Page 3 of Rhythm Of Redemption

He navigated the twists and turns in the road with effortless grace; the car hugging every bend like a second skin. This is the life. A smile of pure joy lit up his face as he pulled into his reserved parking bay behind Manik, one of the hottest nightclubs in San Antonio.

He walked around to the front entrance as he always did, revelling in the attention of the crowds, willing to stand in line for hours to gain entry. His love of the limelight was a hangover from his days as the lead singer of Crimzon Steel, but now, amongst this new generation of partygoers, he was just as famous for owning Manik.

“Everything okay, Matti?” he addressed the six-foot-four blond giant when he entered the lobby.

Matti had worked as his Head of Security for the last two years and was a man of few words. “Yes.”

“But you’ve spoken to the guys? Told them what to look out for?”

“We discussed it.” He nodded slowly, enunciating each word carefully in his thick Finnish accent.

“I’ll be in there,” Logan headed towards where all the revellers were, “if you need me.”

Again, Matti nodded.

Logan pulled open the door, a rush of excitement flooding his body the moment he stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him. He paused as he always did, his eyes sweeping the room like a king surveying his kingdom, and he let out a contented sigh.

The costly refurb had been a massive success and worth every penny, Nage, a hotshot new designer from Milan, had charged him. The brief had been simple. Make Manik the place everyone wanted to be and, more importantly, be seen at.

Eighteen months later and business was still booming, recouping his original investment several times over. Tens of thousands of partygoers from all walks of life, from the chic and stylish to the edgy and avant-garde flocked to the hedonistic party island every year to indulge in whatever pleasure took their fancy.All of them united by a shared desire to let loose and have fun while leaving their cares and worries far behind.

He didn’t judge. Being cooped up for months on end in a crappy old tour bus with nine other guys, playing some of the biggest dives in the arse end of nowhere, he’d seen some pretty weird shit, and it had taught him that everyone copes with pressure in their own way. Mac’s way had been to fuck anything with a pulse, including Logan’s fiancée, Amberlene. And Amberlene, well, he just wished he’d realised the pressures she’d been under, then maybe … but it was too late now.

Live and let live was his motto and how people got their kicks was their own damn business. But if you wanted to party at the palace, you followed the king’s one golden rule. No drugs in his house. That was non-negotiable, and if you didn’t like it, then you could fuck off down the strip to one of the other clubs that were willing to turn a blind eye to any nefarious goings-on as long as the tills kept ringing.

A surge of energy rippled through his veins like a mega-watt current. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the raw, primal energy of people cutting loose and having a good time, lost in the rhythm of the pulsating beat ricocheting off the walls. Flashing neon lights swirled like a rainbow hurricane, bouncing off the mirrored surfaces and bathing a sea of sweaty bodies in a near otherworldly glow.

Catching Angel’s eye, he made his way towards the bar. Angel, his bar manager, had been with him since, well, he couldn’t really remember, it had been that long. He vaguely remembered their first meeting. They’d both been after the same girl, and depending on who was telling the story, and whose version you believed, the one who eventually got the girl was debatable since all three of them had left the club together. Their one and only sexual encounter had taught Angel that she wasn’t physically attracted to men. It also taught Logan never to underestimate Angel. Standing at only a smidgen over five foot, she reminded him of Tinker Bell with her bleached blonde pixie crop, elfin features, and petite figure. She might have looked like a pushover, but despite her size, that girl could pack a punch and took no shit from anyone. Thank God she was on his side.

The heady scent of sweat, perfume, and alcohol hung thick in the air as he neared the dancefloor. A cheer went up, and the music grew louder when the opening beats of a club favourite rang out. The neon lights swirled faster and faster, keeping time with the throbbing beat, and sending the already frenzied throng to almost fever pitch.

If he hadn’t seen this kind of hysteria before, he might have been worried, afraid even. But this was nothing compared to his days in the band. Even when their bodyguards formed a protective shield between them and their fans, a few would always break through in their desperation to touch their idol. Reason told him that these young women meant him no harm, but their sheer numbers and the chaotic hysteria often made it feel more like a threat than adoration.

“What’s up with you?” he asked, resting his elbow on the bar. “You’ve got a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.”

“This lot.” She inclined her head in the direction of the bar staff, racing around like their arses were on fire. “Standing around yakking like a bunch of old fucking women on bingo night.” He always found it funny the way her Scottish accent became more pronounced when she was annoyed, but he didn’t dare show it. “And pretty boy is going to have to go.”

Logan frowned, not quite sure which of the young men behind the bar she was referring to. “I can’t decide if he’s just fucking thick or a thief. His till was short again last night. How hard is it to take the money and give the right change, for Christ’s sake? The till does all the maths for you. All he’s got to do is count it out, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s your call.” Angel was tough but fair, and he trusted her to make the right decision. “Have you told them to keep their eyes peeled for anything, you know, suspicious?”

“They know the kind of thing to be on the lookout for.” Her voice swirled somewhere in the background, but he was no longer listening, his attention focused on the pretty young woman standing next to him.

Her honeyed locks hung over her shoulders, coming to rest just above the swell of her breasts. She leaned across the bar, trying to catch the attention of one of the staff, giving him a bird’s-eye view of the struggle facing the bandeau of her strapless dress.

“What does it take to get a drink around here?” She smiled up at him from beneath long, mascara-laden lashes.

He turned and angled his body towards her. “It helps if you know the owner.” He raised his hand in a familiar gesture and seconds later Angel slammed a bottle of his favourite champagne onto the bar in front of him, followed by two glasses.

“Wow, you must know the owner?” She giggled, her awe-struck gaze a stark contrast to the disdainful look Angel threw his way.

He shrugged, noncommittally, before opening the bottle and pouring the frothing liquid into the glasses. Did she really think he believed she didn’t know who he was? This wasn’t the first time he’d played this game. The leading lady may have changed, but the story always ended the same way, with the pair of them back at his place continuing their private party alone.

“Logan Meyer,” he introduced himself. “I own this club.”

She took a slow seductive sip, her eyes fixed on his as she ran the tip of her tongue slowly along her bottom lip. “I thought your name was Bogey.”

He knew she’d been lying. “It’s a nickname from way back.” Fucking Mac Mackenzie. It was his fault. Some girl he’d been seeing had called him Logey—and Mac, in his usual snarky way—had changed it to Bogey, and then it stuck. Childish arsehole.

---