Alex

“Scotch. Double. Your best,” I say to the bartender who looks at me like I’m fresh meat and she’s about to take a deliciously wicked bite. She flips her hair and smiles brightly but I’m not here to meet a woman and even if I was, a bartender at a nightclub isn’t my thing. Hell, a nightclub isn’t my thing. When my expression remains stoic, her smile fades and she hustles to get my drink.

“Loosen up, Alex. We still haven’t even gone upstairs,” Glen, the owner of PharmEc, the company I’m trying to purchase, says to me as he smiles and flirts with every female that crosses his path. Our meeting began at my office this afternoon where we talked about business, then he wanted to go to dinner. Dinner is part of the wine-and-dine shitshow I do daily. Normally I can deal with it, but when he said he wanted to go to a nightclub, I almost told him to fuck off. Except my father’s voice rang in my ear.

Play the game, son. Just don’t forget, even your friends have an ulterior motive.

Years ago, our family had been royally fucked over by Edward Blackwater, my godfather and my father’s best friend and business partner. When my dad said to trust no one, he was speaking out of experience. Painful stab-in-the-back-lose-everything kind of experience. Most people were motivated by money and power. Friendship is all a bunch of bullshit.

So, here I am in Duality. Playing the game. Buying drinks and being friendly. That is, until I get what I want and what I want is PharmEc. Tonight, I’m the amiable host who’ll be a great fit for Glen’s business. Tonight, I’m the man who’ll show Glen that a life of leisure and excess is much better than having to go to work every day and run an empire. I need to seal this deal and soon—my PI guys already told me sneaky little Glen’s also been negotiating with my competitors since last week.

But it’s getting difficult to keep pretending I want to spend one more second with the dirty old man and his huge gut and crooked tie. Considering his current wealth and what he’s about to amass when the sale goes through, he could at least wear a real tie instead of a clip-on.

Patience is not my strong suit. In fact, I have zero of it. But, this is a huge deal for Archer Technologies and it’s infinitely easier to purchase the company outright than to take it over, or so my attorneys say. But if I’m forced to play nice and drive the douchebag to one more place, I’m calling those same attorneys and going the hostile route.

The bartender slides the drink over to me, the loud music irritating my mood even further. And l won’t even get started on the strobe lights. I take a gulp and let the warm liquid work its magic on my nerves. “And what’s upstairs?” I ask, feigning a smile.

“Jesus, Alex. Everyone who’s anyone knows what Duality is. Downstairs is vanilla and upstairs is a tittie bar.”

I put down my drink and adjust my cufflinks, impatiently. “Not happy with your wife’s tits?”

“I’d rather see young new ones,” he sneers, as he takes out a wad of dollar bills. I roll my eyes and glance at the signs that are all over the club.

“This isn’t a strip club. You can’t touch the employees. It says it everywhere.”

“You’re a millionaire. I’m sure with our cash flow, they’ll let us do whatever the hell we want. I bet I’m fucking one of them within an hour.” He puts his drink down and fans the cash. “When you’re ready to get laid, meet me upstairs and I’ll pick a nice piece of ass for you. Or maybe you prefer small and petite? Buyer’s choice,” he jokes and slaps my shoulder and heads the opposite way.

I exhale loudly and move to a booth in a dark corner where I can avoid everyone and wait for Glen to finish up…or get arrested.

At this point, jail is my preferred option.

Helen

“That’ll be sixty-four fifty, hon.” I smile widely at the guy in front of me and in return get a big tip.

“What will it be?” I ask another guy as I close out the other tab. The club’s packed and it’s been nonstop since I started working four hours ago. Thank God, because if I stop for a minute, my mind will wander to all my problems.

Fritz, the newest bouncer, signals for me. “Boss wants you at VIP as soon as you can. Jane had an emergency and had to bail.”

“Got it.” I finish what I’m doing and let the other three bartenders working with me know that they’re on their own for the rest of the night.

Working VIP is weird. You’d think we’d all be fighting for the spot. But we’ve quickly learned that there are two kinds of VIPs. The assholes who spend thousands upon thousands for bottle service and flaunt their wealth but when it comes time to pay, don’t leave a tip. And then there’s the generous group who’ll drop a grand after only an hour. I’m hoping for the latter tonight. Hell, I’m praying for it. God knows I need the money.

I wave at the bouncer who opens the red velvet rope to allow me access to the VIP area. Matt, one of the owners of Duality, is working the register and when he sees me he sighs in relief.

“I got this, boss man,” I say to Matt.

“Thanks, Helen. Blue Label neat,” he instructs, as he points to a booth in a corner.

“Got it.”

I finish pouring the drink and then go around to the isolated booth. The back is high, so I can’t see who’s on the other side.

“Whiskey?” I set it on the table without looking at the customer. I’m already halfway turned to go back to the bar when I hear, “Thank you.” The voice is deep and baritone and strangely familiar, but I can’t exactly pinpoint how I know it. Nonetheless, my skin erupts in goosebumps.

His arms shoots out and he grabs my wrist to stop me from walking away.

“I know you,” he says.

I turn around and squint at him. As soon as one of the strobe lights shines our way I see his face. It’s a face I daydreamed about throughout my teenage years, most of my twenties, and even now, at thirty, every time a handsome man with jet-black hair looks my way I still think about that face. “Alex? Alex Archer?” I say, surprised.

He’s staring at me, and those green eyes framed by unfairly long lashes are as intense as I remember. He’s still holding my wrist and I wonder if he can feel how my pulse quickens at his touch. But he’s looking at me as if he can’t put a name to my face, which is quite a blow to my ego.

“Helen Blackwood,” he whispers, and even over the loud music I can see the way his lips form the letters of my name. Okay, so he does remember me. How could he not; we grew up together. Until I was seventeen years old, he was a part of my life.

Then one day he was gone.

“Oh my God! How are you?” I lean down and give him a big familiar hug but it’s awkward because he’s sitting and stiff and not reciprocating the hug. I stand up and back away feeling a bit stupid.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I laugh and push my hip out, a hand at my waist. What a dumb question. “I work here.”

“Here? At a club? You’re a bartender?”

“You always were bright,” I say with a chuckle, but he doesn’t even smile back.

“How can you be working here?” He looks around completely shocked at the idea. It’s not like I’m working at a skeevy dive bar, for God’s sake. This is a very high-end Miami Beach establishment. I make great money.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.” Now I’m getting riled up and feeling defensive.

“You’re a Blackwood.”

“And you’re an Archer,” I say, matter-of-factly, but he still seems utterly perplexed. This is the guy I’ve compared every man to my entire life. I’ve put him on this pedestal of perfection, with his amazing cheekbones, lean body with extraordinarily muscular arms from years of tennis, and brilliant mind. But as he sits here and judges me, I see the pedestal begin to crumble. Or maybe I’ve just grown wiser with all the shit that’s been thrown at me the past few years. Whatever the case may be, Mr. Perfect is looking more and more like Mr. Judgmental Asshole right now.

When he still doesn’t say anything, I pull my hand away, turn, and go back to the bar, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.