Semblance

by Chris E. Saros

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Chris E. Saros

  Visit DSP Publications

  Copyright

  Semblance

  By Chris E. Saros

  Drake isn’t looking for justice. He’s not interested in doing what’s right. He’s after one thing and one thing only: revenge. That means taking down the Boredega drug cartel—and the shadowy, seemingly invincible man who heads it—even if he goes down with them.

  Drake plans to destroy the cartel from within, and he uses his nightclub, Semblance, as a front for money laundering and drug trafficking. He’s sacrificed almost everything to complete his mission, and just as he’s getting close, he’s derailed by flirtatious bartender Scotty, who offers Drake a glimpse of the happiness he’s missed by pursuing a personal vendetta. Scotty might be irresistible, but Drake has come too far to turn back now. He’ll have to find a way to keep Scotty safe, fend off persistent prostitute Natasha, feed tips to the authorities, and edge his way closer to the upper echelon of the cartel, where he can finally strike. He’ll need to do it all while keeping his intentions covert—and he’s not the only one at Semblance with secrets.

  Thank you to my family and friends who have always supported my ambitions. I love you all!

  Chapter 1

  DRAKE WALKED toward the back of the club and leaned against the smooth, cool, tiled wall. The crowd, though small compared to on the weekends, was still a moving, organic mass of limbs and gyrating bodies that smelled of sweat. Each flicker of the strobe light showed a new form, unique from the one before it. Squinting against the light, Drake tried to make out the individual people on the dance floor, but the chaotic rhythm of the lights didn’t make it easy to spot specific faces.

  Willy never had been one to blend in, so Drake figured if he was around, it wouldn’t be too hard pick him out. Willy seemed to think loud patterns were all the rage, no matter how much flack he took for it. Drake had to give him credit. The kid stuck to his guns, he would give him that.

  However, tonight people weren’t going to be giving Willy trouble over his lousy fashion sense. No, tonight the sharks were out, and they smelled his loud Hawaiian-clad blood.

  Drake thought Willy would have bolted or at least gone underground for a while after being picked up by the cops, but sources had told him the kid was heading back to the club. Willy had long ago made his bed. He’d gotten himself in deep with some of the smaller sharks in the city. When he couldn’t make good on his loans, he’d sought guidance from the larger predators in the pond.

  In this town, only the Boredega cartel could get you out of trouble and bury you alive at the same time. The poor kid should have stuck with the small fish, but instead he started dealing for Boredega to pay back his loans. The thing about being higher on the food chain is that in order to stay on the top rung, you had to be pretty fucking badass. Unfortunately for Willy, he didn’t have what it took to climb the ladder.

  “Hey, Boss Man,” a static-laden voice said in his ear. Drake put a finger to the radio so he could hear around the pounding bass from the DJ.

  Drake huffed at the nickname. He had tried to break Frankie of the habit, one, because Drake wasn’t his boss, he just happened to run the club, and two, because if anything, Frankie was his boss. However, no matter the argument, Frankie continued to use the endearment. Keeping up appearances was what he called it, making it so the club staff didn’t get confused. As if they would suddenly turn into a chaotic swarm if Frankie didn’t remind them who their boss was on a regular basis. Drake had fought the fight, but Frankie never backed down, and after a couple of years without there being any indication of change, Drake stopped making a deal of it. He’d sigh now and again, but he no longer commented on it.

  “Yeah, Frankie? You got eyes on Willy?”

  “Nah, maybe he grew a brain and decided to book it before Tony could find him.” Frankie was a born-and-raised Chicagoan, which was clear by his rough accent. When Drake had first met him, he had thought Frankie was trying to put one past him, imitating an old gangster film or something, but as he worked with him, he found that it was truly his speech.

  “Then why are you talking to me, Frankie?” Drake asked with a snort. He knew Willy wouldn’t be smart enough to leave while he was ahead. He was one of those young kids who thought he could do no wrong.

  “I thought you should know that I watched Natasha sashay her way into the club.”

  Drake pinched the bridge of his nose. It was Wednesday; why was everything going down on a fucking Wednesday? It was hump day, for God’s sake! It was like the night world’s day of rest.

  “Is she working?” Drake asked hopefully. Maybe if she were distracted, she’d be in and out without bothering him.

  “I didn’t see a john with her, but that don’t mean she ain’t got one.”

  Ugh, just what he needed, another problem. Somehow, Natasha always seemed to know when shit was going to hit the fan or when something important was going to happen because that was always when she showed up.

  “All right, thanks for letting me know. And hey, let me know if you catch sight of Willy.”

  “You got it, Boss Man,” Frankie said.

  Drake sighed. Well, today was already looking like it was going to be an interesting one. So much excitement wasn’t unusual at the club, but Drake always held out hope for a quiet evening. He’d had his fingers crossed and his hopes high, so he should have known better than to think the night would go off without a hitch.

  Breathing another sigh, he pushed away from the wall, making one last scan of the crowd, and then made his way to the bar. By the time he did a double tap on the counter, his notorious signal for get me a drink, quick, Scotty, the head bartender, already had his drink ready for him. Two fingers of scotch, neat.

  With a grateful smile, Drake took a long swallow, letting out a whoosh of breath with the sharp burn the liquid left on his tongue.

  “Rough night, already?” Scotty asked, popping the top off two beers for customers down the bar.

  “Huh, you could say that.”

  “I could pull the fire alarm and we could call it a night.”

  Drake snorted into his glass. “You have no idea how appealing that sounds right now.”

  Scotty threw him a smile as he seamlessly made two mixed drinks and handed them off to two scantily dressed women. They giggled as he winked at them, and threw a couple of dollars’ tip on the bar. Scotty nodded gratitude at them, sweeping the singles into his jar under the bar as he grabbed the top-shelf scotch to refill Drake’s glass.

  “Looks like you you’re doing well for a Wednesday night.” Drake gratefully took another sip of his scotch. He was going to nurse this one.

  Sure he was….

  “It’s all in the wink.”

  Yeah, the wink and the perfectly sculpted arms that moved flawlessly around the bottles on the bar, completing their designated tasks. Possibly even the washboard abs that threatened to pop o
ut of his snug white button-up. Or his sandy-blond hair that fell perfectly along his forehead enough to frame his sparkling golden eyes.

  Drake huffed into his glass, trying to shake himself out of it. Yes, the man was good-looking, but he was his employee and therefore off-limits.

  Didn’t mean he couldn’t watch, though, did it? Drake smirked to himself as he snuck another peek only to find Scotty back directly in front of him. Elbows on the table, Scotty leaned toward Drake, who felt his heart practically explode at the neared proximity. Just over half of the counter, Scotty dropped his chin onto his hands and batted his lashes at Drake. “It does help that I am absolutely adorable.”

  Drake coughed, trying to ignore the small tug in his stomach as Scotty flashed his goldenrod-brown eyes at him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he felt a familiar heat start to warm his blood. Mentally shaking it off, he grinned.

  “Yeah, a face only a mother could love.”

  “Then how do you explain the mountain of tips I made today?”

  “Everyone knows you can’t witness the freak show for free. I put a sign at the door.”

  Scotty grabbed his chest in mock pain. “Ouch. Okay, I concede on this one, but don’t expect such submission next time.”

  “Maybe submission is exactly what I want from you.”

  Drake practically choked on his own words. Where the hell had that come from? Thank God it was dark enough that the flush heating his face was most likely hidden.

  While the words had shocked Drake to his core, they didn’t seem to faze Scotty, who leaned back, observing Drake with a cocked brow. “Well, I do declare, Mr. Clane, was that an invitation?”

  “In your dreams, barkeep. Now, make yourself useful and get me a drink.”

  “And what pleasant dreams they are,” Scotty said dramatically, fanning his face with his hand.

  “I wasn’t kidding about that drink, Scotty!”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!” Scotty gave a mock salute, then went to put glasses away at the other end of the bar, blatantly ignoring Drake’s request.

  Scotty’s predictability tugged a smile to Drake’s lips. Scotty was the best damn bartender who had ever worked for Drake, but for some reason he always seemed to forget to refill Drake’s glass. It was probably a good thing. Drake would be the first to admit that he probably drank just a little too much, but when you were doing the things that he was doing, sometimes you needed a little bit of an inhibition blocker. Sometimes you needed more than a little.

  Drake propped his head onto one hand and spun his empty glass with the other as he watched Scotty confidently work his way around the bar. Scotty moved fluidly as he poured drinks and mixed cocktails; he smiled and winked, never missing a step between one patron and the next. And Drake couldn’t help but notice how perfect his ass looked in his tight dark jeans.

  Scotty laughed with one of the regulars, and Drake’s lips quirked. Scotty was all sunshine and roses. Thinking back, Drake had a hard time remembering an instance when he had seen Scotty angry. Even when he was overwhelmed and overworked, he still kept his smile on. The way he easily struck up conversations was an asset, and Drake couldn’t help but feel a little jealous at the ease with which Scotty flirted. Drake envied him his rose-colored glasses, glad that Scotty had been given a chance to still see the good, while Drake saw only darkness.

  That innocence—that happiness—was the reason Drake hired outside staff to work the club. Sure, he could always hire some of Boredega’s crew or bring his staff into the fold, but he didn’t. He kept the dark of the club as far from the light of his employees as possible. It may have been easier to only employ Boredega’s men, but even the darkest of corners needed some light for the shadows.

  Scotty’s full-throated laugh dragged Drake back to the present.

  Jesus! he thought, pulling his spine up straight. He hadn’t been drooling, had he? Shit. Drake shook his head at his ridiculous conduct, then quickly wiped his lips with the back of his hand, just in case.

  Still deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, Drake started when Scotty set a glass of scotch on the counter in front of him. Drake raised a brow at the unexpected offering. Scotty tilted his head, using his chin to point behind Drake subtly.

  “Incoming,” Scotty warned with a wink as he turned to make his rounds.

  Drake tensed at what was behind him. Shit, instead of sitting here daydreaming about his staff, he should have gone back to his office. Thinking quickly, Drake drained his glass in one gulp and moved to get up, possibly hide, when he felt a familiar hand caress his shoulder.

  “There you are!” Natasha’s high-pitched voice sent a chill down Drake’s spine. He closed his eyes, preparing himself before turning around to face the dark-haired beauty.

  She was exceptionally dressed this evening, which meant that she probably did have a john waiting for her somewhere around the club. But with Natasha, you never could guess. When sex was your business, you tended to forget that sometimes the store was closed.

  She was what Drake had considered a onetime deal, but apparently, she didn’t quite see it like that.

  Natasha was what you would call multifaceted. It was amazing how little attention people tended to pay the whore. Prostitutes were objects, a means to an end, which left some nice wide-open doors for Natasha. Open doors, drawers, safes, and closets full of secrets. She was beautiful and seemed so innocuous. It was what made her good at her job. Sure, she was a prostitute, but she also had some of the best information sex could buy.

  Drake had made the mistake of letting her get a little too close to him. He’d seen a young naive girl working the streets and had thought himself a knight in shining armor ready to save the damsel. Flaw with that was that the damsel had to want to be saved, and while Natasha did want to be saved, it wasn’t in the way that Drake had expected.

  He took it as a case of assumed identity. He’d assumed her innocent, and she had assumed him much more powerful than he actually was. It was a tale as old as time. Unfortunately, this story never seemed to end.

  “Natasha, what a pleasure,” Drake said darkly, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Natasha brushed back her black curls to reveal more of her corseted, very squished breasts. Her definition of flirting, Drake supposed. That’s what happens when you don’t have the personality to back up the goods. You flaunt yourself and hope it is good enough. While it made her good at her job, Drake had given up trying to tell her that when guys weren’t paying for the sex, they didn’t necessarily want to see the whole package all the time.

  Drake took a step back, leaning against the hard edge of the bar. “What brings you into the club on a quiet night like tonight?”

  Accentuating her lusty curves with a roll of her shoulder and practiced tilt of her hips, she smirked at him with painted, bloodthirsty lips.

  “A job.” She stuck out her bottom lip to make a pouty face. “But he left me here so he could go meet with someone in the back. I figured you could enjoy my company in the meantime.”

  Drake shook his head at her words with a sigh. If her client was in one of the back rooms, that meant he probably worked for Boredega in one form or another. In this town, it was hard to find people who didn’t work for Boredega in some way.

  “He dealing or using?” Drake asked.

  Natasha rolled her eyes. “He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. I try not to make a habit out of interrogating my clients before they fuck me.”

  “Cute,” Drake said, feeling a migraine start in his temple. He didn’t know why he was letting her stress him out. It wasn’t as if her line of work was a safe one. She sold her body, and she wasn’t picky about her clientele. She had also made it clear to Drake that if her clients bought her drugs, she wasn’t going to turn them down; she would simply raise the price. Something about it then becoming a “risk bonus.”

  “Aw, are you worried about little ole me, Drakeybo?” she asked, laying her body along Drake’s. She brushed her lips along his chin.r />
  Drake put a hand on each of her shoulders and pushed her back. “Hey now, you wouldn’t want your john to get the wrong impression, would you?” She frowned as she was moved back, but the expression didn’t last long before returning to its voluptuous sex goddess mask.

  “I don’t know, with his type, he might like it.”

  Drake snorted, turning back toward the bar for his empty glass. He looked for Scotty, but he was busy across the bar leaning against the counter and chatting with some young blonde sporting a low-cut shirt. Drake frowned as he spotted them and set his glass back on the counter with a sharp smack.

  “You haven’t seen or heard anything about Willy, have ya?” Drake asked, trying with difficulty to ignore the gnawing feeling in his stomach.

  Natasha, completely oblivious to Drake’s disinterest, pressed forward again, letting her curves mold to Drake’s side. “You know, my client said it would only be a few hours tonight. Maybe you could come on over after the club closes. I could really make it worth your night.” She ran her tongue along her full top lip.

  “Um, yeah, I don’t see that happening. I’m not into sloppy seconds.”

  The insult didn’t faze her. She let her hand rub its way down the front of Drake’s body, stopping at the top of his beltline.

  “I could tell my date to hang around, and we could really make a night of it.” The whispered words blew hot into his ear.

  Drake shook his head. He didn’t know why he had thought he could help her. She clearly didn’t want it. She seemed quite content and comfortable with the life she led.

  “That really didn’t make the offer any more appealing. I’ll pass, thanks. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You don’t know what you’ll be missing, Drake,” she said, swinging around so fast that her hair slapped him in his face.

  “Yeah, I think I do,” he muttered under his breath.

  Natasha made it about four steps before she turned around with a huge smile. She pointed a bloodred fingernail toward the dance floor and gave a “there you have it” shrug.