Chapter 14
RAUL
Dad and I have been working almost every day of the week.
Aunt Val was in a car accident a few months after graduation night, and it was the second time I'd seen my father that scared. Almost as scared as he'd been when my mom got sick.
Aunt Val stayed in the hospital for weeks. Diego barely left her side. We practically had to force his smelly ass to shower. So Dad and I stepped up in every other way we could. We picked up every job, every gig, every extra shift. Nothing was off the table.
We make more running with Uncle Ernie's guys, obviously, but sometimes we pick up extra cash doing security for events, bars, and clubs around town. We're always easy choices. Builds like ours make people think twice before testing us. Most nights, that's enough.
Those are my favorite jobs.
Dad and I throw on matching black button-ups, or black shirts with SECURITY printed across the back depending on the event. Half the time, we run into more trouble doing those jobs than we ever did selling drugs. The thought makes me chuckle.
Tonight is no different.
We've been hired for security at a new downtown club called Scarlet. The place is themed head to toe in black and scarlet red.
Dad and I park a ways down the road and walk up together. The sun is still up, but we've been told to arrive early for a walkthrough and to get any extra gear we might need.
We approach the check-in desk side by side.
"Name?" the woman asks us with a warm smile.
"Ernesto and Raul Alvarez," I say flatly.
I appreciate the kindness, but I'm not here to make friends.
"We're cousins," my dad says with a wink.
"Clearly." She laughs.
I keep fidgeting with the crease in my slacks while she checks the list. We handed her our IDs.
Mine is a fake, showing that I'm 21. My dad, naturally, is already making eyes at her like he's got nowhere else to be.
I'm not sure if he's actually flirting or just trying to distract her. I never know.
A second later, she hands us each a flashlight, a deep red satin tie, and a water bottle.
"Molly will be with you guys in a sec," she says, flashing us another playful smile.
A woman comes up to us a moment later and introduces herself as Molly, the host for the event. That part's normal. They always send someone to walk us through the place so we know the layout and our positions.
Molly leads us through the front entrance first, and the club swallows us whole.
Scarlet is darker inside than it looked from the street.
The lighting is low and moody, washed in red that spills over black walls and glossy surfaces.
Everything feels intentional. Sharp edges.
Dark velvet booths. Mirrors framed in matte black.
A long bar that gleams under a strip of crimson light.
The air smells like expensive perfume and fresh paint.
My eyes move automatically, taking inventory. Exits. Sightlines. Blind spots. Points where somebody could disappear if they wanted to. Dad does the same beside me, only he looks bored doing it, like this kind of thing is muscle memory.
Molly walks backward in front of us, talking as she goes.
"This is the main floor," she says, motioning to the center space where the dance floor will be once the crowd fills in. "VIP sections along the left wall. Bar's over there. Bathrooms are at the back. Emergency exit by the alley, staff only, and there's another exit near the storage hallway."
I nod once, filing everything away.
Dad glances at a booth near the far wall. "That one a VIP?"
"Yes," Molly says. "All the red booths are reserved seating."
"Fancy."
She smiles, clearly used to men like him. I'm not sure whether that makes me more amused or more annoyed.
She keeps us moving, leading us past the bar, where bottles are still being arranged behind glass shelves.
Bartenders are testing the taps, glasses clinking softly in the background.
A stage sits near the back with dark curtains drawn tight on either side, and overhead, a lighting rig throws a faint red glow across everything below it.
"We have security stationed at the front door, the main floor, and the back hall," Molly says. "You two will be mostly circulating, checking wristbands, keeping an eye on the bar, and helping with crowd control if things get too loud."
She takes us toward the back hall next. The music is still off for now, but I can already imagine what it'll feel like once the place fills up. Bass thumping through the floorboards, people shouting into each other's ears, drunk bodies pressing too close under red lights.
The hallway is narrower, quieter, painted black from floor to ceiling. Doors line one side: storage, staff only, office, restroom access. A camera sits in the corner above us, angled down toward the hall.
"Storage's here," Molly says, stopping at a steel door. "Medical kit, extra supplies, backup wristbands, replacement radio batteries. If anything happens, call me or one of the managers first."
"Got it," I say.
She points to another door. "Office. Locked at all times unless management is in there."
Molly takes us through the staff corridor and out the rear exit, where the alley waits in dim afternoon light. Dumpsters line the brick wall, and there's another door that opens straight into the back of the club.
"This is where deliveries come in," she says. "And where you'll probably spend half your night if somebody starts trouble."
My mouth twitches.
That sounds about right.
She gives us each a final once-over, then points back toward the front. "You'll have radios. If you need anything, call it in. Once the doors open, it gets loud fast."
I glance back toward the club entrance, then up at Dad.
He's looking at the building like he's already decided where the problems will start.
I can barely hear my radio over the music.
The club is packed now, bodies moving in a restless blur, every kind of person folded together under the red lights and thick bass.
So far, the night's been easy. Quiet. Mostly respectful.
I've spent most of it posted near the bar, and Dad's stayed in his section too.
Easy money.
"Cash or card?" the bartender shouts over the music.
My breath catches when I look over.
Her.
Mahogany hair in loose curls around her face.
Freckles scattered across her skin like somebody painted them there on purpose.
She's short, barely able to reach over the bar to hand a drink to a customer, and fuck, my attention gets caught on the way her chest presses against the bar top when she stretches over to hand someone their drink.
No.
Come on, Raul. Pull it together. You can't get hard on the job, dumbass.
I force my eyes forward and scan the crowd again, pretending I'm doing my job and not watching her every few seconds. But my attention keeps sliding back.
"No, it's twenty dollars a shot!"
"Twenty?" A man's voice cuts through the noise, ugly and slurred. "That's fucking crazy. You gonna suck my dick or something for that kind of money?"
Her face hardens instantly. "Excuse you?"
The guy is older, white, drunk enough that he can barely stand straight. Long limbs, gray hair, smirk like he thinks being disgusting is charming.
"I'm just suggesting," he says, leaning over and caressing her arm, "that if you want me to pay that kind of price and tip, maybe you give a little extra. Let me see those." He winks and gestures toward her chest.
Oh hell no.
I'm moving before I even think about it.
"Back the fuck off," I snap, grabbing his arm.
He turns, offended, wobbling on his feet. "And who the fuck are you?"
I can smell the liquor on him now, thick and sour. He sways once, tries to pull free, then swings at me like he actually thinks he's in any shape to do something. I catch the second arm before it lands.
Then I drive my fist into his stomach.
He folds with a sharp grunt, the air punching out of him in one ugly burst.
For a second, the whole bar seems to shift around us.
The bartender's eyes go wide. The drunk doubles over, coughing and cursing, one hand braced on the bar like he can't decide whether to fall or fight. I keep my grip on him, keeping him upright just long enough to make the point.
"Walk away," I say low.
He looks at me through watery eyes, stunned that anybody had the nerve to touch him back.
"Touch her again," I add, my voice going colder, "and I'll put you on the floor."
The man opens his mouth like he's going to argue, but something in my face must get through to him. He jerks his arm free and staggers off, muttering under his breath as he disappears into the crowd.
I stay where I am for one beat longer, chest tight, pulse still hot with anger.
Then I turn to her.
That's when I realize I made a much bigger mistake than punching some drunk asshole.
She's staring at me like I just stepped out of the dark and ruined whatever version of this night she was hoping for.
"I can handle myself," she says, flipping me off.
"I know," I say. "But it's kind of my job tonight."
"Yeah, but you didn't kick him out or anything, so did you really do your job?"
Fuck.
She has a point.
I should've dragged his ass out. The problem is, her presence threw me off so bad I was barely thinking straight. But I was doing my job, right? This wasn't some weird twinge of jealousy.
Right?
"Fuck," I mutter, scanning the crowd for him again. "I just wanted to get him away from you as fast as possible."
Her arms cross over her chest. My breath catches again.
She's adorable when she's angry.
"And now no one wants to come talk to me," she says, motioning to the little empty bubble around us. "Everybody's scared of getting punched next just for talking to me. You're messing with my money, dude."
"Uh. Fuck. I'm sorry." I run a hand through my hair. "I was just trying to help."
"Help less," she says, flicking her fingers at me. "Away."
Well.
That couldn't have gone any worse.