. And now she’s one of the best shots I have to save it. If I can’t pump some life back into this club, I’m going to lose every goddamned thing I’ve worked for my entire life. Every penny I have—and a shit ton of money that’s not even mine—is on the line, because I thought there was no way I could fail.
And I won’t. Because she’s going to fix it all.
If I believed in a benevolent God, this is where I’d start praying. But he’s never been all that kind to me, so I’m used to being in the trenches and doing all the work myself. Except this time, my best isn’t good enough. I need something else. Or someone else. I need Scarlett Priest, and I hate needing anyone.
So here we fucking go.
I lean back on the edge of my desk and cross my arms over my chest. “People follow you. Go where you tell them to go. Buy what you tell them to buy.”
Her eyes narrow. “So?”
“This is Legend.”
She blinks when I say the name of the nightclub, like it doesn’t mean anything to her. Fuck. If that’s the case, my whole goal—making sure every person in New York knows about Legend—missed the mark.
“Legend? Like . . . the new club that just opened? And . . . closed?” She tilts her head to the side as she carefully says that last part, which might as well be a sucker punch to the gut.
I guess I didn’t miss my mark after all. I demolished it.
“It’s not closed,” I say from between clenched teeth.
Her chin lifts, and the crinkle of her brow signals unmistakable curiosity. I guess that’s preferable to sheer terror, especially if it helps get her on board.
“Wasn’t there some kind of shooting? Everyone assumed the place went under immediately after. That’s pretty major, after all.”
Bump decides to open his mouth again when he should be shutting the fuck up. “Grand opening night. Someone decided to mess things up for Gabe. But we’re not closing. That’s why you’re here, lady. You’re going to fix it and bring the people back.”
I count to three and try for a deep breath, but the kid is severing the last thread of my patience.
“Bump. Outside.” I snap out the order, and the closest thing I have to a little brother shoots me a shitty glance that no one else could get away with.
“But—”
When he starts to protest, I shut him up with a slicing glare.
The scrawny kid I’ve known most of my life creeps toward the door and slinks out before closing it silently. He’ll be waiting with his ear pressed against the crack, trying to overhear everything like a six-year-old, but hopefully he’ll keep his mouth shut until I get Scarlett Priest to agree to what might be the ballsiest proposal I’ve ever made.
When my attention goes back to the woman sitting with her hands folded neatly in her lap, I can’t help but marvel at the calm she wraps over her fear. She wears self-possession like a shield.
I had no idea that could be attractive, but damn me if it’s not.
She’s not wasting the opportunity to study me either. Her gaze rakes over me like I’m one of the tigers behind the bars of the Bronx Zoo. Fear lingers there, even though she puts on a good front. She’s not stupid. That’s for sure.
While I’m choosing my next words, she opens her mouth and dives right in.
“You want me to use my influence to bring people back to your club, don’t you?”
Brass fucking balls on this one.
I lift my chin. “That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“By appointment only. Not kidnapping.” Her jaw tilts up, like she’s ready to argue the point, and fuck me, but I want to see her riled up.
Stop, Gabe. Fucking quit. Twenty-five to life. That’s what’s on the line here. Remember it and get your shit together.
“Consi
der this your appointment, Scarlett. Unless you can’t do it. Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.” I add the taunt out of instinct. I have a feeling the duchess of Manhattan doesn’t like to be doubted. Her ego probably can’t handle it.
As her lips purse into a pout, I block out the thought of how fucking good they’d feel on my cock. Ha. Right. Doesn’t matter. Fifth Avenue and a New Jersey transplant from a trailer park in Mississippi don’t exactly mix. Besides, I can find a willing woman any time of the day or night. That’s never been a hardship. However, none of them could fix what Scarlett Priest can.
She sits up straighter in the chair. “I told you, I’m even better. I just don’t normally do this particular sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” I’m damn close to offering her anything she wants just for her word that she’ll try. I’m fucking desperate, and it’s a feeling I hate.
“The get kidnapped, and in exchange for not dying, save someone’s business thing. So, forgive me if I’m on shaky ground, because this is all new to me.” The sound of her skin sliding across the leather zings through the electric air as she crosses her legs.
Stop fucking staring at her legs, man. That pussy might be gold-plated, but it’s not for you.
I shift, leaning more weight against the edge of my heavy wooden desk. I have to choose my words carefully. I need her fucking help, so I go for the one thing that I think will gain her compliance.
“The alternative is what you should be worried about. This is a cakewalk job for you. Do what I need, and you never see me again. Not even in your fucking nightmares.”
She bites down on her bottom lip again, and I want to tug it free.
Goddammit, she shouldn’t be allowed to do that. She’s a whole new level of off-limits. The kind I can’t even think about touching. No matter what.
The rest of me doesn’t get the memo, and my body tenses when she leans forward.
“What’s a successful outcome to you then? I need to know before I can give you an honest answer about whether or not it’s possible.” Her hands separate, and her perfectly manicured fingers wrap around the wooden ends of the chair’s arms as she explains. “If your club is on life support, waiting for someone to pull the plug, it could be beyond my help. And I’m not going to work my tail off to try to save it just to have you off me at the end because I couldn’t do the impossible.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her we’re not the mob, we don’t off women, and that Bump has never kidnapped anyone before, but was just trying to help. I can’t tell her that it’s really not his fault his higher mental functioning isn’t all there anymore. Because that’s just more evidence that’ll get us both locked up.
If anyone takes the blame for what happened to Bump, it’s me. Which is why I keep my mouth shut and let Scarlett Priest think the worst. I have to protect him—even when I want to fucking kill him for getting us both into this mess.
Except it’s not really his mess. It’s my mess, and I’m going to fix it. So I shoot straight with her.
“I need to make my payments to people who loaned me money, or they have the right to take everything I own to satisfy the debt. A successful outcome is me making those payments and them not taking my shit. You come once a week—on Saturday nights—and bring your friends, take your selfies, post that you’re here. Get people in the doors so I can make some money and do what I need to do.”
“Once a week?” Her voice rises as her eyes widen. “Anyone who follows me will realize that something’s up. I don’t ever go to the same place every week. Every other Saturday night at most, and no more than three or four times.”
She uncrosses and re-crosses her fucking porcelain legs again, and it takes everything I have to fight against the blood leaving my head and going straight to my dick.
Is she really bargaining with me?
Bump was right. She’s got balls on her. Then again, one thing I learned the hard way is to know your worth. Scarlett Priest clearly knows what she brings to the table, and I’m impressed, especially because she thinks she’s negotiating for a hell of a lot more.
I decide to meet her in the middle.
“Two Saturdays in a row, and then every other. You keep coming until I say you’re done.” I hold out my hand to her. “We got a deal?”
She draws in a breath and holds it for a few beats before releasing it. It’s that same controlled, Zen-type shit that I used in my previous life to keep myself from snapping before a big fight. It also tells me that I’m about to get exactly what I want.
Thank fuck.
Which means I may apologize to Bump.
Maybe.
Five
Scarlett
The knuckles of the hand reaching out to me are scarred, like Gabriel Legend has had to fight his way through life. He’s menacing, raw, and otherworldly. Every move he makes, from the way he leans on his desk to the way he offers his hand, is precise, efficient, and carries the impression of leashed power. The men who run in my circles only wish they could have that kind of presence.
Although he never introduced himself to me, I knew exactly who he was the second he said the name of the club. Gabriel Legend has made quite a name for himself over the last few years.
My hair and makeup artist, Kelsey, is always full of the hottest and most forbidden gossip about what’s happening in the city. And Kelsey’s brother, Jon Pak, was a big fan of the illegal club that Mr. Legend used to run. Jon went to Urban Legend to drink and watch the fights, both in and out of the ring, and was always telling Kelsey no when she asked to go with him. “Too dangerous,” he said. “Not a place for girls like you.”
And then Jon got pissed when the club closed without warning. One night while people were waiting in line, a man came out and said, “Doors aren’t opening tonight or ever again. A new Legend is coming. That’s where you’ll want to be, if you can even get in. You won’t want to miss it.”
A couple of months later, rumors about the new, expensive club—and its owner—were all over town. Legend.
“Do we have a deal?” he asks, repeating himself.
I snap back to the present, meeting that sharp, icy gaze. “Do I have any other choice?”
“You always have a choice, Scarlett. Whether you like your options or not.”
My hackles rise as I stand, because it’s such a bullshit statement. Even if he’s technically right.
I could tell him to go fuck himself and risk the consequences. There’s a chance he won’t kill me. He probably doesn’t want to end up in prison for the rest of his life. Then again, they’d have to find my body and know what happened to me to put him behind bars. Do I really want to risk pissing him off, when I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t even take half the strength in his rangy body to end me?
No. I don’t.
I’ve barely begun to accomplish the things on my vision board. I’m not dying today.
In that moment, I make my choice. I’ll consider saving Legend to be a challenge—and I never back down from a challenge.
I slide my palm into his calloused grip. Another shock of connection sparks through me as I squeeze and shake his hand like I do this with people who threaten me every day.
My voice sounds more confident than I feel when I say, “Fine. We have a deal.”
“Good.” His grasp is tight and firm, and he lets go almost as soon as I agree. Like he can’t stand to touch me for a single second longer than he has to in order to seal the deal. He pulls back quickly, like I burned him.
Nice to know he doesn’t want to touch me. Guess I’m safe in that respect.
I should be thrilled with the discovery, but for some reason, the voice in my head sounds like she’s about to get into a snit about it. I shut her up. She’s clearly confused from getting knocked out, because there’s no way in hell I want Gabriel Legend to want to touch me. Right?
But, still, I jump a little in the chair when he barks, “Get back in here, Bump.”
The door fli
es open and Bump, the man responsible for me knowing what it’s like to be wrapped up in a rug, comes bounding into the office.
“I told you it would work!” He gives off the vibe of a kid hopped up on a mountain of sugar as he practically bounces on his toes.
Legend doesn’t acknowledge his statement. “Where’s Q?”
“Meeting. Zoe wouldn’t let me interrupt.”
Bump’s response calls forth a scowl that deepens the lines around Mr. Legend’s mouth. I don’t know who Q is, but clearly, he or she is important.
“Fine. Walk her out. Put her in a cab. Don’t say another fucking word until you’re back in my office. Got it?”
“Got it, Gabe,” Bump replies as he turns to me with a bright-eyed smile and waves me toward the door.
I grab my phone and earbuds off the floor and sneak one last look at Gabriel Legend as he seats himself behind his desk, his attention already consumed by the stack of papers and laptop in front of him. Before I walk out of his office, he makes it completely clear that he’s already forgotten about my presence.
It’s a foreign concept to me, and my ego doesn’t like it one damned bit.
The insult of him not saying good-bye, or even I’ll kill you if you don’t show up Saturday night perches on my shoulder as Bump leads me through hallways and then into a cavernous room that reminds me of a Greek or Roman temple. It’s dominated by soaring ceilings, massive columns, and translucent white silk drapery hanging from the corners that swoop across the open space.
The effect is impressive, even while empty. I can imagine the club filled with people dancing as they sip champagne or hold court on the large round daises tucked along the sides. A balcony with heavy balustrades runs all the way around the room. I imagine that’s the VIP section, up above, where people like me could watch the crowd but not get crushed by it.
I point up. “How many VIP lounges are there?”
Bump stops and turns to face me, his gaze following my finger upward. His lips move from side to side, and I remember Legend told him not to speak. My money says he can’t not reply.