by Meghan March
“Lots. I don’t go up there, though. I like to be close to the music.”
While his answer isn’t helpful in the least, I pause and count the separate areas I can make out from the main floor. My best guess is that there are somewhere in the neighborhood of a dozen separated VIP sitting areas, and if Legend is smart, they’d each have their own servers and security. Maybe even a separate entrance and exit, so if someone wants to avoid being seen, they can. At least, that’s what I’d do if it were my club.
“Thanks, Bump,” I whisper as he keeps walking. My brain is already working out a plan. “I’m going to need two of them Saturday, and then four the next time I come. After that, I’ll need the whole floor.”
Bump snorts a laugh. “All of them? Yeah, right. That didn’t even happen opening night before the bullets started flying.”
I spin around and scan the plasterwork and the columns. “I don’t see any bullet holes.”
Another snort-laugh. “It’s been two months. You think Gabe would let it go two fucking days without having everything fixed? Not a chance. So many guys were here after the cops left. They fixed it all like new.”
I can picture Legend marshalling the troops like a general when it came to fixing his club. It had to have been the ultimate insult. I can’t imagine the rage he kept banked while he put his club back to rights.
Seriously, the man should come with a blinking red light above his head and a warning sign that reads danger: approach with caution.
“They did a good job,” I mumble as I spin back around toward the exit.
“They spun around like you,” Bump says, watching my every move.
“What do you mean?” I ask, torn between wanting to get out of this building and wanting to know every single thing about Gabriel Legend and his club that I can learn. Purely to help save his club, of course.
My inner voice pipes up. Yeah, you don’t believe that either.
“The gawkers. They’re the only ones who’ve come since. They wanted to see carnage. But there was nothing. So they left. Then we were screwed until I got you.”
Listening to this man talk about kidnapping me so casually should freak me the hell out, but it doesn’t. My system must be seriously jacked up now.
Bump keeps rambling as we move toward the exit, like he can’t handle silence, but I don’t mind. Honestly, I’m glad he’s not following his boss’s orders, because I’m learning vital information that’ll help me set the stage for Legend’s comeback. After all, who doesn’t love a good comeback story?
If I can pull it off.
The hint of self-doubt creeps in, but I silence it.
Not if. When I pull it off.
As soon as Bump opens one of the massive steel front doors, I’m blinded by the sunlight, even though it’s waning. For a second, I feel as discombobulated as Cinderella running from Prince Charming before the clock finished chiming at midnight.
Except I’m not Cinderella, and Gabriel Legend is no Prince Charming. In a fairy tale, he’d be the villain.
A breeze catches the messy tendrils of my hair, sending a raft of shivers across my bare skin.
He’s a villain, Scarlett. You only agreed because you had no other safe choice. But even then, I know I’m lying to myself.
I agreed because I want to see Gabriel Legend again, and I’m not ready to deal with the implications of that particular realization.
I stride to the curb, forgetting about Bump, and fling my hand into the air to summon a taxi. I have to get the hell out of here. Right now, before I make any other bad decisions.
Bump snags my wrist and yanks it down. “Gabe said I put you in a cab. I’ll get it.”
He releases me to put two fingers in his mouth and unleashes a shrill whistle. A yellow car signals to change lanes and approaches.
Hurry. Hurry. I chant in my head as urgency takes over. I have to get out of here. I scrub my hands up and down my arms, chafing the skin to bring some warmth back into it.
I’m only wearing my tank and leggings from the staged jog past one of my clients’ new boutiques. Jordy was supposed to get photos of me to post on social media to help get more people into the boutique.
Oh my God. I freeze as the thought hits me. They’re going to wonder what happened to me. Shit-buckets. What am I going to tell them? What if Jordy didn’t get the shot? I can’t go back like this.
The cab stops at the curb, and I dart toward it, reaching for the door handle.
“Wait a minute,” Bump says, grabbing my wrist again.
I whip around to look at him. His thin face has light brown whiskers and is that of a full-grown man, but there’s something very childlike about his tone and actions. I’m not sure what Bump’s story is, especially with the strip of hair missing on the side of his head, but I have a feeling it’s a colorful one.
“What?”
All lightness and humor drains away, leaving behind the man that kidnapped me. The chills are back, and they don’t have a damn thing to do with the breeze whipping through the city.
“You don’t talk about this. Not to anyone. You understand?”
“Bump—” I say his name as I tug at my wrist, but there’s nothing childlike about his grip. It carries the power of a full-grown man.
“No. You listen. Gabe is my brother. You hurt him or hurt the club, and I hurt you. You get me, lady?”
Whatever naivete his tone carried before, it’s gone. His threat is delivered with the ice of a hardened killer. At least, until his lips tilt into a lopsided smile.
“Plus, I think I could like you, and I don’t really wanna hurt a girl. So don’t make me. ’Kay?”
I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth as the hair on my arms stands on end. There’s something even more menacing about him when he says it with a smile.
I opt for firm and confident with my response. “We’re clear, Bump. Make sure the VIP sections are ready for me. Tell your brother I’ll be in Saturday night.”
He grins huge and nods three times. “See you later, Scarlett. Be safe.”
I open the back door of the cab and slide inside. Only then do I release the breath I was holding. I give my address to the driver and drop my head against the seat.
Jesus Christ. What in the actual fuck have I gotten myself into this time?
I stare down at the phone in my hand.
Two new texts. One missed call. Dozens of social media notifications. And yet . . . not a single message from Jordy, the photographer who should have noticed that I got freaking kidnapped, or anyone wondering what happened to me.
When everyone is staring at a screen, I guess it’s true that no one notices what’s happening in the real world.
Six
Legend
The magazine mocks me from the corner of my desk. I only read the first couple of pages of the article before I went off to Q, my best friend of fifteen years and second in command, about how we needed this girl—or someone like her—to come to Legend and bring all their friends with them, or else we’d be fucked within a month.
Exactly the same conversation Bump overheard that caused him to fuck up my entire world. What the fuck was he thinking, kidnapping her?
Fuck me. Q is never going to let me live this down. He’s the one who told me recklessness couldn’t fix this, and we’d have to be patient and smart.
But I’m still more comfortable with recklessness than patience, and look where that got me.
Fuck.
The T-shirt I’m wearing feels too fucking tight around the neck as I look at the clock. Fifteen minutes. That’s what I figure I’ve got before Q’s meeting is done.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I reach for the magazine again. I flip past the cover quickly, because I don’t need to stare into her perfect face any longer than I have to. Scarlett Priest is shit hot, but I don’t care. I can’t care.
It’s one of my tricks—blocking out all emotion. It goes right along with never getting close to anyone new. I keep my circle sma
ll for a reason, and I’m not expanding it for anyone. Especially not for a woman who would cross the street to avoid me if we were walking down the same sidewalk at night.
I don’t want a steady woman in my life, anyway. I don’t care if that means I’m stuck spending the rest of my days getting by with hookups and booty calls. It works for me. Caring about someone is the fucking trap of all traps, and one I’ll never get sucked into again.
Flipping to the first page of the article, I skim past the part about her fashion-icon mother and the House of Scarlett brand Lourdes Priest created and sold before she passed away from cancer five years ago. That shit sucks, and I feel bad for Scarlett, which makes me move to the next section even faster.
And then I wish I hadn’t. There’s a picture of Scarlett and her boyfriend.
My fingers clench into a fist, crumpling the paper. I should tear the damn page out. That tool is a fucking douchebag. I don’t have to read a single word about him to know I’m right. The generic smirk he wears as he wraps his arm around her says it all.
She’s his cash cow. His golden fucking ticket. I wonder if she realizes—
No. No, I don’t wonder. Because it’s not important to me.
I sit up straighter in my chair and stare down at Chadwick LaSalle Jr.’s face. He looks like the hedge fund type, but a quick scan of the caption says he’s a VP of the pharmaceutical company owned by Scarlett’s father, Lawrence Priest.
Yep. She’s definitely his golden ticket.
I bet they went to Yale or Harvard together and partied like entitled rich kids do.
Meanwhile, I got my GED when I was twenty-four and made my money with my fists, fighting for my fucking life, before I made enough to start my first club. I couldn’t get a liquor license, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me. Instead, I paid off the right people, and I was on my way.
Money talks. Something I’m sure Chadwick LaSalle Jr. is well aware of. Fucking douche.
I slap the magazine shut and shove it aside.
That piece of shit doesn’t matter. What matters is saving my club.
Because another thing I learned is that when you’re making all your money illegally, everyone wants a piece of it. I thought I’d be untouchable running my underground club, but I wasn’t. I was exposed as fuck. I made a promise a long time ago to get out of that life, and I’ll keep it, even if it fucking kills me. I will be totally legit, and nothing, not even a fucking shooting during my grand opening night, is going to stop me.
Except, now I have to do what I hate—depend on someone else to rescue me from the hole I’ve dug. And that someone is Scarlett Priest.
I saw the fear in her eyes in my office. That’s not something you can hide from a junkyard dog like me.
But it doesn’t matter. Fear is good. I hope she holds on to it.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, and it opens before I can say enter. Only two people are brave enough to do that, and one of them is the man standing before me.
Marcus Quinterro, also known as Q.
In his tailored suit and slicked-back hair, the Puerto Rican looks every bit the club owner, which is good, because I don’t fit that mold. From where I sit, it’s hard to believe Q was raised in a scrapyard across the river in Jersey, and narrowly avoided getting locked up for grand theft auto when he decided chopping cars was better money. I can’t imagine how bad Mama and Pop Q had to have thrashed him for that. His three older sisters too.
“What’d I miss?” he asks with a questioning expression. “Because you don’t look right, man.”
Q knows me better than anyone, even Bump, who I’ve actually known longer. But given Bump’s limitations, he’ll never be able to read me like Q can. Which fucking sucks, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Bump is what he is, and that’s not changing.
Q’s going to be fucking pissed, though, when he hears what went down. Might as well just tell him.
“You missed Bump trying to be a hero.”
Q stops in midstride. “Jesus, fuck, what’d the kid do now?”
I pick up the magazine on my desk and fling it at him. He catches it, his brows diving together in confusion.
“Instead of bringing the rug straight back from the cleaners, he kidnapped Scarlett Priest, wrapped her up in it, drove her back here in the van, and dropped her on my office floor.”
The color leaches from Q’s olive-toned skin. “Please tell me that’s a fucking joke, even though you don’t know how to joke.”
“She just left.”
Q looks around the room, like he’s afraid he’s being punk’d. “Where are the cops then? Do we need our passports and the cash? I’ve got a list of places we can go. No extradition.”
That’s how you know someone’s a true friend. They’re ready to flee the country on a moment’s notice. And to countries with no extradition treaties, no less. Q is the real deal.
“Hold on to the passports and cash for now. She’s going to help us . . . I think.”
Q jerks his head back as he strides toward my desk. “You think? What the fuck does that mean? Did you actually let her walk out of here with no surveillance, so we have no warning if she calls the cops? We’ll be in cuffs before we can even get to the fucking airport.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “I followed my gut and got her to agree to help get people in the doors of the club, starting Saturday. I don’t want to go to prison any more than you do. What other choice did I really fucking have? You think I should’ve killed her?”
Q drops into the chair Scarlett sat in only twenty minutes ago, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fuck me. This is bad, Gabe. Really fucking bad. We have to hack her phone. Watch her calls and texts. Fuck, we need someone to tail her. I have someone I can call.”
I think about the woman who marched out of here like she owned the place, pretending her pristine feathers hadn’t been ruffled.
Do we need to follow her? The immediate yes isn’t coming from my gut. It’s coming from my dick. Because for some reason, it wants another reason to see her again. Soon.
Fucking idiot. She’s not for you, buddy. Not a chance in hell.
“She was scared shitless. I don’t think she’ll talk,” I say to Q, and watch as his features rearrange in an expression that I can read easily—and it’s telling me I’m a fucking dumbass for taking this risk. He might be right. Only time will tell.
“Scared shitless means she’ll talk,” Q says, jamming a hand through his hair. “Unless you went all Godfather on her and pretended like we’re the mob and threatened her.”
My shoulders rise and fall in a quick shrug. “Something like that.”
“I don’t trust it, man. I’ll get someone. He’ll be discreet. Just for a couple days. When the hell is she coming back to allegedly save our asses, anyway?”
“Saturday,” I reply, straightening in my chair and trying to keep anything out of my voice that might make me sound eager for the wrong reasons. As in, any reason that doesn’t strictly have to do with Legend coming back from the brink of extinction.
Q looks down at his phone, already tapping out a message on the screen. “I’ll be praying this works. Fuck, I might have Ma get her prayer circle on it. We need all the fucking help we can get. Otherwise . . .”
My head drops back against the padded leather of my chair. “I know. You don’t need to spell it out for me. I know what’s on the line. More than anyone.”
My best friend lifts his head and shoots a glance at me. “I know you do, Gabe. That’s why we’re not taking any chances. I’m on damage control, and you keep tabs on Bump, so this shit never happens again.”
“You know he didn’t know any better,” I say quietly. “He was just trying to help.”
“Yeah, and he might land all our asses in prison. Think on that, and I’ll catch you later. Pop’s got his poker game tonight, so Zoe’s taking point here. If you’re done before ten, come over. Otherwise, it’ll be old Puerto Rican men taking all my money.”
And that’s Q in a nutshell. Capable even when pissed, and a fucking good friend. When you’ve got someone like him at your side, even a white-trash kid like me can climb out of the gutter.
“I might see you there.”
He nods, and we both know that under normal circumstances, if the club were doing what it’s supposed to be, I’d be working until four. But given the minimal number of people who will likely show up tonight, there’s nothing Zoe can’t handle.
Q gives me a chin jerk and leaves me alone with my thoughts in my office.
Fuck. This isn’t how today was supposed to go. Not one damn bit.
I lean back in my chair and grip the wooden knobs at the end of the padded arms. Zoe said the chair was perfect for conveying power and prestige. Which means right about now, I feel like I’ve got no claim to be sitting in it.
I had plans, big plans, and they were all leading to this. Every sacrifice I made. Every meal I missed to stash the cash instead. Every punch I took in the ring. Every mouthful of blood I spit out. It was all for this.
My dream. I huff out what is supposed to be a laugh, but I can’t even fake humor under these circumstances.
Guys like me aren’t supposed to have dreams. We’re supposed to be living hand to mouth, scraping rock bottom, pretending we’re gangsters until we catch a bullet with our name on it. That’s the life I was born into. The life I nearly died with. Instead, I got free of it. Left my bad decisions and the people who’d just as soon shoot me as shake my hand behind in Mississippi after that bitch Hurricane Katrina tore my life apart.
I thought getting out of Biloxi meant I’d be someone else, and hell, I am. I left my last name there to die and became Gabriel Legend—first on the streets of Jersey, and then in the ring.
I release my punishing grip on the chair and stand. I know exactly what the hell I need tonight—to go back to the gym and remember who the fuck I am.
Because Gabriel Legend doesn’t let anyone take something from him without a fight.
When I whistle, my baby girl, Roux, comes trotting into the office with her brindle coat shining under the lights. She comes over to me and rubs her massive Cane Corso head against my leg.
