Quinn

Is it possible to pick that one defining moment in life that fucked you up? I think it is fair to say that everyone in the world is messed up one way or the other. But can everyone look back on their life and pinpoint the exact minute it happened? I used to believe I wasn’t fucked up. I had absolutely no reason to be. I was actually one of the few people who could say I had a good childhood. Middle income family, parents who stayed married, average upbringing. Nothing there to fuck me up.

Maybe I could say I was fucked up by Anthony Cruz when he tried to take my virginity at the age of fifteen, but it wasn’t like rape or anything. I thought I was ready but it still felt like he was taking it rather than me giving it. So, I screamed no, and luckily for me, he stopped. However, other than the fact that he lied and told everyone we had hot and wild sex, then dumped me right afterwards, I still wouldn’t say he fucked me up.

My life was fairly easy growing up. I wouldn’t exactly say I was spoiled, but I never had to struggle. My parents paid for my car when I was sixteen, paid for my entire college education so I never had to get some lame part time job, and even helped pay my bills now so I could follow my dream of becoming a novelist.

My sister had died recently, and although it ripped my soul out of my body and shredded my heart into a million pieces, I survived. It didn’t change the core of who I was, nor put me in the fucked up category. I was able to move on just like every other person in the world who has lost a loved one. I went on one day at a time. But the truth of the matter was life simply wasn’t a struggle for me. Call me one of the lucky ones, I guess.

I wasn’t fucked up…

Until I met him.

Axel Rye.

Yes.

He fucked me up.

He really fucked me up.

The deafening club music pulsated through my body, the bass pounding at my ears like a hammer. I made a mental note to try to describe the sensation when I wrote my book. One more thing to add to my ever-growing list of story notes. I wanted my readers to understand the power the music possessed. I wanted to somehow successfully describe how the sound waves actually woke every nerve in your body and caused each one to vibrate from your head to your toes. I wanted to explain in detail how each thump of the bass made your entire core hum in excitement. Recounting this club would definitely be a challenge. How could you possibly express the inside of a nightclub without sounding like a washed-up poet?

I took off my apron at the end of my shift, desperate for a break. Standing on my feet for so many hours was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Bartending was no joke, and after working the job for one night, I felt bad for not tipping all my bartenders in the past way better than I did. My feet were killing me and that was with me wearing black ballet-slipper-like shoes, unlike all the five-inch heels the other women in the club wore. How they stood and balanced on the spikes, let alone danced, amazed me.

The club was hot, sticky, crowded, and I really wanted to get some fresh air and maybe a small moment of silence. I scanned the room, looking for my friend Felicity again. She had promised to meet me at the club before my shift ended and at least be a familiar face amongst the crowd of complete strangers.

The girl could socialize her way through anything. Selfish as fuck sometimes, but she had been my friend since sixth grade, and we just meshed somehow. She was wild; I was not. She was fun, while I bored even myself sometimes. She had helped me land this job, a job completely out of my element, bartending at one of the most popular clubs in Los Angeles. Felicity had also offered me a place to stay while I did the research needed to write my book on the seedy life of nightclubs, drugs, and all the glitz and glamour laced with gritty shadows. I had high hopes I’d get enough real life details to expand into a book, but didn’t know how much information I could really gather. My editor Harrison—if you could really call him an editor since he only free-lanced for beginners like me and was trying to break into the publishing world himself—had thought it would be a good idea for me to completely go undercover and immerse myself in the everyday life… or nightlife, as it were. He said I lived in a suburban dollhouse and had no idea what happened beyond the key-entry gates. And unless I wanted to write a cookbook or some sugary puppy love young adult romance, I had to branch out and expand my life experiences. I agreed the investigation might make my book more genuine and complex, and I did feel as if I was trapped in the white box of boring. I also didn’t want to just get the generic, canned answers from an interview. Or write about something I knew absolutely nothing about and risk the readers sensing my ignorance. I had never been a partier unless you counted the couple times I drank from a beer bong at a frat party. But for this book—especially since it would be my debut—I wanted to go deeper and really capture the heart behind it all. I wanted the truth, the feelings, the reality.

Glancing at the clock, I saw that Felicity was over an hour late. Had my friend really flaked on me? Felicity had a habit of getting “lost,” but she wouldn’t just forget about me, or at least I hoped not. I had counted on her for a ride back to our apartment. Not wanting to walk through the wall of sweaty bodies by myself, I decided to just stay put a little longer and wait for her. I took in some of the faces around me and wondered if I should mingle and make some friends.

Yeah, like that was really going to happen.

Being outgoing was not my strength, so I chose to sit and observe instead.

A commotion got my attention, and I turned toward the front entrance to find a crowd gathered around a group of men who had just walked in. I stiffened, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. I swallowed the lump forming in the back of my throat, my heart leaping as I saw the man I wanted to get to know. He was the key to my success. Tall. Handsome. Tattoos in all the right places. Face hidden in darkness. The pictures I had seen, and all the media coverage I’d watched, did not do this man justice. A single picture could not capture the raw power and strength rippling through him. The control, the authority, the mystery.

Axel Rye.

I watched with interest. I’d been told this club—Wicked—was the place to be. I hadn’t heard of it before, not until Felicity raved about the place and the people who frequented the spot like Axel Rye. He was clearly in demand by just watching all the people turn his way the minute he walked in. My new boss at the club confirmed my belief that Axel Rye was the hot ticket when he had told me to always cater to Axel and his friends’ needs. Never say no to the man. I was told Axel provided something crucial to the nightclub and the partygoers—drugs.

Trying to act cool, but feeling uneasy being in the same room with a known drug dealer, I looked around for Felicity again, feeling more than a little annoyed at still having to wait. I was completely out of my element and having serious doubts I could even do this… that I even wanted to do this. Who was I to think I could simply immerse myself in the scene and hang out with celebrities like Axel Rye… if you really could call him a celebrity? Although I guess in this scene he was—as fucked up as that was. Notoriety equaled fame, and Axel Rye was definitely notorious.

A deep wave of laughter erupted directly behind me, and I turned to find the same group of men I’d seen walk in just moments earlier. A flock of women surrounded them, flirting, dancing, and having a good time. Axel Rye stood in the middle of it all. He looked different than when I last saw him on television. Granted, when I watched him on TV he was in a suit and tie being escorted out of a courthouse by his team of lawyers after just being found not guilty of all drug charges. I had watched in awe when his arrogant ass hopped in a black Escalade as if he was innocent as an angel.

He was guilty.

Everyone knew it. He just had the money to buy his way out of a jail sentence. Or his rich rock star daddy did. Axel Rye was the son of the famous singer Jamison Rye, and the word “rich” wasn’t a strong enough term to describe the wealth that family had. They were helicopters and yacht rich. Axel Rye—though everyone thought was cool as fuck—was nothing but a trust fund baby. He hadn’t worked a real job a day in his life, so the fact he sold drugs wasn’t out of need to feed his family, pay for medical bills or for any other romanticized reason. No, he simply sold drugs because he wanted to and because he could.

But God, he was fucking handsome as hell.

And he was so close I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. I had researched the crap out of this guy, and even though he was a complete stranger, I did have an odd sense I knew him. I had stared at his face and read countless articles while brainstorming and outlining my book. As odd as it was, this man was no stranger to me.

He was laughing when our eyes met, and I almost peed my pants from the huge weight in my stomach when I realized he caught me staring at him. His laugh stopped, and the smile on his face seemed to melt away slowly. He stood there frozen, his chiseled face almost demanding to be touched. The scar near his lower lip caught my eye. For a moment, I thought he might say something, but then I heard Felicity come up behind me.

“Hey there,” she said, a bit winded.

I snapped out of my groupie stare and watched as she wiggled her way to the bar and ordered a drink. “Crazy night! Sorry I’m so late.”

“It’s okay. I was actually hoping to leave. It’s been a long night.”

Acting as if she hadn’t heard me, she simply stared ahead until the bartender made and delivered her her drink. She grabbed her cocktail and spun around, taking in the dancing bodies around her. Bobbing her head to the music, she instantly fit in. “You do realize, Quinn, who that was staring at you, right?”

Slightly embarrassed, I pretended to not comprehend. “No one was staring at me.”

Felicity gasped. “That was Axel Rye! You two were staring at each other. The man was actually giving you the time of day. You guys had direct eye contact. I saw it!”

“No, we weren’t,” I lied. I could hardly breathe now because of that brief moment, but I didn’t want to admit it. And the reality is that if Axel Rye was really staring at me, it was because I clearly was out of place. I was the square peg and he knew it. I was Waldo and he had simply spotted me. Nothing more.

“Look at you! Say whatever you want, but I see it. You’ve been here one night and you’re already making headway. Leave it to you to find the most fucked up, yet sexiest man in this room. I knew you’d fit in just fine.” Felicity took a large swig of her drink. “Let’s go out there and show them what we got.”

She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me onto the dance floor before I could object.

* * *

Axel

I made my way to the VIP section of the club. My head pounded as the techno music pulsated in my ringing ears. My veins still burned from the dirty heroine I shot up last night. The only good that came from that fucked up incident was I made the decision I was done with H forever. Fuck that shit. I had lost too many friends to that drug, and I definitely didn’t want to be some homeless junkie, fucking whatever dealer I could for a chance to share a disease-infested needle. Things in my life were spiraling out of control enough as it was, and I didn’t need to add heroine junkie to the list. No more needles.

I wasn’t in the mood to be at Wicked or any club at all. It was the second time this week for this club, but the fourth time being out on a request by owner. Even the line of coke I snorted before entering the club wasn’t helping my mood of feeling forced like a god damned prisoner to be there. Request by owner meant I got paid for even walking through the doors. Treated like fucking royalty all because I walked on the dark side and played the sick game. I only mingled, shook hands and gave false hugs to strangers because I got paid to do it.

I got paid a lot.

Unlike my father who was famous for his music, I was famous for one thing: I was a drug dealer. Always having a constant supply of good shit caused me to be in high demand at every bar, club, and trendy restaurant in town. What once used to be very secretive, behind-closed-doors, and hush-hush had recently become very visible. There was no secret I dealt. After my last arrest and the media circus around my hearing, when it came to trendy drugs for the rich, the famous, and the cool kids, I was seen as the face of it. Media took hold of the idea, and the rest spiraled out of control. Being a bad boy was hot, and I was about as bad as they got right now. It was fucking nuts.

I nodded to and acknowledged all the club-goers gazing my way. Some of the other guys I hung with were already doing shots, popping pills, snorting lines and beginning the party. I was high, but not nearly as high as they were. My entourage kept the energy to the extreme, the fun flowing, and the night alive until the wee hours. They earned every penny the nightclub paid them. Me, on the other hand… I had the charm. I had the reputation. And I had the name of Axel Rye. Rye was notorious. My charisma and lure worked its magic as usual tonight, although my smile was anything but genuine. The odd popularity had stopped making me uncomfortable a long time ago, especially among drunk women throwing themselves at me, but I would never get used to everyone wanting to buy drugs. The hunger in their veins made them beg for more, and they would pay whatever price I set for it. I had full control of them, like a demonic puppet master. They were all nothing but junkies in fancy clothes. I hated it.

Although it was once nice to have instant notoriety the minute I walked into a room, now I resented having to always be the life of the party. I had the looks, the right aura, the status, and everyone wanted to be a part of it. I definitely could be an arrogant asshole. But somewhere along the line, that shit got old. My life was a damn sick joke, and I had no one to blame but myself. I never knew who truly wanted to be around me for me, and who just wanted the limelight or the access to cheap or even free drugs. I learned to trust nobody. Hell… I didn’t even trust myself.

Lost in my thoughts and wanting a moment for myself, I made my way towards the dance floor. I hated to dance, but I didn’t really mind the music. Blocking out everyone around me, I closed my eyes and just leaned up against a pillar near the crush of swaying bodies but not among them, taking in the beat of the music. The heat of the room and the close proximity of bodies caused sweat to trickle down my back. I slightly bobbed my head to the beat, enjoying the isolation the rhythm of the bass gave me. Being the son of a rock star, I grew up to appreciate the skill of a musician. It had always disappointed my father I never followed in his footsteps. Not that the bastard ever spent a minute trying to teach me how to play the guitar or sing a note. No, he was too busy touring the world and being the famous Jamison Rye. And my mother was too busy being a socialite to even remember she had a son. I had dabbled in being a DJ, and my name alone sold out any venue I spun at. Clubs all around the world wanted me. But the truth of the matter was, I sucked at it. I couldn’t compete with the DJs I actually respected and even called my friends. I was man enough to admit it just wasn’t my gig. Not to mention I made a hell of a lot more money selling for an hour than I did spinning for one.

Someone brushed right past me, a little too close.

Motherfucking groupie. They were all the same. Accidently knocking into me. Accidently getting my attention. All until I gave them the time of day, and then they purposely became an annoying gnat I wouldn’t be able to shake for the rest of the night. It always ended with them wanting to blow me for some drugs.

Blow for some blow. Story of my life.

Annoyed, I took a soothing breath when I realized the person who bumped into me was the same girl who’d caught my attention at the bar. I hadn’t seen her before—not that I recognized all the chicks in every nightclub. But this one stood out to me. She seemed different. She was gorgeous, but not in the fake—I’ve spent two hours on my make-up and hair—type of gorgeous like most of the women in Wicked. No, this girl was your typical girl-next-door-type of gal, clearly lost in a dark and dank place like this.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to knock into you. Did I hurt you?” By her awkward stance, and the embarrassment washing over her face, I could tell she really hadn’t meant to bump into me. She couldn’t even hold my gaze for more than a few moments before her gaze slid away.

“No, I’m good.” I swiped at my hair that now lay limply against my forehead. I found it odd that I suddenly felt self-conscious about my appearance, but I didn’t want her to think I was a sweaty junkie lowlife.

“You sure you’re okay?” the girl asked again.

This time, she held my gaze, the concern showing in hers. I looked into her deep brown eyes for the first time—clear and not dilated like every other girl in the club—and my heart beat hard against my chest. The laser lights swirled behind the girl, casting her in full light one second and in a shadow the next. I smiled at her petite silhouette. Every time her face lit up, I noticed her eyes first. They were an amazing rich chocolate color, unlike anything I had ever seen. They matched perfectly with her dark brown hair that reflected all the colored lights around her. Thick, full eyelashes curved slightly at the end, providing the perfect frames for such a pair of beautiful eyes. She was a true beauty. The girl stared back at me as she stood there breathing hard.

Her brown hair was up in a loose bun, except for a few strands that lightly rested on the sides of her face and forehead. It surprised me she didn’t seem fazed by my notoriety. Almost as if she didn’t know who I was, which would be impossible unless she lived under a rock. You couldn’t go onto social media or turn on the television and not see my face plastered all over it. She acted genuinely sorry for knocking into me. It didn’t seem like she had done it intentionally, like the game so many others had played in the past. That game had gotten really old.

“I’m fine,” I said, wishing I hadn’t done the coke. My head spun, and the lights swirling around her weren’t helping the situation. I was too high to have this conversation, but I really wanted to. But she was sober and I was not, which was always a recipe for disaster.

“Good.” The girl tucked the loose hair behind her ear and turned to resume her dancing. She didn’t look back or ask anything else. She seemed impatient to be on her way. I watched in fascination as she seductively moved her hips to the music.

With my heart pounding and the overpowering need to see her face again surging, to my own surprise, I tapped her on the shoulder and stammered, “So, I haven’t seen you here before.”

Fuck! I was too high for this shit. I was sounding like a dumb ass.

The girl turned and looked at me without responding. Maybe she hadn’t heard me. I hoped her lack of words weren’t just because she thought I was an idiot. Although I sounded like a fucking idiot.

“I’m Axel, what’s your name?” Trying to keep my cool was as difficult as walking under water.

“Quinn Sullivan.”

All I could manage was a weak smile as I allowed the most alluring name I had ever heard to descend into my soul. High or not, I liked her name. It seemed to fit her perfectly.

“Well, have a good night,” Quinn said, and danced off, fading into the crowd of bodies. She was leaving me, and I really didn’t have a choice but to let her.

Why did I care?

But I did.

I did care.

I reluctantly made my way back to the VIP section to join my friends as my thoughts went back to those brown eyes cloaked in black lashes. Quinn Sullivan and the enticing eyes.

Yeah, I was fucking high.