Friction: Touch (Reverie #1)

Chapter 1

One

RHEA

“ W hat do you think is going through his head right now?” Luna yelled in my ear, her shoulder pushing into mine as she pressed close to be heard.

I couldn’t even be mad she was all in my space; it was a limited commodity for the whole crowd.

Even in the open space of the arena, the size of the audience promoted heat and humidity. With the current potpourri of sweat and perfume and whatever the concession stand was peddling, it was stifling in here.

And yet… a good time.

I pulled my attention from the action happening in the ring to answer the question, watching her nose wrinkle in a cringe as she closed her eyes in reaction to another sickening thump .

Another landed punch.

I shook my head, feeling bad for the man on the receiving end of the hit I’d missed.

“ Is getting my ass beat like this really worth the secondary purse ?” I mused out loud as my attention shifted back to the boxing ring. The opponents had momentarily parted, retreating to their respective corners to regroup.

To try, at least.

Darius Atwood was stone-faced as his coach held a water bottle to his lips, yelling words of encouragement I couldn’t hear and didn’t care to focus on. From my front row seat, I could already see the unnatural swelling in his jaw, the fatigue weighing heavily on his limbs even as he bounced in place, keeping his muscles loose.

He was losing.

He knew he was losing.

It was in his eyes.

His mind wasn’t even here anymore—the smell, the noise, the blinding lights of the ring—all that may as well already be in his rear view. He was thinking ahead: painkillers and a hot bath, his girlfriend and her tongue, the rising numbers in his bank account.

A loss was a loss, but he’d put up a good fight, as good a fight as anyone could when your opponent was the Ace of Spades.

Micah McKnight.

Across the ring, Micah was seated in his corner, casually sipping from a bottle somebody else was holding while his coach fixed his spade-motif gloves.

Bored.

That spade motif was everywhere—gloves, shorts, an inky black sleeve tatted on his sweat-covered arm.

He’d leaned into the story.

Rightfully.

Undefeated champions could do that.

I didn’t mean to focus on him so hard. The Dream Girl emblazoned across the back of my denim jacket, the professional hair and makeup, the coveted ringside seats, all meant I was at this fight in my “official” capacity. My only responsibilities at this fight were being a bad bitch and not appearing to favor either boxer.

Micah was one of Reverie’s officially sponsored athletes, but that didn’t give him some automatic advantage in the fight. Especially not one being hosted at Reverie.

It was very, very hard not to focus on Micah.

In addition to being a world class fighter, insane stamina, agility, strength… The man was simply fine.

A deep chocolate pretty boy really, but with tattoos and scars, a little gruff in delivery and demeanor, and a well- documented history of hands first, questions later that kept him in trouble as a teen.

An intoxicating kind of combination that encouraged out-of-character behavior from otherwise level-headed women, and I was not immune.

Which was why, like I said, I didn’t mean to focus on him.

As a matter of fact, I usually made a point of looking away any time I happened to find myself in the same space as him, or any man with a similar resume. In an arena though, there was a false sense of security.

One moment, I was just observing.

The next, I was enraptured by just how calm he was.

The confidence.

The certainty.

The stillness made it a little hard to breathe, and impossible to look away.

Somewhere at the edges of my mind, I heard the bell signaling the commencement of the next round, but I was stuck.

Micah stood, put up his guard.

And… looked at me.

Straight at me.

Right in the eyes.

Oh, shit.

It didn’t feel like eye contact; it felt like a damn spotlight, on me only, taking my breath away.

My lips parted, with effort, in desperate search of air as his full lips curved into a smirk. His attention was on me, and Darius was taking advantage of it, with body shots that… did nothing.

Micah didn’t flinch.

He winked at me.

And then the smirk dropped.

It was so, so devastatingly quiet as Micah’s shoulders twisted in slow motion—elbow bent, glove tucked under, loading the spring.

And then releasing it.

There was nothing Darius could do against an uppercut that fast, that powerful, right to the jaw.

It was still so quiet as the blow connected, with enough force to take his feet off the mat before he crumpled to it, splayed out with his gloves wide.

Only then did the noise of the crowd come rushing back, reacting to what had just happened. I blinked, and the ref was there in the middle of the ring with Micah, his gloves in the air as the crowd went wild.

An unfamiliar tingle crawled up my neck, making me shake my head.

What the fuck just happened?

“That was a crazy hit!” Luna shrieked, grabbing my hands. “How do you even survive a hit like that?”

“Good question,” I muttered, my gaze still on the ring, where Darius had been helped up. There wasn’t a single thought behind his eyes right now; he was still dazed. I watched as Micah crossed the ring, holding out a glove to his opponent in a gesture of sportsmanship the other man managed to return, eliciting a fresh reaction from the crowd.

Class act.

Always.

That too, was the reputation.

“Hey come on, we’ve gotta get to Dream,” Luna said, hooking an arm through mine. “Aren’t you hostess with the mostest tonight?”

“Yeah.” I blinked, shaking away my confusion.

I had an afterparty to host.

“ I don’t want to be in his section.”

From across his desk, Jackson raised an eyebrow at me, his fingers frozen mid-message over his keyboard.

“Say that again?” he asked, leaning forward a bit like he was confused by what I’d said.

I rolled my eyes. “You heard me.”

“I heard my number one Dream Girl—the fucking face of this club—tell me she doesn’t want be in the reigning heavyweight champion’s section tonight. The Ace of Spades. Why? He got a scandal or something?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Okay, then I’m gonna need to hear your reasoning. I know you’re plotting and planning to leave, but for now…. why you not trying to be where the money resides?”

My eyes went big. “Where the money resides? I’m gonna tell Cami to put you in a home, old man.”

Jackson chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “My bad, y’all don’t say that no more?”

“ No ,” I laughed.

“What’s the new thing? You don’t want no puppy, you want a big dog? Micah ain’t a big dog?”

“I’m not trying to think about Micah McKnight!” I insisted. “The other girls might be trying to land a sponsor, but I’m not. Every trick in Vegas is gonna be in that section tonight. I’d rather let them have it.”

Jackson didn’t say anything.

He just looked at me.

He’d been the manager at Dream a long time, probably fifteen years at this point, and had undoubtedly seen it all.

Good, bad, ugly, criminal, all of the above.

He wasn’t buying it.

“Rhea…” he started, and I groaned, already knowing he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “Rhea of sunshine… face of the club… dreamiest of the Dream Girls….”

I already knew what he was thinking. The niggas here tonight are going to expect to see her, she’s literally on the website.

I sucked my teeth. “Whatever, Jackson.”

“You can have the rest of the week off.”

“I’m never coming back,” I sang over my shoulder as I walked out of his office, right back into the flashing lights, pounding music, and smoky haze of the club.

Who was I kidding?

I loved this shit.

It was why I was here night after night being a bad bitch instead of doing something more “professional” with my degree in luxury hospitality and event management. There was already a clear path laid out for me when I was done here, and I knew that time was coming soon. I’d use my experience and connections to enter the director pipeline, either here at Reverie, or maybe the Drake.

Either would be perfectly fine.

For now though… This was my scene.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

The night was still way too young, especially for a title fight night. Dream was already thick with energy—bottles getting bought, bodies swaying under the strobing lights, voices raised over the music, negotiations being made…

I loved it.

I wasn’t the owner or the head manager, but as number one Dream Girl , tonight, this was absolutely my shit.

I was not pressed about Micah McKnight.

Refused to be.

Which was why I kept my distance from his section, even though I was very much on the floor—working, checking in with my regulars, making sure the high rollers were taken care of, procuring future VIP bookings. I moved around the space with a smile on my face and my earpiece secure, keeping me tapped in with everything around the club.

It was a sensory overload, but I was in my element.

I helped the newest bottle girl deliver to a table of assholes, smirking over the unspoken chorus of goddamn when I stepped into their section. My security, Chastity, stared them down, hand at her waist, just long enough to make the point that no bullshit was tolerated here.

“Hey,” I told the bottle girl as we were leaving. “You come right to me if they don’t get the message.”

“I will. Thanks, Rhea.”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

Well.

Part of.

All in all, my job was curating the experience, and everything I’d done so far tonight fell into it, including making sure these men knew it was a privilege to have a beautiful woman serving their drinks and bringing them wings.

They were guests, not royalty.

Especially not at a fifteen hundred dollar table.

Especially when there was actual Black Vegas royalty here.

I could feel Micah’s presence from across the club—a supernova-level gravitational pull it was killing me to not acknowledge.

A sudden roar of jovial noise snatched my attention in that direction. The section was only semi-private, blocked off, but transparent, allowing anyone to see inside.

Purposely, I avoided looking at Micah, but took inventory of who else was in there: a bunch of niggas I could easily ignore.

And one I couldn’t.

Kingston fucking Whitfield.

The owner.

Of course he’d come to show love to the champion.

“ Where the fuck is Sunny ?”

The question rang in my head, the confusion plain on Kingston’s face as he peered around before he verbalized it in my ear.

“The welcome walk already happened?”

Fuuuuck.

I groaned, then lifted a finger to my headset, avoiding body contact as I made my way to a quieter section.

“No,” I answered. “Coming right up though.”

“This isn’t like you. You good? Do we need to reconsider?—”

“There’s nothing we need to reconsider,” I quickly told him, before he could even get it out. “I can handle this. And more.”

He couldn’t see me, but I could still see him.

The smirk, and nod of approval.

“Good. On with the show, then.”

Whew.

Disaster averted.

It wasn’t really about the welcome walk; it was about the proper order of things, which I was supposed to be keeping.

Especially in front of Reverie’s owner.

The last thing I needed was my aversion to the weird shit from earlier to affect my future at the casino. And improperly handling a guest of this magnitude would absolutely not go over well.

Get it together, Rhea.

I stepped away to adjust my boobs in my cropped, airbrushed Dream tank top, made sure my waist chain was laying right. A quick lip gloss check, a fluff to my bundles, and I was on my way to grab Luna and actually do my job tonight.

Making sure the reigning champ got a proper welcome.