“I . . . um,” I start to say, when I feel Luca's arm slip around my lower back. The soft material of my blouse pulls along the center under the weight of his grip.
"She's all good, man, but thanks." He smiles politely, gently guiding Becks and me through the aluminum doors.
I turn in time to see his brow furrow as he examines my outfit. The soft blue of his eyes is paler under the harsh glare of the entry hall lights.
Here we go.
I know that look. He hates it. I knew he would. The ivory blouse and silver sequined skirt, which Becks made me wear, barely reaches the top of my thighs. Hell, even I hate the idea of showing this much skin.
“Just say it,” I tell him.
“No. No, it’s just. . . y- you look. . . I—” A playful smirk presses his lips as he crosses his arms in front of him. “Look, you’re beautiful, Bree. I just think that next time you might remind Becks that she doesn’t need to be so good at dressing you. I feel like I need to give you my coat."
"God. . . you’re such a cliché, Luca. Brielle looks hot! Besides, all the naughty bits are covered!" Becks yells as she reaches back to grab my arm. I wriggle under her grip as she drags me behind her to an empty area nestled between the bar and the restrooms.
Inside the club, everything is alive with the color blue. The solid LED bar top that’s off to our right, which pulses between a mix of ice blue and a darker, midnight color. Even the light display playing over the dance floor is blue. I look at Luca, trying to gauge his reaction when I see the mammoth of brick walls, behind him. My eyes follow the wall, all the way to the top, trying to assess its height, when I see two extended levels of the club.
Holy crap.
This place is huge.
"Whoa. Hello, Haze." Becks lets out a laugh. She sweeps her eyes around the room as tightly packed bodies of college students, dance in groups along the floor. She wrinkles her brow down at her beige-colored dress and gently pats her lower region. "Looks like mama’s getting a new plaything tonight."
"Oh. Good. God," Luca chokes, his hands shooting up to cover his ears. The tips of his fingers push into his jet-black curls as he shakes his head.
“Oh no, don’t you start,” I say, feeling more like a referee than their best friend. Luca smiles brightly and pulls me to his side. The spicy smell of his cologne instantly works to calm my nerves.
"That’s okay, Bree. He doesn’t—oh. . .for fuck’s sake! You’ve got to be kidding me," Becks huffs, whipping around to face us as two figures lock eyes on the three of us and begin walking over. She swats Luca’s arm, but misses, hitting him squarely in the chest. “What the hell! You invited them?”
Them?
Luca shrugs, looking equally as confused. “Don’t look at me. Why would I invite—”
“Well, hello, handsome!" a girl exclaims, the neckline of her amber-colored dress, rising and falling at a rapid pace. She spins a lock of her red curls between her two fingers and licks her nude painted lips. "Isn’t this a surprise!"
“Um. . . Hi! I’m Brielle. . .” I say when neither Becks nor Luca speaks up.
The girl turns to look at me. Her tawny eyes are blazing as she says, “Penny” in a flat tone, then swivels back to Luca with a flip of her hair. She reaches out and places a hand on Luca forearm, the pads of her fingers digging into his skin, as she chirps, “Come. Come sit with us."
“Oh hell no, I’m not—”
“That sound’s. . .great, Penny. Thanks,” Luca finishes for Becks. He wards off another one of her attempts at hitting him, before he waves for the girl to lead the way.
“I. Hate. You,” Becks groans, shoving Luca’s arm when Penny’s a few feet ahead of us.
He motions for her to start walking. “Well, at least we can agree on that.”
We arrive at a lounge area, which is positioned directly next to a bar where a massive U-shaped, white leather couch sits. We round the side, when I notice two other girls and a guy busily tapping away on their phones. Trying not to give anyone a show, I tuck my dress tightly underneath me and sit down.
"So, did you see Wesley when you came in?" Penny yells straightaway. Her eyes lock on Luca as she leans into his side. The viselike grip she has on his arm grows tighter by the minute.
Um . . . am I’m missing something here? Is Luca seeing someone he didn’t tell me about? I shift in my seat, listening to the leather material squeak under the bare section of my thighs.
“Wesley who?” I ask, suddenly desperate for some sort of clarity. I look up and see Penny staring at me with a not so subtle look of surprise. "What? Is he the owner or something?"
"Not quite. Wesley’s the manager here, love," the guy sitting on the opposite side of Becks says—the one who was too preoccupied when we first arrived to be bothered to look up from his phone.
Pausing midtext, he lifts his eyes to lock with mine. Leaning forward, he lowers his phone. His English accent is the first thing I notice about him. The second is his hair. It’s short and black, much like Luca’s, only not as thick. The tips of his ends are perfectly spiked along the front.
He crosses one leg over the other, then stares at his watch. “I thought everyone knew Wesley.”
I shake my head when the name doesn’t ring a bell.
"So, Luc. I assume this is the lovely, uninformed creature you're always going on about," the guy Penny was walking with when she first saw us says. His short, red hair is combed viciously around his face, the distinctive highlights bringing out the tawny flakes in his eyes. "Damn, you’re a lot hotter than I expected."
"Ethan!" Penny frowns at him through thick lashes. Her expression becomes lax as she leans over Luca’s lap and whispers, "Just ignore him. I'm pretty sure he was dropped on his head when we were kids."
“Whatever. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed, sis.”
It’s then that I notice the obvious similarities between the two, and I mentally kicked myself for not realizing it before. They’re twins. Like Ethan, Penny’s hair is red, but tamer in the sense of the style. They both have the same tawny eyes and slender frame. In fact, the only difference I can find between the two is the shape of their noses. Where Penny’s is short and bubbled at the end—much like her personality from what I can tell so far—Ethan’s is the nose of an aristocrat, with a wide bridge that falls to a slightly curved tip.
Ah, crap.
It all makes sense now.
These are the annoying, rich twins from Becks and Luca’s history class—the ones Becks loathes more than guys who wear deep V-neck shirts, and people who bite their string cheese.
"Trust me, if Wesley was the owner, you wouldn’t want to meet him, sweets.” Ethan smiles, coolly. His bloodshot eyes are full of contempt as he picks at something on his cuticle. “That guy's a rich, unpredictable asshole who hates everyone but Wes." He leans back against the seat. His arms move to cross behind his head. “Well, Wes and pretty girls like you. But I wouldn’t mess with him. He’d ruin you.”
I turn my attention to the dance floor and purposefully ignore him. Seems like there’s plenty of rich assholes around here tonight. I arch my brow, hating the fact that he called me sweets.
"I don’t know," the girl sitting next to Ethan says. With her extended eyeliner and bright blue eyes, slender frame and slow movements, she reminds me of a cat.
Her black, shoulder-length hair is styled perfectly straight, sweeping over her collarbone every time she moves.
"I don’t care what he is. I'd sure as hell let him be mean to me for a few nights––if you know what I mean. The guy’s fucking hot!"
“Please." Penny laughs. She turns to her brother, and the two of them lock eyes, seeming to share the same thought.“Being easy, isn’t exactly an attractive trait, Hallie. Why would he ever waste his time on a night with you?”
Ethan pulls the girl onto his lap, laughing as he does. He clamps his hand down on her waist and nuzzles into her ear. “True. You’ve got my attention though,” he says.
Now that�
��s a disgusting thought.
“Gross!” I suppress a gag, feeling mildly offended for this girl.
When I sense Ethan’s eyes settle on me, I look up in time to watch him snatch his glass from the top of the table, toss the remaining of his drink back, as he mumbles something inaudible.
Whoops!
Did I just say that out loud?
On that note . . . "I think I’m going to walk around," I say. Sitting here is doing nothing to help ease my already rising nerves. In fact, it’s only making it worse.
Luca moves to follow, but I stop him. Not that I believe for a second that Penny has any intention of letting him go.
"I'm fine." I smile, silently wishing—not for the first time tonight—that I hadn’t let Becks talk me into coming. Economics is more bearable than these two.
chapter two
THEO
The last few weeks have been a fucking nightmare. The ice machine died. Twice. Half of the VIP furniture I order to replace the ones ruined by last week’s bar fight was delivered to the wrong address. And for some reason, our waitresses seem to think that I could actually give a fuck about their personal lives.
Why the hell do I care that Cameron’s boyfriend is a cheating, bastard? Or that Macie’s friend came down with the flu? As long as the guests are happy and I'm free to come and go as I please, that’s all I care about. I opened Haze to have a quiet place where I can handle my own shit. My real job. Privately.
In my environment where I control what happens. I didn’t open it to spend my time worrying over other people’s problems. I deal with enough problems as it is–mainly my father’s. Problems like (fuck) this girl!
I inhale a sharp breath as one of my dad’s current “problems” teeth drag along my neck. The action rips me from my thoughts. "Oh, sorry," her voice catches as she leans forward to push her chest in my face.
I roll my eyes and try to focus.
Damn, I almost forgot she was there.
"You’re good," I lie, trying not to sound like a complete asshole, since I plan on fucking this girl tonight.
She pushes me back against the seat and straddles me. Her mouth slowly works its way up to mine. I can tell that she's really into this by the way that she's practically panting on top of me, but I can't think about that. I shift against the seat and adjust myself. The uncomfortable way she’s practically choking my dick underneath her makes it hard for me to get into the mood.
"God, I want you so bad," she whispers, her hands sliding down to palm me through my jeans.
What the fuck did she just say?
I pull back and look at her. Her blonde hair and blue eyes, vaguely reminding me of someone I knew a long time ago, before I fucked up and ruined it all.
"Do you normally talk this much?" I ask. More so for the fact that, if she did, I would definitely need to invest in a good pair of earplugs down the road. That, or make sure to keep the music turned up loud enough to drown out the sound of her nasally ass voice. Nothing’s more unattractive than a chick who doesn’t know when to shut the hell up.
She obviously didn't see this for what it is—a transaction. It’s the type of business arrangement that only guys like our fathers make in order to cover up shady deals they don't want hashed out in the public eye. Well, the first half of our meeting had been about that. This . . . this is purely a distraction. A way for me to pass the time, since Wes is forcing me to stay to establish my “presence” within Haze as its owner.
Why? I don’t fucking know.
Everyone out there already knows who I am and who my father is. Shit, half of them are on his payroll. The not so secret, consigliere to the notorious crime boss of Dallas, Giovanni Russo. Guns. Drugs. Women. My father dabbles in it all. He’s been on the FBI watchlist for as long as I can remember. On top of that, he’s also the reigning leader on the ballot for shittiest father ever. I swear he only brought me into the business to keep me from turning him in—which I would have. Happily.
I squint my eyes when I see the curtain, shutting out the rest of the partygoers from our private space, shift, and Wes pops his head through it.
"Sorry to interrupt, but we have a situation out here."
Of course, we do.
How could we not when most of the guests consist of blue-collar criminals and their white-collared bosses? Throw in the alcohol we're shoveling out, and I'm surprised that it took this long for something to happen.
“Hurry back,” Katrina moans and rotates off my lap.
I tuck my dick up along the waist of my jeans and step out of the lounge.
"It’s Devon," Wes says the moment the curtain closes behind me. Pointing toward the dance floor, I follow his finger and see the crowd gathering around Devon and a short blonde.
I hum amused. Yup, they’re definitely readying themselves for a fight, which, with Devon, there’s always a pretty good chance of that. That bitch loves the adrenaline high, almost as much as I do.
“Okay. And?” I raise my brow, waiting to hear how this is my problem. Even without a gag for Katrina, anything is better than having to mess with the shits how that is Devon O’Brien. “Isn’t this why you hired those jugheads, you call “bouncers” for?"
"Really, man? We both know, you’re the only one who Devon will listen to when she’s like this," Wes says, motioning for me to hurry. “Please.”
Damn it.
He’s lucky we’re friends.If it were anyone else asking, I’d tell them promptly where they could shove it.
"Fuck. Fine." I shake my head, tossing him a look over my shoulder as I yell, “You owe me though!”
I'm halfway through the crowd, when I can hear the gentle tone of blonde girl's voice. It’s soothing and sweet, and in no way a match for someone hoping to hold their own against Devon. But the closer I get, I know there’s more to it than that. The voice is oddly familiar in a way that I can't put my finger on but am immediately drawn to.
I feel my hands curl into fists against my sides as I step into the circle.
"Is there a problem here?" I interject, and at the sight of me, all eyes drop.
Devon shoots me a glare from the far side of the circle, and even from where I’m standing, I can see that her eyes are wide and bloodshot. Great. She is drinking again.
The last time she found herself drowning at the end of a bottle she nearly killed herself, and me. But, hey, that’s an issue for a different day. I need to focus on getting blondie over here away from Devon before I have the fucking police at my back door.
Switching my focus to the short blonde standing in front of Devon, I take a few steps forward until I see her shoulders start to turn. The second I catch those green eyes I feel like I know better than my own, I freeze midstep.
What the. . .? Brielle?
I don’t believe it.
I allow my curiosity to get the better of me, as I step back and rake my eyes down her slender, petite frame. Damn. I should have come back sooner.
Unlike most people who know my reputation and fear me for it, Brielle doesn’t cower when I look at her. Rather, I watch as she openly does the same. I see her eyes hover on the tattoos that cover most of my arms and try not to laugh when I see how taken aback she seems to be by my appearance.
Wait a minute.
What the hell is Brielle even doing on this side of town?
Scanning the crowd, I look for an answer, but every eye stays pinned to the floor. I’m not sure what pisses me off more. The fact that, whoever the fuck she’s with is either too much of a coward to step up, or that she’s somehow found her way into this mess in the first place. I shake my head. She always did like to keep us on our toes. Her brother and me, I mean—mostly me. But who the fuck would be dumb enough to let her sneak off in a place like this?
Once more, I skate my eyes down the length of her as she fidgets, nervously, and pulls at the hem of her skirt. Damn it. Why the hell did it have to be her?
chapter three
BRIELLE
I bounce be
tween bodies like a pinball as I fight my way to the bar. Elbows jab into my sides, shoulders ram into my head. Just another one of the perks of being five foot two. I can almost see the top of the bartender’s head, when I feel a heel catch under my foot, sending me tumbling into the person in front of me.
"Hey, watch it, bitch!" a girl snarls, shoving me off with her arm. The smell of the whiskey on her breath hits me in waves. "The fuck is your problem?"
Bitch? Really?
I take a step back. Ever since we arrived, I feel like I’ve crossed over some invisible line and found myself in the middle of a Quentin Tarantino movie. I've heard more curse words than I do in a normal week—and I live with Becks—so, that's saying something.
"I'm so sorry," I say, watching her sway. The girl’s dark brown eyes are almost predator-like as she scowls down at me from hooded lids. "I tripped and—"
"You're sorry?"
The guy she’s with tries to pull her back while yelling all the ways that I’m not worth the energy.
Thanks?
But with a growl, his efforts are futile because she shoves his hands away, yelling, "You gotta be . . ." her words trail off into a garbled mess I can’t decipher.
I bite my lip. Crap.
This girl looks like she's the type of person who loves getting into fights. She has, what my father calls, “the look.” Blown-out eyes. Matted hair. The beaded, sweat-soaked forehead, and worn nails. She’s either high, or currently coming down from one. And by the smell of her breath, anything could set her off.
It's then that a voice breaks through the crowd—deep, rich, and strangely . . . familiar.
"Is there a problem here?" the voice asks, and at the sound of it, all eyes drop to the floor.
If I were smart, I’d fall in suit with everyone else around me, but instead I do the opposite. The lure of suspicion wins out over my better judgement as I turn and come face to face with its owner. The second our eyes meet, I have to lock my knees so that I don’t faint.
With You: With you, I am who I want to be. Page 2