Nick

“Swear to God, Bethany, I catch you one more time in my club and I’m having you arrested.”

“Nick, please. Don’t be like that.” She runs a chipped nail down my neck, and I push it away. I remember a time, in my early twenties, when I was mostly drunk, stupid, and high, when I used to find Bethany gorgeous. She was the older woman we all wanted. My friends and I would run to the bar and fetch her and her friends drinks like the stupid young pussy-chasers that we were. Now she looks worn out, and that older experienced-looking woman I once found attractive just looks sloppy. With overly processed blond hair, tanned skin that now looks like leather, and fake tits that are practically on display since the strap on her too-tight dress has fallen down her arm, Bethany is a mess. I remember how she used to give my younger self a hard-on, but now I just feel disgust.

I snap at one of the new bartenders, “Cut her off.” Then I turn back to Bethany. “Finish that drink and get out.” Leaning into the bar, I grab some napkins and hand them to her. “And clean your nose. Have some fucking dignity. Some self-respect, for Chrissake.”

She takes the napkin and wipes the residual white powder off her nose. “Your father was a lot more fun,” she says, and that’s the last thing I need to hear.

I stop dead in my tracks.

Being compared to my father is the one thing I despise. “Bitch,” I snarl, getting so close to her face that she has to lean back, “unless you want to end up in the same place he’s at, I suggest you get the fuck out of my club.” Each word is spat out clearly, so that there is absolutely no misunderstanding that she’s not welcome back. Ever.

I look away from her and am searching for Bear, my head of security, when I see a bunch of people pressed together by the bathrooms, Bear’s big body sticking out over the crowd. “What now?” I growl to myself. Something’s going on, and I don’t have time to deal with Bethany, who’s forever stuck in the fast times and high life of the eighties. I almost feel bad for her.

Almost.

I weave through the crowd and see that Bear has a woman in his arms. “What the hell happened?” I ask, pushing people aside to give him room to walk toward the other end of the club. I swipe my finger against the fingerprint pad of my private elevator, and he steps inside with the girl while I follow behind. “What do you want me to do with her, boss?” he asks, now that I can hear him over all the loud music. “She was about to pass out. Caught her just in time.”

“I’m so sick of this shit. Take her to my office,” I say just as the elevator door opens. “Matt! Mateo!”

My brother sticks his head out of the security room, where he’s probably been monitoring the screens with the other security guys, and yells, “What?”

“My office. Now.” I swipe my finger on the pad and my office door unlocks. “Put her on the couch, Bear. Bethany’s making trouble in the Red Bar.” That’s the smaller bar on the west side of the club. “Make sure she’s gone. If not, make her gone.” I turn to Matt as he walks in. “She’s done. Don’t want her at Panic again. Got it?”

Matt shrugs, uncaring.

Bear sets the girl down on the coach. “Got it, boss,” he says, walking out.

Matt leans in close. “Why’s there a girl sleeping on your couch?”

“She passed out.” Her chest is moving in and out, so she’s clearly alive, but that’s all I’ve been able to ascertain.

Matt reaches into his pocket and takes out his phone.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“Calling an ambulance. What else do you think I’m doing?”

“No!” I yell, taking his phone from his hand.

“What the hell, man?” He snatches his phone back.

“This month we’ve had four run-ins with the cops. The New Times had that shit article about the club. One more piece of bad publicity and we’re done. We’ve worked too hard this year for this to take us down.”

“What if she’s hurt? What if she ODs? You think we’ve got bad publicity now? That shit’ll ruin us,” he says.

I know he’s right, but I don’t care—we need to avoid the cops. I reach into my drawer and take out an old first-aid kit. The ammonia capsules are missing, so I find an alcohol wipe, open it, and hand it to Matt. “Here—try to wake her. I’ll look up her name and see if I can find who she’s here with or something.”

Gently Matt runs the alcohol wipe back and forth under her nose while I look in the woman’s purse to see if I can find a clue as to who she is. A tube of lipstick and a wallet are all that I find. I’m surprised I don’t find a shit-ton of drugs. Instead I take out her driver’s license and place the wallet on my desk.

“Katherine Wilson,” I say, looking at her photo. By my math, she’s thirty-two years old. It says she’s five foot seven, though she looks tiny lying on her side on my couch. And her hair! I’ve never seen so much hair; it must go down to her waist when she’s standing. My brother is pushing it out of her face while running a hand towel doused in water from a bottle against her forehead. “She’s burning up, man,” he says. “We need to call an ambulance.”

I kneel down beside her. “Katherine. Wake up.” I shake her gently at first, and then none too gently. “Damn it. Wake up!”