1
Damon
The bourbon was watered down. I flicked my wrist, washing it over the melted flecks of ice. I looked around, bored. That was the problem. I bored easily.
A waiter walked by without glancing at my table. That had always been the deal in this fucking place, though. They treated me like every other guy in here. They didn’t cater to one of us over the other. As if we were normal. As if we weren’t rich as sin. As if I didn’t own the entire country.
We existed under a cloak of secrecy. The façade that inside these walls we were on an equal playing field. Maybe there was some truth to that for one night a month. Gala night.
I slung back the last swallow of the hundred-dollar glass of booze. I pushed back from my chair to straighten my cramped legs, standing just shy of six-five. I moved across the room trying not to attract too much attention. It wasn’t easy to blend in, even if people were committed to ignoring me.
I knocked on the black door behind the bar and waited for someone to let me in. The incessant bass pumping through the speakers drowned out the hammering of my fist. It was loud as fuck in here.
“Damn it.” I gritted my teeth, pounding again. I wasn’t patient.
The door cracked enough that I could see a sliver of the stage. It was dark.
A stooge who couldn’t have been more than twenty stood in my way. I tapped at my watch. It probably cost more than ten cars in the parking lot put together. “You’re running late.” I kept my voice low.
He nodded. “I know. I’m sorry, your m—”
I put my hand up to stop him. “I have a reservation tonight,” I reminded him.
He looked over his shoulder nervously. “There have been a few setbacks,” he reported.
“Setbacks?” I cocked my eyebrow. When had The Titan had a setback?
“I assure you we’ll start any minute. I can personally escort you.”
I didn’t want to hear his bullshit. I didn’t tolerate excuses no matter the circumstances.
I exhaled. “That won’t be necessary. You have five minutes,” I warned. “Figure it out or I’m leaving. I don’t need to waste my time.”
“I’ll let them know.” He closed the door with a solid shove.
I turned for my table. Ashford Grant was a few feet behind me. He smirked. If I didn’t know better, his tattered jeans and T-shirt suggested he was a man who was out for a round with his buddies.
“I see you escaped for the night.” He tipped a drink toward me.
I scowled. “It’s never easy.”
I glanced over his shoulder at my guards standing by the front entrance. Their arms were crossed. They scanned every guest who walked past. They didn’t give a shit that every person in the club was a member. You couldn’t walk through the front doors without a signed contract. Correction—a hefty deposit and a signed contract.
There were standards for all members.
“You can’t shake those two?” he asked.
“They go where I go.”
“That goes with the territory I guess.”
I needed another drink. I eyed the bartender. He nodded and poured me a second bourbon. He knew which bottle I had selected for the night.
I liked expensive smooth bourbons that took decades to distill. The Titan imported my favorite from the States to keep on hand for nights like this.
“It’s been a few months, hasn’t it?”
“Six,” I answered. “Sutcliffe has been a bastard lately.”
Ashford laughed. “I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that shit. I don’t know how you do it.”
Was I supposed to answer? Tell him the burden was suffocating? That sometimes the walls closed in on me? There were days I considered hiding under a ball cap and hopping aboard one of the catamarans in the marina. Sailing the hell out of here. Ashford was one of my oldest friends, but even he wasn’t privy to those thoughts.
“Do you have the tally?” I changed the subject.
Ashford reached in his back pocket, withdrawing a narrow but thick sheet of paper. He handed it to me.
“Not much on there tonight,” he added.
The bartender walked around the edge of the counter, carrying the aged bourbon. “Here you go, sir.” He nodded.
“Thank you.”
I scanned the tally. “Why is the bottom blank?” I looked at my friend.
“Hell if I know,” Ashford huffed. “And they’re late. I’m going to talk to Lesage. He can’t expect us to come back if this is how gala nights are being run.”
I gripped his upper arm firmly. “We’ll just take our investments elsewhere.” I eyed him.
Ashford’s nodded slightly. “It’s a shame. Freychon needed a place like this.”
“I agree. We all needed it. But he’s not up to the task. Come on. My driver can drop you somewhere.”
I was prepared to leave. Admit tonight was a loss. A wasted night, trying to feed my dark habits.
Ashford followed me toward my security guards. The bass lowered and the lights flickered.
“Wait.” I stopped him.
“Want to turn around?”
I handed the tally back to him. “Let’s take a look.” I nodded toward the black door.
“I’m just a loyal follower,” he ribbed.
I silenced him with an icy glare. No one could speak to me with that fucking tone. Friend or not.