1. Tristan

ONE

Tristan

This is probably a stupid plan. Like most of my plans. Like everything I've ever done.

Damn it, no. This is gonna work, even if it takes time. It's not like I have anything else to do. It's not like anyone cares how I spend my time, or will even notice if I get myself killed. Cuz, yeah, I know that's how this is gonna end. I'm not actually stupid, no matter what my foster father said.

Fuck. Why am I still thinking about him? I'm twenty-six. That was a long time ago, and he's good and dead.

Right now, I need to focus. It's Friday night and Lush is packed. As packed as it gets anyway. This nightclub is so damn exclusive that "packed" means the leather couches and chairs are all occupied by the city's rich and stylish.

Saylor, Lush's manager, sticks a straw in the martini I just poured, plugs the end with a manicured nail, and tests the drink.

She's gorgeous, like everyone here. Heart-shaped face, thick dark hair spilling down her back, an outfit of leather and lace hugging her curves. But she is, fortunately, gay.

I don't know why I just said fortunately. It's not like I'd expect her to be into me. Maybe because, with her being gay, I don't feel like I'm supposed to be into her? We can just be people.

Her glossy lips quirk as she flicks the straw into the trash. "Not bad, Tristan. We might keep you."

My pathetic heart swells like that means something more than you're not fired . "I told you I could handle Fridays."

"Ha. You just wanted to watch Carmen shake her ass."

I smirk like Saylor expects, but I hadn't actually noticed the Latin pop singer beyond her awesome-fucking vocals. Setting the martini on the tray beside a bourbon that costs more than my electric bill, I glance across the room to the stage.

Lush has a sweet design. It's open. I can see everything from the slightly elevated bar. The staggered levels with little flights of steps, all the curved couches and short walls, make every spot feel like the spot to be. The stage curves under a mezzanine-level entrance that descends on either side, letting everyone make a grand entrance like frickin' Cinderella.

On the stage, Carmen sashays like she knows her business, putting the sequins glittering all over that tight red dress to good use under the golden lights. Why the hell didn't I notice those hips? What's wrong with me?

Trying not to think about it, I set into my practiced walk and take the drinks to the posh couple waiting for them. In my stolen clothes, using mannerisms copied from movies, no one knows I'm the kind of trash that has no business setting foot in this place.

When the owner Rafael hired me, he said I had "the right look." Yeah, no shit. I'd been perfecting it for three weeks.

My face helps with that. When I look in a mirror, I can see, objectively, that I'm good looking. As soon as I step away from my reflection and am back inside my own head, I feel like that fact vanishes. But whatever. It's part of what got me in the door. That, and the haircut. I guess it was worth paying for. Can't steal that, unfortunately, and no way was I attempting the fade cut with textured top.

With graceful hand movements, I deliver the drinks like I'm just one more part of the elegant atmosphere. They don't even notice me.

That's what I need. To go unnoticed. So I can watch. So I can listen.

Lush attracts a particular type of New York's rich and powerful. It's the blend of classy and sexy—and the very exclusive sex club downstairs. There are lots of dirty hands here, no matter how polished the nails are.

That's why I'm here. For a particular pair of dirty hands.

On the last night I saw my brother, he dropped a name. Lorenzo Capelli. The tabloids pop up all kinds of shit about the 60-something businessman. Suspected mob ties. Mysterious disappearances.

My brother, of course, didn't make the papers when he vanished. No one cares about unwanted people disappearing. Shit, Evan didn't even make the papers sixteen years ago when he vanished from our foster home. So, this time, he'd already been a ghost.

He certainly seemed like a ghost to me, appearing out of fucking nowhere in my shithole apartment three months ago.

Why the hell did I have to get angry with him? Maybe if I'd known it was a one-time thing, that I'd never see him again, I would've reacted differently. Maybe if he hadn't been so weird and cold and unfamiliar.

Of course, he did promise he was coming back. He said to pack my shit and wait. I yelled at him, like an idiot. Then I did what he said.

I stuffed my crappy clothes into a stained duffle bag, like when I got sent back to the group home after my foster father died. Same fucking bag.

I waited.

At first, I was pissed at him for abandoning me again. Then I remembered that name he dropped.

When I started looking into the Capellis, I realized that Evan wasn't coming back. Not this time.

If I just wanted to kill Lorenzo Capelli, I'd get my hands on a gun and take my best shot at the fucker before his men killed me. Maybe if this was really about Evan, that's what I'd do.

But the truth is … I just want to know where he was all those years. I want to know why he abandoned me with that mean asshole when I was ten years old. Yeah, I get that Evan was only fifteen at the time, but I needed him. I had nothing but him. Then I had nothing at all—and I've had nothing ever since.

It's a long shot, working here. The only lead I have is Capelli, but I can't access him. I already tried getting a job at his company. I didn't get past reception.

He's come in here before. This is his type of place, his type of people. So I serve drinks and listen. I wait for a clue, for some crumb of information. It's better than waiting for someone who's never coming back.

I scan the room for empty glasses or summoning gestures. There's a way they do it here, fingers barely lifting, eyes not quite focusing on me. I'm not significant enough for eye contact.

Some people aren't cut out for this job because they get all twisted up about that shit, but I've never been significant, so I barely notice.

Maybe that's why my pulse jumps when I catch a pair of dark eyes locked on me. A pair of intense, demanding eyes.

On the one hand, that's not unusual here. On the other … fuck, he's on a whole different level.

He looks vaguely Italian with his dark eyes and light olive skin. His dark hair is fade cut but way shorter than mine. It works for him, but then anything probably would with a face like that.

He's got a whole banquette to himself, one recessed into the side wall. I swear there were two blond men there a few minutes ago, and I never saw this guy come in. I would have noticed him descending from the mezzanine.

He doesn't do the come-here finger flick. All the same, somehow, he summons me.

Those dark eyes remain locked on me as I make my way toward him. I catch myself halfway there. What the fuck am I doing?

My job, I tell myself. I need to see if he wants a drink. But I know, deep down, that something more far instinctive had me obeying the command in his eyes—and it pisses me off.

The way his firm lips tug tells me that my annoyance shows. I smooth my face.

He's dressed entirely in black, through the waistcoat hugging his torso has subtle silver pinstripes. Against the cream leather of the banquette, his powerful build is obvious. He definitely works out. I can see it even in his legs, one draped over the other.

"Drink?" My sophisticated bartender act has failed me utterly. I'm stiff. I sound sharp. So I tack on, "Sir."

His eyes travel from my face to my feet and back up as though he didn't already have plenty of time to take in my black pants and close-fitting white button down. His gaze settles on my narrow black tie. He's not wearing one, and the top few buttons of his black shirt are open.

I swallow hard then realize it's my throat he's watching.

"Sir?" I prompt. "Do you want anything?"

His lips tug again. "Oh, absolutely."

His voice is deep and rich and does something weird to my body, like it sends an electrical current through me. I've never felt anything quite like it, and it's not pleasant. It's almost like he physically touched me.

I realize I'm scowling and try to soften my expression, but I don't say anything more. I've already prompted him twice. If he wants a drink, he'll have to say so.

The moment stretches with those dark, dangerous eyes locked on me. That current in my body travels, for some fucking reason, to my balls. What the fuck?

I'm about to tell him I'll check back in a minute when he says, "Whatever red Saylor has open."

It surprises the shit out of me. No one orders like that here, as though convenience matters. It's always top this or top that and never mind if it takes six minutes to make. Certainly no one mentions staff by name.

Besides, I thought he'd order liquor, not wine. All the men do.

Eager to escape, I dip my chin and turn to go. He stops me with, "You will bring it to me."

My heart skips. How the hell did he know I was going to chicken out and ask Saylor to do it?

I return to the bar to find Saylor already pouring a glass of red wine like she knew what he would order.

"Who the hell is that guy?" I grumble, forgetting that I've been trying to give off an easygoing, confident vibe.

She raises a dark eyebrow. "Dante? He's an old friend of Rafael's."

"I didn't see him come in."

"Oh, he never uses the main entrance. He's intense, I know. I can take this to him."

"No, he—I can do it," I say, not wanting to admit that he ordered me to do it.

Balancing the wine on my tray, I return to his table. I can tell he's watching me, but this time I don't let myself focus on it. I plan to just set the wine on his table with my usual club-chic mannerisms and leave. I'll blend back into the atmosphere and he'll forget me.

He fucking stands up when I reach his table.

He's several inches taller than my 5'11", which makes all that muscle pretty fucking intimidating. When he tugs down his vest to straighten it, his black shirt pulls tight over muscular arms. The open top of his shirt parts a little to hint at his pecs.

"Hold my place," he says as I set his wine down, completely forgetting my usual bartender's flair.

"I …" I trail off as he walks away.

I'm staring at him, so that's probably why I notice the way his pants hug his ass. But come on, how could anyone not notice that? It doesn't mean anything though, does it?

I'm not gay. Not because I have a problem with it. This is New York, for fuck's sake. But I'm just … not.

I tear my eyes away from him to look across the room to Saylor. She's working the cocktail shaker, pretending to flirt with some guy leaning on the bar, and watching me. She shrugs at my predicament.

So. I guess I'll be staying. Holding his place. Honestly, in a nightclub like Lush, the wineglass would be enough to do it. And yet … here I am.

I feel like an idiot standing here with my tray, but I'm pretty sure I'd feel even stupider if I sat, so I just keep standing. When I developed my catalogue of mannerisms, I somehow missed the category of hovering awkwardly beside a banquette while some intense, demanding asshole takes a piss.

He's not gone all that long, but it feels like forever. I'm so relieved to see him walk around the corner that I sag a little. But I straighten right the fuck up when I catch the satisfied look on his face.

He's toying with me. I have no idea why, but I'm damn sure of it.

It pisses me off so much that I don't trust myself to speak to him. He's a friend of my boss, and I cannot get myself fired, not on my first Friday night. But I also can't stop myself from making an obnoxiously grand gesture toward his table as though presenting it to him. Then I snap my tray under my arm and leave.

As I make a circuit of the room, collecting a few empties and taking fresh orders, I can practically feel his eyes on me. When I get to the bar and glance his way, however, he's watching Carmen, not me.

Oh.

Now I feel dumb. I also feel … disappointed?

What the hell. How did he mess with my head that much? We barely spoke and he was pretty much a dick. I should be relieved.

I shake it off. I keep busy. I mix a Negroni for some guy too young to be spending money that isn't daddy's. He's very drunk and annoyingly chatty, but I play along like I give a shit about the history lesson he's giving me on this drink. It doesn't take much to satisfy him.

Oh, cool, I didn't know that.

Huh.

Wow.

The guy feels so good about himself right now.

This is why—well, one reason why—I don't like people. Nothing is real.

Sometimes, I feel like my body is a car and I'm a passenger inside it. I turn the wheel and it turns. I step on the brakes and it stops. I can drive around. I can see through the windshield. But I'm removed. Not really there.

Then, other times, I get angry. I almost prefer that because it's like things are real for a second. But then it passes and I feel even worse. When no one sees that you're angry, when no one cares, you're even more alone.

My body tenses, instincts registering his approach before I see him. He crowds into the drunken rambler, who cuts off awkwardly as he gives Dante a double take. The guy collects his Negroni and leaves.

Dante slides his empty wine glass across the polished bar. I take it and put it in the tub underneath.

"Same?" I ask.

Those dark eyes practically sear into me. Maybe that's why my face starts getting hot?

"Did you approach Rafael or did he approach you?"

What the fuck. Why can't this guy just be normal and easy to manage?

"I asked for a job here, if that's what you mean."

"Hmm," he hums, and it's like the sound vibrates through my body. For the second time tonight, the sensation ends up in my balls.

Okay, I'm obviously having a reaction to this guy. I don't know why because this has never happened to me before. I don't like it. I don't know what to do.

Saylor comes to my rescue. "No hazing my new staff, Dante," she scolds playfully. "I like this one."

She does?

No, I tell myself quickly. It's just a thing people say. It's not real.

Dante smirks at her comment. Usually when men smirk, it just makes them look like douchebags. But on that face? It looks … well, fuck, it looks sexy. Sexy and dangerous.

Yes, I realize I'm thinking of a man as sexy, but … he is.

He asks, "Is Rafael downstairs?"

Downstairs is the sex club. I haven't seen it yet. I can't decide if I want to. On the one hand, people tend to spill more secrets in bed. At least, according to movies. On the other hand, I wouldn't really know what to do with myself down there.

I'm not a virgin or anything. I'm just … I don't know. Not that into it. I don't get why it's such a big deal for people.

"Yeah, he's downstairs," Saylor answers. "You want me to go get him?"

"Just tell him I need to talk to him." The way Dante's eyes flick to me as he says it makes me think he wants to talk to Rafael about me.

To get me fired? Was I rude? Maybe I shouldn't have done the circus master gesture toward his table.

Fuck.

Saylor snags the cranberry juice from the fridge and starts working on a Cosmo. "You could call him. Or text. Like a normal person."

Oh, good. She also thinks he's not normal.

Not that I am. But his not-normal is different. Kind of … scary.

"Tristan, grab me two martini glasses," Saylor says.

I jolt from my stupor, realizing I've been standing stock still like a moron.

"Tristan," I hear Dante murmur quietly, like he's trying out my name, rolling it around on his tongue.

I shiver. It takes me a second to look up. When I do, he's already turned away from the bar. He's leaving.

I track him all the way to the private exit. For such a big guy, he really prowls. He's quiet. Subtle. Like a fucking panther.

"Earth to Tristan," Saylor prompts.

"Shit. Sorry." I hand her the martini glasses.

I get busy. It's Friday night at Lush. The rich have money to burn and gossip to spill. I have three more hours of performing my sophisticated bartender act.

I've kind of been enjoying it. The fact that this is basically a private Latin pop concert doesn't hurt. Carmen is fucking spectacular.

And yet, something's missing. I didn't realize how some part of me had woken up, come alive … until a certain, disturbingly alluring asshole walked out the door and left me suddenly awake, but alone.