The line was around the block. It actually traveled from the front door of the club down the street and around the corner – a line fifty people deep on a Saturday night at only nine o’clock. It was happening: Adam’s club, Scarred Angels, was officially a success. He had spent the last ten years devoted to the club and to making it a working, legal business, and it was finally paying off.

 

He was practically skipping as he walked past the line and surveyed his clientele. There were girls in skirts that were too short, shirts that were too low, and heels that were too high, exactly the kind of girls they wanted. There were also plenty of guys posturing and posing in front of the girls. Everyone was giggly and loud and boisterous. It was going to be a good night. They were primed to make a lot of money.

 

“Do you see this?” Adam asked to his friend and co-owner Joey who was standing next to the bouncer, trying to look cool.

 

“Dude, we are blowing up. We’ve made it,” Joey said, hitting Adam on the shoulder in his excitement. He was craning his neck to check out the line, counting heads, and he kept hitting Adam in the shoulder with every other word.

 

“This is a good crowd,” Adam said.

 

“Twenty bucks at the door, three drink minimum. We are going to make some money tonight!” Joey said loud enough that several people in line turned to stare at him.

 

“All right, man, let’s go in. Mike,” he said, turning to the bouncer who was ninety-two percent muscle, “no drugs, and nobody underage – no matter how cute they are.”

 

“You got it, boss,” Mike said, crossing his arms and staring down the line of eager twenty-something’s.

 

Once inside the club, Adam and Joey turned away from the dance floor and entered the “Employees Only” section. The music could still be heard in the back, but it was filtered through the walls, just the sound of the bass and drums making it through. It made it sound like the building had a heartbeat.

 

“I got more good news for you,” Joey said, pulling up his email on the phone. “Good job, a lot of cash and incidentals, plus the promise of good referrals. You know the Kanes right?” Joey asked.

 

“I’ve heard of them,” Adam said. “Their name’s all over town.” In fact, for a few years before he turned ten, Adam had stayed in the Kane Home for Young Boys after his parents had been arrested. But he wasn’t going to tell Joey that; he didn’t want to tell anyone that. “Didn’t one of them get shot up in his bed the other day?”

 

“Not one of them, the one, the patriarch and money strings holder himself, John Kane. Shot six times while he slept, drive-by shooting from out front, right through the windows. His daughter was home. She found him and called the cops. He’s still breathing, but it doesn’t look good.”

 

“Who did it?”

 

“The cops have no idea and neither do we, but they want protection for the girl. Even with her father alive, she’s worth a mint. They figure whoever is going after him might come for her next. They want protection for her. Round the clock, and they want us.”

 

“Shit,” Adam said under his breath. Scarred Angels was the name of Adams organization. It had grown from a biker gang to a legit business; protection was one of the services they offered and the one most likely to be hired by unsavory characters. “The Kane family wants to hire us to watch a girl? What, is the army busy or something?”

 

“Currently fighting two wars on foreign soil and we should stop calling her a girl. She’s twenty-six. They’re willing to pay our highest fee, plus per diem, plus a bonus if we find out anything on who shot the old man.”

 

“If the old man’s all jacked up and in the hospital, who’s hiring us? The girl?”

 

“Family friend, James Hastings. Somehow he heard of us and recommended us. First payments already been made and cleared.”

 

“You agreed to this without talking to me first?” Joey and Adam both owned the club. In fact, most of the members of Scarred Angels had put up money, but Joey and Adam, with Adam’s Uncle Bill, ran the day-to-day operations of the club and their protection services. They always talked to each other before making any deal.

 

“Look at the money,” Joey said, showing him the contract. “Plus, it’s the Kane family. They are legit, old money. You’re always talking about how we have to be above board and legal and all that shit. It doesn’t get more above board than the Kanes. Plus, check this girl out.”

 

Joey held up his phone and Adam took it to get a better look. The girl in the photo was stunning, but Adam knew money could buy beauty. She had long, curly dark brown hair, dark eyes and pale skin. In the photo, she was holding a pair of those giant novelty scissors in front of a building with a big ceremonial red ribbon. The Jasmine Kane Women's Refuge, generously donated by the Kane family and named after John Kane’s late wife, the text underneath the picture said.

 

“So, what, we follow around some pretty party-girl?”

 

“And get paid to do so,” Joey answered.

 

Adam let out a sigh. It was everything he wanted: a legitimate outlet for his business. Something that the IRS would approve of, the job had everything he could have wanted. But something was bothering him and he knew in an instant what it was. Dakota Kane, rich, beautiful and one of his men would be watching her twenty four/seven. One of his men would have to be around a beautiful woman all day, know her schedule, her friends; anything there was to know about her, they would know. They would have to watch her, be with her, do this job and stay professional. There could be no hooking up with the person they had been hired to protect. He was worried it was too much to ask.

 

“All right,” Adam said, “But I’m taking point on this.”

 

“Why?” Joey demanded.

 

“You know why.” Adam said.

 

“Oh, so I can’t handle myself, but you can?” Joey demanded.

 

“I didn’t say it; you did.” Adam said, ending the discussion.

 

“Fine, boss man. You start tomorrow night. There’s a benefit at the opera she needs to attend.” Joey scoffed, “like anybody has ever needed to be at the opera.”