Ansel let it drop. “So, not a boyfriend then. Why the hell is he so pissed to see you here?”
Hop unzipped his boots as a distraction. He’d take any excuse to avoid their eyes when he confessed. “Roland Lockwood.”
“We’ll need a little more, sugar.” Tam knelt to help.
With one deep breath, Hop looked up. If he could face down Rafe’s vehemence, he was certainly brave enough to confront his friends with the truth.
“My father is Roland Lockwood, the billionaire, New York royalty, Rafe’s mentor and biggest investor.”
Silence dropped like a closing curtain while Hop watched his news sink in.
“Sorry, but you just blew my mind.” Ansel leaned against the makeup counter.
“You’re a billionaire?” Z asked.
Hop couldn’t stop the sarcastic snort as he tossed his leather pieces to the floor. “No. My father is. I’m a bastard, the product of a premarital affair. He wants nothing to do with me.” It was an understatement, but he couldn’t explain everything his father had done to ensure Hop was never heard and never seen. Completely invisible.
Worse, nonexistent.
Understanding dawned in his friends’ faces. Hop ducked his head as he took off his stockings, avoiding their pity.
No matter how he’d rebelled, no matter what he did to get attention, his father had ignored him.
Rafe was there, though. Rafe had been the one to see Hop at his lowest. Rafe had been the one to shout. Rafe had taken care of everything. Rafe cleaned up the mess.
Rafe.
The guy who’d kept him away from his own father. The obstacle Hop had never gotten around was still blocking his path.
It wasn’t Roland’s attention he sought now, though.
Hop just wanted to dance.
* * *
Rafe took a moment in the restroom to splash water on his face.
As much as he wanted to say fuck it and cancel the rest of the auditions or leave it in Mark’s capable hands, he was an adult and such irresponsibility wasn’t his style. It was one thing to have a moment of weakness and allow emotions to override his better judgment, it was another to give in to the tightening in his stomach and wallow in old fears.
The past was the past for a reason. Seven years ago, he’d made a decision and changed his life forever. Because of Hopkins. What he was fighting for now stemmed from that one moment.
Hopkins had a way of turning Rafe’s world upside down, and he’d come too far and worked too hard getting to this point. Emotions wouldn’t muddle things this time. He’d grown out of his sentimentality and had found focus in business.
He ignored his friend’s curious stare as he took his seat again.
“Thanks for waiting.” Rafe’s voice came out gruffer than he’d intended, but he kept his face relaxed as if he was perfectly at ease when, in fact, he was anything but.
His mind raced, his guts twisted, his fucking palms wouldn’t stop itching. His fingers ached, fucking ached with remembered heat.
Why had Hopkins’s skin been so fucking soft? Why had the guy smelled so fucking good—yes, sweet like sugar. Just like he’d suspected.
Damn it.
When had he grown out his hair, colored it? When had he started wearing makeup? How the hell had he learned to dance like that? Where had he been? What had he been doing?
Endless questions wormed inside Rafe’s brain and nothing could dig them out.
He barely paid attention to the rest of the acts, but clapped when Mark clapped and kept his usual aloof air around him like a shield. There was a thick tension in the club, even the performers seemed to know something big had gone down. They were skittish enough that Mark eventually elbowed him.
“Stop glaring or leave, you’re freaking people out.”
“I’m not glaring.”
Mark scoffed. “What I wouldn’t give for a mirror right now. Christ, Rafe, you look like you’re going to tear everyone a new asshole and I’m not speaking figuratively. I don’t know why Hop’s presence ticked you off or how you know each other, but your attitude isn’t putting the talent at ease. They keep making ridiculous mistakes, have you even noticed?”
He hadn’t. Rafe pressed his lips together, doing his best to calm down.
“Seriously, man, are you okay?” Mark’s tone changed completely, now he sounded concerned, which pissed Rafe off.
“Fuck off, I’m fine.” Rafe straightened and blew out a breath as the next act came out. He tried to smile, but from Mark’s snort he guessed he’d failed miserably.
It took them another hour to get through all the auditions. By the time they were finished, Rafe had a good idea who’d be performing for Prince the next day. It’d be a good presentation.
But not great.
The Sassy Boyz would have made them unbeatable.
Fucking Hopkins.
He had to show up out of nowhere when Rafe was on the verge of getting out from under his debt once and for all. He’d worked so hard, saved everything he earned for the past three years, and now all he needed was one last big push. He could wait. He could keep biding his time, squirreling away whatever he could spare, but he was so sick of the manipulation. He was so tired of always looking over his shoulders, waiting for the metaphorical blade to put an end to his fight. Prince was his best chance at finding an end quickly and permanently.
After exploring so many other opportunities and having them all disappear inexplicably, he couldn’t afford to lose sight of his goals this time. He definitely couldn’t afford even a single moment of forgetting who he was up against.
And having Hop at Switch? It’d be tempting fate with a flashing arrow above his head and a sign that read Kick Me. He’d been right to fire them.
He had.
There was no other option.
Back in the office, Rafe stared at his reflection in the mirrored ceiling. He looked like shit.
The weight of everything pressed down on him. It felt like a massive elephant sat on his chest. The emotional burdens were worse than the financial. Those he was used to. He’d been living the high-pressure life of wealth and privilege since he was fourteen. With Roland’s guidance, he’d earned his first million before he’d graduated college. Too young to know just how treacherous that gilded world could be, he’d lost it all before the year was out. All he had to show for that first hard lesson was his apartment.
After that, he’d been smarter, but he’d still made bad investments and lost small fortunes until he’d finally poured everything he had into Switch.
He should be grateful for all that Lockwood had done for him since his father passed away. And he was. But a greater part of Rafe wished he’d never met the man.
Without him you’d never have gone to college, Rafe Lucas Marson.
His father’s voice echoed in Rafe’s mind, a ghostly reminder to stop complaining—even silently.
But Rafe didn’t agree. He would’ve found a way. Even with the sudden responsibility of having to take care of his family, of being the sole earner for his mother and three siblings, he could have done it. He had the determination and the skills to be somebody. He might have made it on his own.
But he’d taken the gift without considering who he was tying himself to or how deeply he’d become entrenched. By the time he realized, it’d been too late to back out. At that point he’d been obligated to do Lockwood’s bidding without question.
His first and most important duty had been controlling Lockwood’s reckless firstborn and keeping him out of the headlines. So Hopkins being at his club, dancing at his club like that? No. It couldn’t happen. After Rafe had lied to keep Hopkins and his mother in comfort, they needed to stay as far away from each other as possible. Otherwise, both of their lives could be ruined.
Rafe closed his eyes, but visions of pastel hair and heels twirl
ed in his memory. Jesus, the guy could move though. He’d never seen anyone so graceful in heels.
A knock on his office door brought him back to himself and he straightened as Mark entered.
“Don’t bite my head off,” his friend said.
“Depends, what’s up?”
Mark placed a list in front of him. “Those are my recommendations.”
Top of the list: The Sassy Boyz.
Rafe sighed.
Chapter Six
“I’m confused, Mr. Marson.” Parker Prince tilted his blond head. His posture was relaxed, with one ankle on his knee and arms spread wide along the back of the couch.
They were in Rafe’s office after the presentation. They’d watched a dozen performances and sat through a long description of exactly what Switch and company would provide for the big event. Rafe had spent many long days working on the details, calling in favors, and setting up headlining acts. He’d spent many sleepless nights brainstorming the branding and organizing the marketing until it was just right. Hell, the budget had taken three full days. Throwing a party as big as the Prince launch meant dealing with major expenses and they were not always refundable.
To say he was not operating at full capacity would be an understatement. He needed to close this deal, spend some time at the condo with Dalia, and get some fucking rest.
“About what?” He took a sip of water and wished it was coffee or something with kick.
“Why you’re not trying your best to impress me. Don’t you want to host my party? I’d thought you understood what I needed.”
“I do,” Rafe gritted out.
“Then why aren’t you giving it to me?”
“I thought I had. Aren’t you happy with the presentation? The theme? The budget?”
Prince waved a hand. “Where is the androgynous group I saw when I visited last? I was sure I’d see them here today. I thought you were a smart businessman, but if you can’t even understand how perfect they were, maybe I was wrong.”
Rafe clenched the bottle in his fist until he heard the crunch of plastic. “They no longer work at the club.”
Prince hummed under his breath and met Gigi’s gaze with raised eyebrows. She sat next to Prince, a tablet and pen in hand. “That’s a shame,” Prince said. “Which club have they gone to? Perhaps their new location would be a better fit for my celebration.”
Rafe’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t have the self-control to temper his reactions like usual. “You’re serious?”
“I am.” Like it shouldn’t even be a question.
“They’re just a dance group. We have a dozen dancers. Take your pick.”
Prince’s lips thinned and he shook his head. “A damn shame. I hate being wrong about people, but you had me believing you knew how to deliver hot, fresh, and fierce. All your talk about pushing the boundaries and apparently, you don’t recognize uniqueness when it’s right in front of you.” He lowered his leg like he was about to stand.
“Wait.” Rafe sucked in a breath and moved to the edge of his seat. “I’ll get them back.” He met Prince’s eyes. “Sign with me and you’ll have them.” Whatever he had to do, he’d make sure of it. He was willing to do anything to sign the Prince party because the alternative meant continued servitude or selling shares of his club, and neither of those options were worth thinking about.
“While I admire a man of resolve, not everything is under your control,” Prince said.
“I’ll take that as a challenge.”
Prince tilted his head, studying Rafe. “Watch out, Mr. Marson. There’s a fine line between determination and desperation. The latter puts a bad taste in my mouth.”
Rafe gritted his teeth but stayed silent.
Prince leaned back. “But I like you, so I’ll give you one chance.”
“Okay,” Rafe said. One chance was all he needed.
“We’ll need proof, of course, before any contracts are signed.” This came from Gigi. She scribbled something on her tablet. “A special performance?”
“Great idea. Like an early dress rehearsal.”
“I, uh, I can’t close the club—”
Another wave of Prince’s jeweled hand. “No need. We’ll use the VIP section only. It’ll provide enough privacy for a small group of friends. By the way, what do they call themselves?”
Rafe’s blue Hugo Boss dress shirt morphed into a straitjacket. “The Sassy Boyz,” he said through clenched teeth. If Prince found them before Rafe could get them back, they could potentially blow this for him. He’d have to work fast.
He didn’t even know where to start and he was already dreading Mark’s know-it-all expression when he confessed the details of this meeting.
Oblivious to Rafe’s thoughts, Prince chuckled. “I love it. That’s perfect.” He clapped his hands together in delight. “So apropos, don’t you think? Those boys must be very clever.”
Oh, Prince had no idea.
* * *
“This better be good, I was about to get my dick sucked.”
Rafe cleared his throat and clutched the phone tighter. “Uh, Mr. Becke?”
“It’s Ansel. Who are you?”
“Rafe Marson, the owner of Switch.”
Click.
“Hello?”
No answer.
“Well, hell,” Rafe said to himself, staring at the phone. He couldn’t remember the last time someone hung up on him. He pressed redial but this time Ansel didn’t bother answering.
With a frustrated grunt, Rafe stood and began pacing his office. His head pounded. He pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose and blew out a breath.
How could it all depend on a group of dancers?
On Hopkins.
How had his life come to this?
He’d known convincing them was going to be a pain in the ass, but he hadn’t expected to be ignored.
A knock sounded on his office door before Mark popped his head inside. “Is it safe?”
“No, get out unless you have good news for me.”
Mark came in and shut the door behind him. “No luck yet?”
“He fucking hung up on me.”
Mark actually grinned, the bastard. “Which one?”
“Mr. Becke, he’s the leader, right?” Rafe glanced at the contact sheet which had been attached to their contract. Ansel Becke’s name was at the top of the list.
“Unofficial, but yeah. If you can’t win him over, you’ve got no chance in hell.”
Rafe scowled.
“Good luck?” There was a bit of humor in Mark’s voice which Rafe did not appreciate. At. All.
“Did you come here to gloat?”
“Maybe, a little.”
“Fuck you,” Rafe said without anger, too worn out to be angry at his friend. Especially since Mark was right—he’d let his paranoia get the best of him and now he was paying the price.
“Okay, okay, sorry. I actually wanted to let you know I’ve managed to fill the schedule until Wednesday.”
Four days. “And after that?”
Mark shrugged. “We might have to hire more talent or extend some contracts.”
“Or?”
“Maybe forget the extras a few days a week.” And become like every other nightclub in NYC.
Mark didn’t say the rest, but he didn’t have to. The extra acts were what made Switch special, exciting. Without them, they’d be nothing more than a place to get drunk and dance to overplayed pop music.
“We’re not lowering our standards.”
Mark nodded once like he’d expected that answer. “Want me to start holding auditions?”
Rafe eyed the list in front of him. Tameron Kis, the choreographer, was next. “No.” He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello?” Tameron sounded out of breath.
> “Mr. Kis, this is Rafe Marson. Please don’t hang up.”
“Why would I hang up?”
“I’m Rafe Marson, the owner of Switch.”
“So you said.”
Rafe met Mark’s eyes across the room and silently told him everything would be fine. Mark shot him a thumbs-up and left.
“I’m calling to ask you back,” Rafe said.
Silence.
Rafe tapped his pen. “Mr. Kis?”
No reply.
Rafe looked at the display of his phone, but the line was still connected.
When he put it back to his ear he heard Tameron say, “On count five the left hand goes wham. Keep it sharp. Got it? No, Karen, your wrist needs to be straight.”
A moment later music played. There was a rustle, a crash, and then the line went dead.
Grinding his teeth, Rafe called back. Tameron picked up on the fifth ring.
Before Rafe could get a word out Tameron said, “Sorry, Mr. Marson, I’m in the middle of class. About your request, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you. Have a great day.” The last bit was dripping with sarcasm.
Rafe pushed away from his desk with a curse. He entered the next number.
“You’ve reached Z, make it quick.”
“Mr. Hayes, this is Rafe Marson, I’m calling to ask your group to come back to Switch.”
Z snorted. Fucking snorted. “Mr. Marson? Fuck off. You think we’re so desperate we’ll say oh thank you, sir. Whatever you want, sir. Please. You fucked up. We don’t need you.”
Gritting his teeth, he tried the next number on the list.
“Jae speaking.”
“Mr. Kim, this is Rafe Marson, the owner—”
“Sorry, no English.” Click.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” Rafe barely held himself back from throwing his phone across the room.
There was only one more number left. Hopkins was his last chance. Wasn’t that ironic? How many times had he whisked Hopkins out of trouble, brandishing the Lockwood name? And here he was, needing help from the one person who’d only ever given him grief.
Mad & Marvelous Page 4
