Page 15 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
“I need a favor.”
“Of course you do,” he mutters, but I hear the sound of him sitting up. “Who am I digging into?” Cade is like a hound dog. He can find out anything about anybody. It’s why he was so valuable to our group, especially early on when we formed our company. If there’s a bread crumb out there, he’ll track it down.
“Jules Harper. Twenty-three. Lives in Manhattan, just started working at the club. I want everything—where she’s staying, who she knows, where her money’s coming from, what she’s hiding. Dig deep. I don’t want the surface crap anyone can find. I want the dirt.”
“This is the woman who came up to your suite the other night.”
“It is.”
“She’s Horner’s daughter.”
“Bingo.”
Cade pauses. “Do I want to know why?”
“Doubtful.”
Another pause, then a low chuckle. “Fine. But this is going to cost you a bottle of that overpriced tequila you hoard.”
“Done. Call me when you have something.”
I hang up, close the laptop, and lean back in my chair again. I propped open the window an hour ago and the city hums outside, distant and cold with blaring horns and echoed voices. It sounds chaotic. Appropriate I suppose, because my thoughts are anything but calm.
Jules is hiding something. And by the time Cade’s done, I’ll know every last secret she has. I’ll know who she’s slept with. Who she has coffee with. Who she trusts. Where she lives. What she has in her bank account. All of it. Once I have all the facts, I can finalize the plan.
I guess if I was a better man I’d feel bad for her, but I push that away and focus on the task at hand. This isn’t about Jules Horner.
The thought makes me smile and restless, I get to my feet. Pour myself a generous scotch and drink until I fall asleep.
CHAPTER 6
JULES
The VIP lounge feels heavier than the main floor, like the air itself carries a price tag. I mean, I guess it does. The entire area is roped off in red velvet. From what I was told tables up here have a flat fee of ten thousand dollars a night.
Jesus. Ten thousand dollars just for the right to sit up here and look down on the minions below.
I blush at the thought, feeling a bit like a hypocrite. There was a time I’d walk into clubs like this with no thought as to cost. It was about status. Belonging. Even if I didn’t know it. I mean, to me it was second nature and now I’m on the other side of it. And the thing is? It’s not so bad.
I don’t owe anyone anything. Well, other than the massive pile of bills I’m making my way through, but still. There’s something to be said for flying solo. For not having to answer to anyone.
Not even Dad. I blink at the thought and push it away just as quick.
The blues drifting up from the stage below are soft, like a soundtrack to a movie I don’t belong in or a memory that isn’t quite clear. Everything feels designed to make people forget the outside world exists: the velvet drapes over the stairwell, thewarm candlelight flickering against crystal glasses, the low hum of whispered conversations where I catch names I recognize from headlines.
In the far corner a couple faces each other, hands entwined, lips with only a whisper between them. They’re the couple du jour and I glance away, silently thrilled the rumors are true. Good for her, I think. Finding that kind of love in this day and age.
“Coming?” Cassidy’s voice is light and I give myself a mental shake. Tell myself that everyone up here is no different than the cat lady across the hall from me. Well, maybe she’s not a great example, but still. They’re human. They just have a lot of zeros in their bank accounts.
Like I used to have.
“Jules?”
“Yes.”
Cassidy glides across the room like she’s weightless, her tray balanced in one hand as if it were part of her arm. I trail close behind and try my best to not let my nerves show.
“Same rules as last night,” she murmurs as we approach our first table. “Smile, serve, and disappear. If the customers want to talk, and,” she raises her eyebrows, “they will. You’re too pretty and shiny and new. Be polite and try not to engage. These men are used to getting what they want. And to ninety-nine percent of them you’re just excess pussy they haven’t had. They’ll do or say anything for first crack at the new girl. Trust me, we’ve had our fair share who never made it past their first week.” Her voice softens. “It’s not fun to feel used and then tossed away like garbage with your pride in the gutter and an envelope of Benjamins as compensation.”
