The Anti-Hero (The Goode Brothers, #1)(15)

Before I know what I’m doing, I tear open the car door and march toward the club. I feel the eyes of some of those lingering in groups, seemingly either waiting for rides or socializing. No one stops me as I reach for the door—not that I

really expected them to. Doing my best to keep my cool, I pull open the door and enter the dimly lit lobby.

The first thing I notice about the inside of this club is that it’s not nearly as loud as I expected and not nearly as dark.

There’s a hostess stand and two young women chitchatting.

When one of them looks up and notices me walking in, she simply holds out her hand, looking mildly annoyed by my presence.

I stare at her open hand in confusion. Does she want to see my ID? Is this for real?

“I need your phone,” she snaps in annoyance.

“My phone?”

She huffs out a sigh and reluctantly turns her body toward me. “Phones aren’t allowed inside the club. Are you a member?”

“No, I’m not a member,” I reply through clenched teeth.

Her eyes rake slowly over my body, and it’s at this moment that I tense out of fear that she’ll recognize me. The last thing I need is to be seen in a sex club but at the same time…I’m fuming and don’t give a shit about my reputation.

In fact, at this moment, I’d like to burn it all to hell.

“It’s a fifty-dollar entrance fee, then. And I need your phone.”

My brow furrows. I pull out my phone and wallet, setting the device on the counter and fishing out a fifty. As I hand it to her, she starts reciting something that sounds like rules, but she talks so fast and mumbles, so I barely make out what she’s saying.

I definitely catch a few alarming words—consensual, security, and… condoms?

What the fuck am I walking into?

“Thanks,” I mutter when she finishes, sliding my wallet back into my pocket. I watch as she puts my phone in a drawer with a pile of others. Unbelievable.

As I turn the corner into the main room of the club, my sense of discomfort grows. Music from the giant speakers thumps louder, like a heartbeat, pounding in time with my own.

I survey the darkened atmosphere, taking in the numerous tables and booths that are situated around the bar. There is a random doorway in the rear and a hallway off to the right. The second floor is draped with mirrors, which I assume are transparent from the other side.

And as I catch movement in the booth on the far end of the room—movement that looks too much like a blow job to not be a blow job, my stomach turns with anxiety.

I’m in a sex club.

By all reasoning, I should turn around and walk out right now. If I am spotted here, there’ll be hell to pay—literally. But I’m too fired up. Still so angry from the conversation with my father earlier and now this. Something inside me aches to rebel, and it’s something I’ve never felt before.

So with that, I head toward the bar.

Finding an empty barstool with a view of the large room, I take a seat and wait patiently for the busy bartender to notice me. As soon as we make eye contact, she gives me an expectant expression, and I quickly blurt out my order for a Tullamore Dew on the rocks. After she passes me my drink, I pass her my credit card and inform her to keep my tab open.

My eyes focus on the room, and I think again about Pink Hair. A feeling of disappointment settles in my chest. The chasm that divides my world from hers just grew to the size of the moon. We might as well be on two different planets at this point.

The first glass of whiskey goes down easily. It’s only fifteen minutes before I order a second. The entire time my mind is in a vicious, angry cycle, going round and round from surprise to anger to wanting to do something about it and round again.

To my surprise, the bartender lets me get piss drunk, and the entire time I’m at the bar, watching people around me in the dark space nearly fuck each other in all corners of the room, I don’t spot Pink Hair.

What would I even say to her if I did see her? I just want to understand.

My head is heavy, and the voices and music in the room blur in my inebriated brain.

I’m sulking over my whiskey when a flash of pink catches my eye. I lift my head in a rush to see Sage rushing across the room, clearly on a mission. When she reaches someone sitting in a booth on the side, her body language changes. Her arms cross over her tiny frame and her chin tilts downward as she speaks.

It’s not the girl full of sunshine and sparks that I met two weeks ago. She’s angry, struggling, frustrated.

I know the feeling.

I can’t hear what she’s saying over the thump of the bass, but it’s clear they’re having somewhat of an argument. Her arm gestures toward the bar, and she gives an exasperated expression as his head falls back. Then he puts a hand out toward her, palm out like a stop sign, and her posture shrinks again.

The man stands, and I take in his appearance. Slim, black pants, tight black button-down, dark-blond hair to his ears, and tattoos creeping up his neck. When he puts his hands affectionately on Sage’s arms, seemingly to settle her down, I look away.

That must be the boyfriend.

My jaw clenches as I glare at him from across the club.

I’ve never met the guy and I already don’t like him. He’s talking down to her—literally and figuratively.

After Sage storms off, heading toward a narrow hallway on the side of the room, I make my move.