Brushed and Buried (Us Undone #1)

Chapter 1 Adrian

Adrian

I hitch the duffel bag higher on my shoulder and nearly smack myself in the knee with the baton dangling from the belt loop. Graceful. Very intimidating. It’s exactly what you want in a man about to knock on a stranger’s hotel door and grind to bad pop remixes for cash.

But hey, confidence is ninety percent posture and ten percent not tripping in knockoff boots. I’ve got both. Probably.

“Bachelorette parties,” I mutter as I thumb my phone screen again, double-checking the room number for the fourth time.

“All that frenetic, female-driven energy packed into one room, pretending to be anything but wild. Easy paycheck. Easy crowd. Tiaras and half a dozen bridesmaids named Ashley screaming into my ear. Just my classic Thursday night.”

The Azure Tides Hotel Resort isn’t just any hotel. Located on the coast of California near Santa Barbara, it’s an ultra-luxury beachfront resort with private villas, a rooftop infinity pool, a full-service spa, and direct beach access. Every detail exudes refinement.

Their hotel lobby, of course, disagrees with my version of reality.

It smells like someone spilled money and then Febrezed it.

Polished marble tiles, thick carpets so plush they erase your sins along with your footsteps, and mirrors trimmed in gold leaf.

Every surface whispers, you can’t afford to breathe here.

I catch sight of myself in the elevator’s mirrored ceiling.

Lean enough to move without knocking things over, hair golden-brown and kind of messy like I didn’t try too hard, jawline and cheekbones doing their job, eyes warm brown and alert—basically, I look…

fine. Probably not magazine-cover fine, just Adrian-fine.

But tonight, I am Officer Naughty in all his budget glory.

My shirt is one cheap button away from exploding, the plastic badge already cockeyed like it’s pre-gaming, toy handcuffs swinging from my hip like they’ve given up on being intimidating.

My aviators are crooked too, but I shove them up anyway.

Commitment separates art from amateur hour. That’s my mantra.

“Room 502,” I tell my reflection, just in case it forgot. “Top floor, ocean view. Showtime.”

The elevator dings, doors sliding open to a hallway full of expensive silence, the kind that makes your bones feel like cymbals. Identical white doors march down each side, numbers etched in brass. A vase of white orchids sits in a niche like a tasteful funeral arrangement for the concept of fun.

I count them off: 498, 500…stop at 502. Music thrums faintly behind it, bass steady enough to buzz the peephole.

Perfect.

I knock, step back, and plaster on my most seductive I’m here to ruin your last night of freedom smile. The door swings open fast, too fast, and the expression freezes halfway across my face.

Instead of glitter and squeals, I’m hit with the smell of hops and testosterone. Four men stare at me. Four. There’s not a boa or a tiara in sight, just broad shoulders filling the doorway, beer bottles clutched in hands, and a sweating tequila bottle glinting on the counter behind them.

My hips try to shift into stripper stance; my brain screams wrong crowd, abort.

Too late.

The shirtless one, front and center, wears a golden sash that reads GROOM. He blinks, then breaks into a wide smile—confused, sure, but beaming all the same. His blond curls catch the light when he laughs, easygoing in that surfer-boy way that makes it look like fun just follows him around.

Next to him, a tall guy with golden-brown skin and a trimmed beard stands steady, tattooed forearms folded over a chest broad enough to pass for actual architecture, solid and unmoving. It’s that kind of presence you notice even if he hasn’t said a word.

Beside him, another blond leans in with sharp-edged energy, mouth tilted, eyes lit up with trouble that doesn’t need encouragement, like a mischief engine revving in neutral. And at the back…

Black t-shirt. Crossed arms. Brushstroke tattoos curling up his right arm. A face I haven’t seen this close in ten years but I could draw from memory with my eyes shut.

My throat goes dry. Every rehearsed move evaporates. Showtime just got complicated.

Vince. Fucking. Holloway.

My lungs forget oxygen exists. My knees consider collapsing, and my throat dries out so fast I nearly choke on my own professionalism.

Professionalism. I am not eighteen anymore. I am Officer Naughty, purveyor of chaos and body rolls.

I flash my brightest smile. “Evening, gentlemen. Officer…” I cock a hip, “…Tightpants, though on special occasions I answer to Stiffwood. This room’s been reported for a noise complaint.

” I cross my arms, flexing them just enough to look somewhat threatening.

“And honestly, it looks suspiciously like an unlicensed party.”

Trouble Blond, the one with the sharp expression and eyes lit up like sparklers, lets out a bark of laughter. “Holy shit. Trevor, you booked a stripper?”

“Wasn’t me,” Sash Boy says, also laughing too hard to care. He sprawls against the doorframe like he owns the whole floor. “But I’m not complaining. The night is already getting really interesting.”

Brick Wall crosses his tattooed arms, chest broad enough to block out the hallway light. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze lingers, steady and measuring. “Did we get the bridesmaids’ stripper by mistake? That probably means Becca’s got the actual one.”

And Vince, the thundercloud incarnate with eyes burning holes through me, makes a sound riddled with annoyance, disbelief, and recognition he’s desperate to hide.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “This isn’t right. We booked the entertainers for us and the girls downstairs. It must’ve been the maid of honor who mixed up the floors.”

So it is him. Vince. There’s no mistaking that face and scowl, that impossible stillness that made the air bend around him.

He hasn’t changed in years, those eyes still enough to cut, that jaw still set like he’d been carved out of some stormier element than the rest of us.

He’s got the same presence, with that familiar aura that could shut down a room without lifting a hand.

And here I am, hired to grind to remixed Britney for supposedly already semi-drunk bridesmaids.

The universe has a sense of humor, and apparently I am the punchline.

I almost laugh. Almost falter. Almost.

Instead, I step forward past Sash Boy’s shoulder, into the suite like it’s mine.

I keep my chin high, like I belong in every overpriced square foot of this room.

Vince can glower all he wants; he’s background noise.

I’ve survived dick straws, glow sticks, and girls trying to Venmo me in installments. Nothing’s going to rattle me now.

“Lucky for you boys,” I purr, letting the baton tap against my palm, “I don’t discriminate. If you’ve got a pulse and a playlist, I’ll work the room. I charge by the hour, and you’ve already wasted five minutes.”

My hips tilt just enough to remind them I am not here to blush and stammer. I am here to earn. Vince’s storm-cloud aura can stay exactly where it is. I’m not eighteen anymore, I’m not fazed, and I’m definitely not giving him the satisfaction.

The suite is pure opulence with a sunken living room, a U-shaped couch, and a wall of glass showing the Pacific glittering in moonlight. Salt air drifts through the cracked balcony door, mixing with citrus cologne and tequila fumes. I set down my duffel with a purposeful thud.

Sash Boy flops onto the couch, flashing a wide smile, his faint Australian accent noticeable. “Honestly? This might be better than glitter tits. I’m Trevor. Future husband. Current drunk.”

“Adorable,” I say. “Do vows come with a lifetime supply of tequila, or is that just promotional?”

Brick Wall settles into the armchair. “George,” he says, nodding at Trevor. “His stepbrother.” His voice is steady and protective. Don’t get him killed before the wedding. That part sits in his eyes.

The blond slides in closer, expression wicked, eyes dancing like he just found the punchline of the century. “Name’s Lance. If you’re really a cop…” He tips his beer in a mock salute. “I’ll break the law so you can cuff me. That’ll make one hell of a story.”

I smirk. “Darling, you couldn’t afford the bail.”

They laugh, all except Vince.

Trevor swings an arm out, sloppy and exuberant, like he’s presenting me with the cast list of his personal rom-com.

“And that tall drink of brooding over there? That’s Vince, my best man.

You must see him everywhere nowadays. He’s the NFL golden boy, plays wide receiver for the San Francisco Tritons.

He also does modeling, charity stuff, all that good shit. Basically, he’s my claim to fame.”

Vince doesn’t so much as twitch, but his eyes stay locked on me. I get the sense he’s wondering what I’ll make of all this, but I don’t care. Ten years have gone by without me making a fuss about knowing this now-famous guy back then, never telling a soul. Well, except one.

Trevor beams, undeterred. “Don’t mind him. He’s always in a dark mood. Mysterious, tortured soul vibes. Love him to bits, though. Makes my sunshine look brighter when I’m right beside him, right?”

My smirk sharpens. Oh, I know. I know exactly how dark that storm gets, and I’ve burned myself on it before.

I square my shoulders, let the expression harden. “Adrian,” I say, giving them my real name because why the hell not. It’s not like they’ll remember it tomorrow.

Out of the corner of my eye, Vince reacts. Barely, a flicker. The faintest crease at the corner of his mouth, a breath caught too long, gone before anyone else could notice.

But I notice. Of course I do.

He hasn’t moved from his post in the back. His arms still crossed, eyes locked on me. A silent storm no one else notices, but I feel every second of it. Every nerve in my body tuned to him like he’s a frequency only I can hear. So, we’re playing this game. I Don’t Know You At All. Get Lost.