22. New Friends
NEW FRIENDS
KITTY
Dark walls dripping with gold liquid surround us like a moving canopy.
Black marble bars speckled with gold and diamond jewels line all four walls.
Giant chandeliers made up of coins dangle from the raised ceilings over golden suede couches segregated by frosted glass walls to give the illusion of privacy.
Bodies move to the pulse of music coming from all corners, reverberating across the lit-up dancefloor.
“It’s great, right?” Rose giggles, ushering us over to an empty table surrounded by stools next to the dancefloor.
It’s something.
She got us in the door by flashing her Kings insignia on her wrist, the top rocker reading “The property of,” and the bottom reading, “Daddy.”
“You did good.” I nudge her with my shoulder. “I hope you pumped enough of that baby juice from those tits so you can get fucked up tonight.”
“I did.” She waggles her perfectly shaped brows. “I’ll pump and dump later.”
“I need to get my tattoo,” Claire inserts herself, running a finger down her cleavage. I think I’ll get mine here.” She settles on her left tit.
Rogue winces, mouthing, “Sorry,” once again.
Rose got the invite to join us from Rogue, which was overheard by Maggie, who then invited four others, including Claire. I would rather shit in my hands and clap then spend the night with her. Waiting until they’re all seated, I announce, “I’ll go get the drinks.”
“I’ll come with.” Rogue hops off her stool and follows me.
“God, I’m really sorry. I can tell her to fuck off if you want.”
Biting my lip, I sling an arm over Rogue’s shoulder. “Fuck her. I’m not letting her ruin our vibe. We’ve never actually been clubbing together. You know that, right?”
“This place is huge. We can easily lose her.” A group of men wearing overpriced shoes, too-tight shirts, and overpowering aftershave follow our path with hungry eyes as we pass their table.
“Why hasn’t she gotten the wifey tattoo?” Rogue asks, oblivious to the eyes on her.
“She hasn’t even gotten a cut.” I crack up laughing. “I guess Cutter doesn’t want her having it.”
Most ol’ ladies wore a “Property of” cut, and wives got the tattoo. They were a sign of devotion, love, and respect for their man and their club. Claire doesn’t have either. My dad wouldn’t allow it when she was his girl, and I guess Cutter won’t either.
“Those two still make zero sense to me. You know, Callan said Cutter never talks about Claire. Doesn’t text or call her.”
“What do you mean?” I raise my voice as we join a crush of people waiting for drinks.
“I don’t know. We were talking about how we can’t bear to spend the night away from each other, and Callan said it was weird how Cutter never goes home to Claire.”
“Wait.” I stop her when we finally reach the bar through the packed bodies. “Are you telling me my brother admitted he doesn’t like spending time away from you?”
Slapping my arm, she squirms. “Shut up.”
“He’s a bitch in private, huh?” I tease, and she flips me the bird. “Let’s not talk about Cutter tonight,” I tell her, and she winces.
“Shit, you’re right. I’m sorry,” she says sheepishly.
“Stop saying sorry and buy me a drink.” I jerk my chin toward the bar.
“Deal.”
When the bartender makes it over to us, Rogue orders two beers.
“What kind?”
“Any,” we say in unison.
“It’s nice in here, but I feel completely out of place.” She winces, turning back to look out over the club.
My gaze roams over her, and I snort. “Are you fucking kidding? You look like this place was built for you.” In a red silk dress that ties around her neck then skims her ass, completely backless, before flowing down to her knees like water, she looks like a million bucks.
Two black bottles get placed on the bar with no labels. “Forty-four dollars and ninety cents.”
“What did you say?” Rogue gapes.
Slipping my credit card across the bar, I grab one of the bottles and place it in her hand. “Drink.”
“She better have distilled the barley grain herself. Are they kidding with those prices?”
“Barley grain?” I chuckle, swiping up my own beer.
“Yeah, beer has like four ingredients. They’re robbing us.”
“They need to pay for all the gold,” I quip, nodding toward the wall melting before our eyes.
Surveying the space, she says, “I wonder what something like this costs.”
“It’s the Carnells’ club. They have more money than God.
” Memories of meeting Nicolas Carnell and taking him to the clubhouse filter through my mind.
He was reported missing the same week. Rumor has it he got himself in trouble with some street gang.
The guy was reckless and out of control and it cost him his life.
Look at everything he could have had. What makes it worse is the drugs you get from inside these clubs are ten times better than anything watered down in the streets.
“I know that name.”
“One is a senator. The rest own casinos and fancy clubs like this one.”
“Andrew Carnell.” She taps a finger against her temple. “I met him once.”
“The senator’s son,” I inform her.
“Wait”—she holds up a finger—“I think Callan mentioned the Carnells before too.”
“Yeah, the club does business with them.” Not that he’d talk to her about club business…would he?
Her phone buzzes in her purse, making her smile. “If that’s my brother sending cock pics, tell him I said ‘ew.’”
“We’re not that bad.” She bites her lip then unlocks the screen and frowns, turning the phone away so I can’t see the message, but I already saw who it was from: Monster.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” Her throat bobs.
“Is it Callan?” My heart kicks over, waiting to see if she’ll lie.
“No.” She smiles, stuffing it back into her purse. “Come on, let’s dance.”
Blowing out a breath, I nod my head. Good enough.
Taking my hand, she guides me through the bodies, avoiding the table where we left Claire.
The dancefloor glows like a beacon. Swinging her hips, she encourages me to move with her, and I allow the beat of the music to move through my body like a second pulse.
Limbs loosen and stress flees until all I am is rhythm, a slave to the music.
A sheen of sweat coats our skin as we move through song after song. “I need a drink,” I eventually call out over the noise when my throat dries out and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“Okay. I’m going to go to the bathroom.”
Slipping through the crowd, I pass the table of men who were eye-fucking Rogue and me earlier, stopping when one grabs my ass. “Hey, baby, you wanna party with us?”
Baby? Gag. Sidling up to him, I stroke my finger down his clean-shaven cheek and slip my other hand into his pocket “Only if I get to top.”
Wide brown eyes almost bug out of his face. “You can go on top for sure, beautiful.” The white tan line from where his wedding ring usually sits glares up at me from his hand.
“Not ride on top, baby—top, as in, I fuck you.” I pull my phone from inside my boot and open the photos, scrolling to the picture of me holding Monster’s dildo from a night Rogue and I were messing around.
Flipping the phone around to show him, he balks, releasing me. “What the fuck?”
“I think you’d easily be able to take half.”
“You’re a freak.” Pouting, I shrug and walk away, looking down at my hand that now holds his wallet.
“Two beers,” I call out to the bartender, sliding one of the fucker’s credit cards toward her. “Drinks are on me,” I call down the line of customers. “Explain that bill to your wife, asshole.”
From the corner of my eye, I notice a tall figure inching toward me.
Turning to face his direction, a smile plays on my lips.
He’s handsome, with neatly groomed brown hair and an impeccable jawline, and he’s wearing a designer suit that’s so tight around the crotch, I see the perfect outline of his package. Nice.
Staring directly into my eyes with an intoxicating smirk on his face, he maneuveres through the crowd until he’s right next to me. I know exactly who he is before he extends his hand toward me. “Michael Carnell.”
I don’t take it. “I know who you are.” My teeth rake over my bottom lip.
Green eyes dance with humor. “And I know who you are.”
“Is that so?” Hiking a brow, I casually drop my gaze down the length of his body.
“Your brother is a friend of mine.” He tips his head to study me from a new angle. I don’t miss the swipe of his tongue across his thick bottom lip.
“My brother doesn’t have friends.” It’s not a lie. He has brothers, and anyone outside the club is an acquaintance.
Holding a hand to his chest as if wounded, he nods to the bartender who rushes to serve him.
“Sir.”
“A bottle of Cristal and two glasses.” I bite my tongue to stop from laughing at his show of wealth. Lame.
Within a second, the bottle appears with two glasses. “Would you like me to pour, sir?”
A nod of confirmation then his attention moves back to me. “You don’t look like a Bob.”
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes.
Swiping the credit card off the bar, he holds it between two fingers. Ah…fuck .
“It’s rude to assume,” I tut, wagging a disapproving finger.
“You’re fun.” He cracks an amused grin then takes the champagne flutes and offers me one.
Wrapping my hand around the beer bottle on the bar, I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m not celebrating.”
“You could be.” That sounds like a dark promise, awaking the sinner inside me.
Studying his face, I tease, “Oh yeah?”
Taking a step so close, there’s only a small margin of space between us, he says, “New friendships.”
There’s a silent pause before I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. “I don’t have friends either.”
“That’s a shame.” It’s a whisper, his breath basking over my skin.
I turn my head to down my beer and swipe my mouth. “Nice meeting you, Michael.”
Taking a couple steps back in the direction of the dancefloor, I halt when Claire stands in my path, her phone pushed to her ear.
Her eyes bore into me, and she flicks her hair.
“Okay, baby. See you soon.” Again with the baby?
Ending the call, she rolls her eyes. “Cutter’s jealous I’m out without him.
” She shrugs a shoulder. “He’s coming to pick me up.
” My pulse roars in my ears, and my stomach drops, the beer splashing around in there.
“He probably won’t even wait until we’re home before he tries ripping me out of these clothes. ”
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I scream internally, my head underwater. “You two looked cozy.” Her gaze flicks over my shoulder.
Turning on my heel, I stride back to Michael. Taking the champagne flute he holds out, I clink it against his.
“Fuck it—to new friendships.”