Page 4 of Dreams and Desires

“Night, Grams.”

I know Jacob is counting on me. The past can howl, claw, and spit, but I am not letting it pull me under. I breathe in, breathe out, and promise I will hold.

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Chapter Two

Zade

The bouncer unhooks the entrance rope and the club's sound system punches me square in the chest. The bass thumps deep enough that my heart forgets its own rhythm. Flashing lights slice through the room, bright purples and neon greens splitting the crowd into freeze-frame moments—Dresses catch the lights. Arms wave around. People drip with sweat.

The smell hits next: booze and perfume mixed with that sweaty-metal tang you get when speakers are pushed too far. The whole room smells like bad decisions waiting to happen. Even the mirrors along the walls sweat a little.

Perfect spot for someone trying to stop thinking.

I slide into the middle of the VIP booth, all plush velvet that sinks under my weight. I relax my shoulders, pretending I'm at ease. A quick two-finger signal and a server appears instantly, dropping off a crystal glass of whiskey and vanishing again. The whiskey is dark. It rolls in the glass. Looks like it istrying to escape. I drink deep. Smoke, salt, heat, all hit me at once. It’s exactly what I needed.

Tailored suit, dark shirt, silver tie—my usual armor. It fits me like a second skin, made to tell everyone I don't care. Two women head toward me, confident like they've hunted this way before. The blonde makes her move first, legs endless, dress shiny enough to blind. She lands on my lap like she's claimed it, fingers brushing my jaw. Right behind her, a redhead drapes herself over the booth, fingertips grazing my head. One smells sweet, like gum, the other like strawberries and smoke.

They look good. But I know the type. Lonely and looking for attention. I'm barely paying attention.

Blonde leans closer, whispering loud over the music, "You're gorgeous, Zade. Why waste the night here? I've got a loft uptown."

They know my name. Everyone here does. I finish my whiskey, feeling the burn settle me. "Not tonight,” I reply, simple, clear, final.

She shifts on my lap, persistent. "The night's young."

This would’ve worked on me once, but tonight it just highlights the emptiness I’m trying to drown. Carefully, politely, I help her stand again. "Lots of adventures out there. I'm not one of them tonight."

Redhead tries next. Her hand touches my arm, gentle but insistent. "Just one dance, Zade. One song, let them talk."

I shake my head slowly, holding her gaze to soften the rejection. "Maybe another time."

Disappointment shows across their faces, then they're gone, disappearing into the lights and noise. The crowd swallows them whole.

I push through the crowd toward the exit, each bump, each touch leaving behind heat and noise until I stumble out into the alley. Outside it’s like a breath of fresh air if you call New York’s air fresh.

My black Aston Martin waits at the curb. I hit the key, and it growls awake. As I pull into traffic the city blurs past. Towers close in as I pull underground into the private garage. The security gate rattles shut, locking me away from everything again.

The elevator ride feels longer than it probably is. It’s quiet, all mirrors, so I keep catching pieces of my own reflection whether I want to or not. My suit still looks decent. Kind of stiff, but clean. My face looks tired, though. Not falling-apart tired—just worn in a way I do not always notice until I am forced to look at it like this.

Some days I am okay. Some nights, like this one, it creeps in. That heavy, stretched-thin feeling. I hate it. I do not know what to do with it most of the time.

The doors finally open and it’s that quiet kind of rich. You can feel it in the way everything is spaced out. Art everywhere, like it means something. Huge windows showing off Manhattan like it is trying to remind you where you are. All those lights shining like they have something to prove.

It should feel good. It doesn't. Instead, all I see is a tiny apartment with peeling paint, cockroaches, and a ceiling stain shaped weirdly like an animal. It’s a memory I've tried hard to forget.

I strip down to boxers and drop onto the oversized bed, letting exhaustion pull me under.

I wake up before the sun. Same way I always do. The lights flip on by themselves when my feet hit the floor. Warm marble underfoot. Quiet. Still dark outside.

The gym’s empty. Clean. Everything lined up like a showroom—dumbbells, treadmill, cables. No music, no distractions. Just me. I jump straight in. Burpees. Jump squats. Kettlebell swings until my legs shake. I keep going anyway. Sweat drips into my eyes. My chest tightens. Every move starts to blur into the next. That’s kind of the point.

After, I shower. I crank the heat so high the whole place fills with steam. The soap smells like cedar and something sharp. I just stand there for a minute, not moving, letting it all rinse off. The glass fogs up fast, and when I drag my hand across it, I barely recognize the guy staring back at me.

I dry off fast and get dressed in dark suit, crisp shirt and tie. My shoes shine so hard I could probably use them to blind someone if I wanted.

Downstairs, the driver holds out the keys. I nod but take them myself. I do not know why. I just want to be the one behind the wheel today. Maybe I need the quiet. Or maybe I just need to feel like I’m in control ofsomething.

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