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.
I’m drunk and in no position to be talking to anyone, especially with all the spite and anger mixed with whiskey in my bloodstream. I keep up my pace behind her, coming in hot as she reaches for a doorknob to a room I assume is an office.
Before she can close herself in, I’m there. My hand grips the door with a loud thud, and she lets out a gasp as her eyes turn up to stare at my face.
“What the—”
Before she can finish that sentence, I’m inside the office, slamming the door to close us in together.
Seven
Sage
T he door to the office slams, and suddenly, I’m standing in close proximity to none other than the man I had breakfast with two weeks ago. If today was trying to throw me for a loop, it succeeded.
The only thing stranger than him being here is the look of utter vitriol on his face.
My sense of danger is heightened, although I’m not entirely worried that this man is about to hurt me. The expression on his face doesn’t match the gentleman who gave me his seat at breakfast, but I’m too stunned to properly voice just how confused I am.
“What the…” I stammer.
“Remember me?” he mutters, and I can tell immediately that he’s drunk.
Fuck Brett for never listening to me about the alcohol limit. This is exactly why there needs to be one.
“Yes, of course. What are you doing here?” I back farther into the room, feeling my way toward the desk, where I have more access to things that could be used as a weapon—stapler, scissors, the rolling office chair.
“You own a sex club,” he slurs.
Confusion tightens my features. “Yeah. So?”
“You bragged all morning about your little club. If I’d known then what kind of club it was—”
My face twists in disgust. Here I was, thinking this guy and I had a connection, and now he follows me to my club, only to ambush me and try to make me feel bad about it. I knew I shouldn’t have given him the card.
“Oh, you wouldn’t have bought my six-dollar breakfast?
Get over yourself.”
I try to move past him toward the door. This entire day is a fucking waste, and the sooner I can get out of here and wash it all away with cheap beer alone in my apartment, the better.
Why are all men so fucking disappointing?
“If I had known you were a pretentious prude, I wouldn’t have given you that card in the first place,” I snap at him.
“I thought you were different,” he mutters, blocking my way.
My eyes narrow as I glare up at him. “Fuck. You.”
Just as I reach the door, ready to throw it open and leave him in the office, he says two words that stop me in my tracks.
“Truett Goode.”
My hand is on the knob, but I don’t turn it. Instead, I spin around and stare at him in confusion.
“Does that name mean anything to you?” he asks.
I know who Truett is, of course. Everyone in Austin knows that self-righteous, hypocritical smug bastard.
As I stare at Adam, waiting for an explanation, he starts to look even more drunk than he was a moment ago when he cornered me in here.
“That’s my father.”
My jaw drops.
Of fucking course it is.
Then, because it’s just all too ironic, I start laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Adam asks, looking offended.
“Oh, nothing,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest.
“My father is going to have your club shut down,” he adds, and I laugh again.
“Is that a warning…or a threat?” I ask with humor. Adam just grows more and more frustrated with my laughter. I find it hilarious to see how angry he is to learn that I own this club.
Wait until he finds out his father is one of our most prestigious members.
“I’m serious,” he barks. “He has the property title in his office. He already owns this building.”
My laughter stops.
The blood drains from my face as I glare at him, humor replaced by fury. The entire conversation with my boyfriend earlier tonight replaying in my mind.
“That fucking asshole,” I mutter to myself when I place the pieces together, realizing Brett levied the deed to the club with the one fucking man he should not get into business with.
What an idiot. Brett is powerless against him. I’m sure Truett had some trick of charm and allure he used to get Brett to hand him everything we’ve worked to build.
“I have to go—” I say, reaching for the door handle. As soon as I get out of this office, I’m going to find Brett and tell him what a shortsighted idiot he is. And then I’m leaving.
But my hand freezes when I notice Adam focusing on something near the desk. I let my words trail off as I follow his gaze. When I notice that the thing he’s staring at is the security footage on the computer screen, my skin erupts with goose bumps.
Because the man on the screen is unmistakable. Truett Goode is currently in the club, having his way with a young woman in the VIP room.
I quickly glance back at Adam, my eyes wide and my skin burning hot with anticipation. He’s glaring at the screen, and I’m surprised there’s no actual smoke coming out of his ears.
“That motherfucker,” he grits.
The next thing I know, he’s pushing past me, marching out of the office and down the hall on a mission.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
I’m chasing after Adam, calling his name, trying to get a grip on his arm to keep him from doing anything crazy, but
there’s no stopping him.
And the neon lights at the end of the hall loom like an omen—VIP.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He barrels past the spot where a security guard should be, slipping right through the black curtain that separates the general population from the exclusive section of the club. It’s louder and darker in there, but there’s no missing the man in the booth on the other side of the room with his face buried between the legs of the woman on the table.
Adam is practically running toward him, and I can do nothing but watch and wince as he grabs the man by the collar of his shirt and tosses him out of the booth. The woman screams and the VIP room erupts in chaos.
Where the fuck are the bouncers?
My hands cover my face as Adam drags his father off the floor by his shirt and rears back his fist. There’s a look of such hatred and anger on Adam’s face as he hesitates with his arm cocked and ready to fly.
But he never sends his fist coursing toward his father’s face. Instead, he stares at him with raw emotion and pain etched into his features. It’s almost like he’s frozen in place, some sort of internal voice stopping him from doing what he so clearly wants to.
“You…”
His words hang in the air, uttered through an expression of pure hatred.
Finally, finally, the six-foot-three bouncer grabs Adam by the arm and hauls him away from Truett. I turn to find Brett and two other bouncers rushing into the room.
“What the fuck is going on?” Brett snaps with his angry eyes on me.
“Well, it looks like the new owner of our club was about to get his ass kicked.”