Page 3 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
“What’s so interesting?” Abel raises an eyebrow, now fully engaged.
“Harold Horner’s daughter just walked in and applied for a job.” The guys know my history with this man. I don’t have any secrets.
“Shit.” Abel grabs his beer and wanders over. He peers down. Lifts his chin. “That her?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s fucking nice to look at. What are you going to do?”
Rule number one: Don’t fuck with me or I’ll fuck you up harder.
“I’m going to give her a job.” I finish my tequila and go back for more. I fill it up this time, damn near choking on the angerand hatred that boils up inside me. “She was always his pride and joy and is the only thing he has left that I haven’t been able to touch.” I smile, eyes on her because I can’t look away.
“I’m going to destroy her and it will be the last nail in his fucking coffin.”
CHAPTER 2
JULES
The club doesn’t look like much from the outside. There is no neon sign. No music spilling into the night. No lineup or velvet rope. Just a stone building near Central Park, with impressive double doors and the street number in a heavy gold font. The man outside is big enough to stop traffic and looks like he could put his fist through the wall.
He looks like Hulk, I think. Maybe Thor.
I look past him. The place looks exactly the same as I remember. The kind of club that’s meant for folks with money and black Amex cards and private cars. Out in LA I used to frequent places like this all the time. Back before things got bad. Before my father lost all of his money and retreated from the world. Before my mother left him for another younger, richer man, giving up one family for something shiny and new and uncomplicated.
Before everything fell onto my shoulders.
I don’t belong in this world anymore. Haven’t for a few years now but I don’t have the luxury of turning back.
My brother’s medical bills are stacked so high I can barely keep track of them. And the jobs I’ve managed to get through a temp agency aren’t enough. Dog walking and cleaningapartments only gets me so much. I need something better—something that pays real money. And this job with evening hours is perfect. I can still walk the dogs, keep a few cleaning clients, but more importantly, I can visit my brother more often.
The fact that it’s at the place my dad used to own should bother me, but I guess I’m too numb and my pride is in pieces. That’s what happens when you have to be an adult. And I’ve had to be one since before I was legal.
The doorman studies me as I climb the stairs. His arms are crossed, with big black tattoos peeking out from underneath the rolled up sleeves. Tribal for sure. Kind of cliche, though I would never tell him that. His hair is pulled back into a bun, and he sports a trimmed beard. He watches me, and though I don’t flinch under his stare, my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I have to get past him to get inside and the Horner name won’t help me here.
“Name?” His voice is a low rumble.
“Jules Harper. Henry said to come by. Said to tell you that I’m on the list.” My voice stays even, though I have to work for it. If he turns me away I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m almost desperate. I smile up at him. I’m not vain or anything, but I know the power I hold. The power these cheekbones and hair and eyes and mouth give me.
The guy doesn’t budge.
He studies me, eyes narrowed intently and sighs. I hope he doesn’t notice the cheap attempt at a French manicure, or the scuff on my Louboutin’s. He grabs a cell from his pocket and makes a call. Says exactly four words. “There’s a woman here.” He listens. Nods. Then he jerks his chin toward the door. “Inside. Straight to the bar. Ask for Brent. Don’t wander and don’t look.”
It sounds like a threat, but I manage another smile and push through the door, so relieved I want to cry. I take a moment, get my shit together and then step forward.
Walking in here is like a returning memory. One that’s been hidden for ages. A club like this is a different world for sure. The air feels warm, rich. Music plays low, the notes wrapping around conversations as I walk toward the back where the bar is located. It’s bigger than I remember. Everything is polished wood and soft light, and the people are as varied as the dress code. There are men in tailored suits and expensive Italian leather shoes, while others are dressed more casually in jeans and Tees. I see women wearing dresses that while expensive, are tacky. They show more than they cover. Definitely new money or, more likely, high end prostitutes.
I’m not judging. Hell, there are nights when I’m home, staring at the stack of bills on the hall table, thinking how easy it would be to make them all go away. I knew girls in college who had sugar daddies on the side. Wealthy men who bankrolled their lives. Maybe it’s my only choice. Just two weeks ago I turned down a trip to Venice with an old girlfriend and her two male friends. I knew what the drill was, but I wasn’t that desperate.
Yet.
I wince at the thought and push it from my mind. No sense getting ahead of myself until there’s no other option.
I lift my chin, smooth my hands down my tailored black slacks, and keep walking. No coat, no layers to hide behind. If I look like I belong, maybe they’ll believe it and offering me a job will be a no-brainer.
A man spots me right away and waves. Introduces himself as Brent the man Henry had told me to speak to. He’s younger than I expected, easy smile, warm eyes. The kind of good looking that would make most women take a second glance. Most men too.He seem nice and genuine. The kind of person who makes this whole thing feel a little less overwhelming.
