by Meghan March
There’s something wildly different about being on a crusade to save someone else’s business, compared to attempting to become successful myself without drawing the judgment and censure of my peers.
This feels pure. Noble. Exciting.
I’m sure Legend doesn’t see me as a badass riding to the rescue, but that’s too bad. That’s exactly how I feel.
At least, until I see the man I presume is my self-defense instructor.
Oh. My. Giants.
The man in front of me is around six-four and a wall of muscle. He’s not as bulky as a bodybuilder, but he’s got muscles on top of muscles that I can’t begin to name.
“You Scarlett Priest?”
I nod because words aren’t coming easily in the face of this terrifying man.
“You’re on time. Good. Let’s get started.”
Oh. Shit.
He waves me forward, and out of instinct, I hold out a hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Black. Are you sure this is a beginner-level class? I’m not sure what Christine told you, but . . .”
He doesn’t reach for my hand to shake it, so I let it drop to my side.
“She made it worth my while, and that’s why you’re here. By the time we’re done, you’ll be able to disable just about anyone, and maybe kill a few people. You ready?”
Hell. This should be interesting.
When I plop onto my bed at ten, I’m sore in places I’m not sure I’ve ever been sore, but I do now know a half dozen ways to disable people and two ways to kill them, so that’s new and different.
As I scroll through my social media feed, I see a comment from a troll that my team hasn’t already caught, so I tap on the profile and look at the cat picture. It’s definitely a stock photo or stolen, because the owner of a fluffy Ragdoll wouldn’t really say that I should put my head in an oven and turn it on. Would she? Or he?
I don’t know, but I screenshot it, delete it, and send the photo to the police detective who has my file, along with a note that there’s a new profile. Then I navigate away from my page to see if my favorite families have any new photos of their messy lives, because I am not going to YouTube yet. Not for at least twenty more minutes.
That’s when a message pops up on the top of my screen from RouxDoggo. I would have ignored it, but the dog looked familiar.
Wait. Is that the dog from Gabriel Legend’s office? Brindle. Big. Looks like it could eat me?
I tap on the message.
* * *
RouxDoggo: Whatever you need, it’s yours. I’ll see you tomorrow.
* * *
Oh. My. God. Is that . . . Could it be . . .
I tap on the profile and find an account with no followers and only one post, a photo of a dog smiling up at the camera as a big hand scratches her ears.
I may not recognize his hand by sight, but I’m willing to bet it’s his. I tap out a reply.
* * *
Scarlett: Zoe has it all covered, but thank you. You’ll definitely see me tomorrow. The question is—will I see you?
* * *
Because the app shows you if and when someone sees your message, I wait and stare at the screen like a teenage girl, hoping my crush will reply.
He doesn’t. But that doesn’t change a damn thing.
I fall asleep with Legend’s name on my lips and wake up with him on my mind.
Why I’m fixated on him, I can’t explain. Maybe because he lives in the shadows, while I live in the limelight. Maybe because his was the first face I saw when I rolled out of that rug, and instead of terrifying me, he captivated me. Maybe because my life is all too orderly and scripted, and his seems dangerous and exotic.
Regardless, I haven’t felt this alive in years, and I want more of that feeling.
Which means, I’m ready to put my war paint on and go save his damn club.
Twenty-Five
Legend
If I look at the clock even one more time, I’m going to break it.
Friday night, the club started rocking like it already had new blood pumping through its veins. When I asked Q what the hell was going on, he handed me his phone, which showed NYCelebSightings and a picture of the woman I can’t get out of my head walking into the club that morning.
It took everything I had not to yank the phone from his grip and zoom in on her blue-and-white dress and the smile on her face. God. I bet she’s even more beautiful when she laughs.
Stop it, asshole. You can’t have her. Stop thinking about her laugh, her smile, her fucking lips, face, and everything else. My orders to myself didn’t do a damn bit of good to get the thoughts out of my head, but thankfully Q couldn’t read my mind.
“Just wait until she’s here with her crew, Gabe. You’re not getting in the ring again. This is going to work. She’s going to make it work. Bump might have risked us all going to prison, but the kid might just have saved our asses too.”
We made a profit Friday night. All because of Scarlett, who wasn’t even here.
Maybe Q was right. Maybe it will work.
I glance at the clock one more time, before I lose patience with myself. Five thirty. Only a few more hours.
“Come on, Roux. We’re going for a walk, baby girl.”
As soon as I say her name, Roux’s head lifts from her bed in the corner, and a thought slams into my brain.
I messaged her as Roux yesterday. Fuck. What if she responded?
I don’t normally use those social media apps because I don’t give a fuck about being social. Plus, I’ve tried to keep my face low profile because I’m not ready to be found by the person who has wanted me dead for fifteen years. Not ready to be found yet, I silently correct myself.
Moses Buford Gaspard’s time is coming. One way or another, I won’t leave this world without putting him in the ground first. For what he took from me. For what he did to Bump.
He’s living on borrowed time.
Just like I am if he gets to me first.
All thoughts of Moses slip from my mind when I see the message from Scarlett.
* * *
ScarlettPriestOfficial: Zoe has it all covered, but thank you. You’ll definitely see me tomorrow. The question is—will I see you?
* * *
I can practically see her in front of me right now. That’s how fucking obsessed I am with this woman, even though I shouldn’t be. I’ve got her burned into my memory like she’s meant to be there.
Fuck.
I want to reply. More than anything, I want to tell her that she won’t be leaving this club without me stealing her away from her friends, sneaking her through the hidden exit, and making sure she can’t stop thinking about me the way I can’t stop thinking about her.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
And I won’t.
Scarlett Priest is not for me. I need to get that fact through my thick fucking head. I shove my phone in my pocket, grab Roux’s leash, and walk to the door.
Maybe the six-mile loop we take around the city will be enough to get her off my mind. Probably not. That would take a walk all the way home to Biloxi and back.
The gym, it is. Because nothing but a punishing workout could take my mind off the woman who has taken up permanent residence in it. Maybe, just maybe, if I’m exhausted, my brain will give up these ridiculous fucking ideas. I’m too old to believe in fairy tales.
Scarlett Priest will come, hopefully save my club, and then she’ll go home to her fucking boyfriend. That’s just how it’s going to be.
“Come on, Roux. Let’s go beat the shit out of the heavy bag and get you some treats.”
Twenty-Six
Scarlett
“You look amazing.”
Monroe squeals as I walk out of the bedroom and into the living room of my apartment.
“Like, holy shitballs, if I were a dude, I’d be trying to bang you up against a wall in a dark corner of the club. I wouldn’t care who saw, though, because I’d have my dick so deep in the
hottest bitch I’ve ever seen.”
Harlow interjects. “Actually, if you were a dude who was into banging girls in clubs, you’d probably want someone to see, because presumably, you’d get off on that kind of thing. And Scar can totally do it now that she’s broken up with Chadwick-the-dick!”
His name is a jarring reminder of the strange, yet exciting and invigorating turn my life has taken in the past few days.
I’m not Good Scarlett with the perfect life and boyfriend tonight.
No, because first off, I blocked his number like any normal person would do after a breakup. Secondly, I haven’t thought about him much at all, and I have zero regrets. All of which confirms I made the right choice.
Tonight, I’m just a girl who’s going to go do something a little bit crazy and, hopefully, help someone who needs it. Maybe not Good Scarlett, but not exactly Bad Scarlett either. Tonight, I’m New Scarlett.
“That means my job here is done,” Kelsey says, unhooking the belt around her waist that holds the pouch with all her makeup brushes. “You have passed the Mar-Low test.”
Mar-Low is what she calls Monroe and Harlow when they’re together and drunk. Which they shouldn’t be already, but Kelsey and I took longer than planned. I glance at the antique gilt-edged mirror hanging above the sideboard and smile into the aged glass.
“You’re always amazing, Kels. But tonight, you killed it. I look smokin’ hot.”
“Of course you do. That’s my job. Now, let’s get to the club so those paps I tipped off have something to photograph. Except, wait. Hold it right there. That downlight is incredible. I need a pic for social media or it doesn’t count, right?”
I hold still and look down, to the side, and then coyly at her from under my lashes while she snaps photos.
We’re not even out the door when she turns around and smiles at me. “Posted. And now everyone knows that my girl is headed to Legend, soon to be the hottest club in town.”
Harlow and Monroe throw their arms into the air and do a victory dance they probably learned from watching sports with their husbands. “Let’s do this, girls!”
Thirty-five minutes later, we’re rolling up to a club that doesn’t exactly have a line out front, but there is a small group of people milling around the two dark-suited men at the doors.
Inside the black Range Rover, Kelsey smiles at me and squeezes my hand. “You ready for this? Because you’re about to make the biggest statement you’ve made outside Curated in a long time.”
I let the wrap slip off my shoulders to reveal my vintage House of Scarlett dress—in my mother’s signature color, red.
Red isn’t normally my color, but tonight, I felt the need to go bold. Even Kelsey was surprised when I laid it out on the bed and asked for a statement lip in the exact same shade.
“I’m ready.”
“Then let’s do this, girl.” She shoots a text to Harlow and Monroe, who are in the matching Range Rover behind us—for the sole purpose of making a statement entrance—and let them know that it’s go time.
I let the driver open the door like it’s a red-carpet event, because that’s what I’ve been trained to do. With a strut that would make my runway-model mother proud, I stride toward two gentlemen manning the door. The click of heels on the sidewalk behind me tells me Kelsey and the girls are coming too.
That’s when the flashes from the cameras start.
“Scarlett, why Legend? Why now?” one paparazzo calls out.
I turn and give him a blinding smile. “Haven’t you heard? It’s the hottest scene in town.”
“Aren’t you afraid of a repeat of the grand opening? You wearing body armor under that dress?”
I pause and wait a beat before I throw my head back in laughter. “Are you kidding me? I couldn’t be safer here if I had Gabriel Legend guarding me himself.”
The woman with the camera beside him, who has been silent until now, finally speaks up.
“Is that why you’re here, Scarlett? For Legend himself? Because rumor has it you stopped in yesterday for a quick chat with the man. I can’t blame you; he’s fine as hell.”
Her question nearly takes my breath away. It’s like she knows something that I haven’t yet admitted to myself. Am I really just here for him?
Bad Scarlett pipes up. Duh, Scarlett. You want him to hold you down like he did that guy in the cage. Remember? It was that fight that had you screaming his name while you came. Let’s go get some of that. Stat.
Well, hell. That’s an unexpected revelation. And an awkwardly timed one as well.
When I don’t answer immediately, a grin breaks out over the woman’s face. “Nice, Ms. Priest. Can’t blame you.”
“Scarlett? Let’s head inside.” Kelsey’s fingers close around my arm, and her touch breaks me free from my thoughts. Thankfully, Harlow and Monroe are right behind us, posing for the paps and giving them even more material for Page Six.
Now . . . if they’ll only post it quickly so all of Manhattan knows exactly where the party’s at tonight. Legend.
As soon as we’re in the door, Kelsey pauses and looks at me. “Are you okay? Because I’m pretty sure you just handed them the biggest story of the year by letting them think that you’re here to bag Gabriel Legend. What the hell was that, Scar?”
“Ladies, welcome.”
Zoe’s voice comes over the music, which I didn’t even notice before because I was so shocked by Kelsey’s question. She also saves me from having to come up with an explanation for something I can’t explain.
Did I just put it out there to the world that I want this man? It wouldn’t be a lie. But that’s not something I would normally do. Not the perfectly polite Scarlett Priest.
Except I just did.
“Let me show you to the VIP area so you can get comfortable,” Zoe says, holding out an arm to direct us to the marble stairs that lead to the second-level balcony where we talked yesterday.
Instead of following her, I look out at the dance floor, which isn’t empty like I expected. There’s actually a crowd of about thirty people. Plus, the bars on either side have a few people sitting and standing at them, waiting for drinks or knocking them back. Every single one of them is watching us.
Kelsey pulls me along behind Zoe as we head for the stairs, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the corners of the room. I’m looking for him in the shadows. I can’t help it.
Maybe the pap was right. Maybe that’s exactly why I’m here.
To see Gabriel Legend.
As soon as we reach the lounge area with leather sofas and marble tables, our server greets us with a large bottle of Cristal.
“I hope you’re ready for a wonderful night, ladies. My name is Astra, and I will take excellent care of you.”
“Yes! Let’s get our drink on! I’m ready to party!”
Monroe’s high-pitched squeal has to be heard by every single person in this club, because from over the railing, I can see them all staring up at us. So I do something I’ve never done before.
I reach for a glass, and as soon as it’s poured, I walk to the edge of the balcony and lean on the railing. With the champagne flute in the air, I toast everyone down below.
“Who’s ready to have fun tonight?”
Cheers fill the club. The DJ spins a sick beat, and more bodies pack the floor.
The girls crowd around me, raising their glasses high, and we all clink rims.
It’s. On.
Twenty-Seven
Legend
The woman in the red dress and red-slicked lips is a fucking goddess meant to dare men into tempting fate. I can’t take my eyes off her as she sips the most expensive champagne the club has ever not sold and sways to the music.
She’s been here for an hour, and both the club and VIP area are more crowded than they’ve been since the night we opened. The till is rocking as people throw down more and more money for drinks. The door counter keeps climbing as people pay their cover—$100 tonight—and they spill inside.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Q says from behind me in the corridor. “You should be out there. Thanking her for making a goddamned miracle happen. Fucking kissing her ass and begging her to do it again and again.”
Q doesn’t know he shouldn’t have said it, but a new image barrels through my brain, obliterating every other thought. Me dropping to my knees to lift the skirt of that red dress so I can do a hell of a lot more than kiss her ass.
“So?” Q gives me a curious look, and I glance at him.
“So, what?”
“Are you even listening to me, man? Because you look like you’re a million fucking miles away right now.”
Not a million miles away. Just a dozen or so feet, but it might as well be the other side of the planet. Some people are untouchable, no matter how close you get to them, and Scarlett Priest is one of them.
Even though she wants to see me. I haven’t forgotten her message. I just didn’t know how the hell to answer it.
“Nope, clearly not fucking listening.”
I tear my gaze off Scarlett Priest’s face. “I’m just as surprised as you are.”
Q huffs. “You were the one who had the idea. When you saw her picture on that magazine cover, something in you knew that this girl could change everything for us. This shit isn’t random, Gabe. This is the universe handing you a fucking gift, and you need to treat it with the respect it deserves.”
He’s right. She is a fucking gift, but not for me. For the club. For the investors. For the friends and family who believed in me enough to plunk down their hard-earned cash to get behind my dream. Except, part of me, the part I’ve silenced for years, pipes up. But what if she is meant for you?