Chapter Six
Phoebe
THREE YEARS AGO
THE CLIP JOINT
Las Vegas, Nevada
Harsh lights expose an empty nightclub at three p.m. before opening. Barren of most employees, this naked shell is the realest part of tonight. Truthfully, it’s my favorite part—the before.
“Flip the bottle. Twirl around,” Oliver narrates behind a swanky bar. He flips a bottle of Belvedere with the grace of a master juggler, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled to his elbows. He whirls in a circle, winks at Hailey beside me—who doesn’t notice him (her nose is in a book)—and then passes the bottle from hand to hand. “Make them look at your face, not your hands. Smolder.” He tries to catch Hailey’s attention with winks. He mouths, Hey there, sexy.
I laugh hard. “Your smolder is no match for...” I lift the back of her book. “Ariadne.”
“Who is she? I’ll smolder her, too.”
Without looking up, Hailey eats from a bowl of bar nuts. “She’s the wife of Dionysus.”
“She married the God of Wine,” Oliver realizes. “So she has taste, then.”
Hailey flips a page. “Leave her alone. Her life is tragic.”
“Aren’t they all.” Oliver slides over a purplish cocktail to me. I didn’t even see him pour the drink, let alone add cranberry juice.
“What do you call this?”
“Vodka cranberry. Nothing complicated.” He splays his hands on the bar, waiting for me to drink it.
I take a sip. “Mmm.” I smack my lips and cringe at the sharpness. “This isn’t Belvedere.”
“It’s painfully cheap vodka.”
I set the glass down. “What happened to watering down the Belvedere?” That’s what Oliver has been doing the past few weeks. He found similarly shaped bottles, poured a quarter of Belvedere in each, and then diluted them. Saves us money on the inventory, and we can still hike the prices and charge obscene amounts for a single glass or a whole bottle. Doesn’t matter which.
“They’re not getting wasted enough.”
He means the marks. The people we’re trying to con.
“I’ve relabeled all the bottles already,” he adds, swishing the fake Belvedere.
Smart. “Did the godfather approve?” I joke about the Tinrocks’ dad.
“No, but the godmothers did.” He means our mom, Elizabeth Graves, and her best friend, Addison Tinrock. Oliver reminds me, “They’re the ones who run this place.”
One month ago, Elizabeth and Addison took over this struggling establishment. New management made Vanity Nightclub more exclusive. High rollers only. At least that’s according to word in the town. Spread by my brothers and the Tinrocks through other VIP circles in Vegas.
It’s made pulling in high-end clientele easier. Gaining trust is an art form.
And we’re all artists.
“Everett Tinrock is the one who enforces the rules, though,” I remind Oliver.
Everett could’ve easily been the one to purchase the failing club alongside his actual wife, instead of my mom buying it with her. Just because he didn’t, it doesn’t mean that he’s beneath them in some con artist hierarchy.
“He’s a stickler for rules only because he’s paranoid of ending up like Dad.” Oliver mimes slamming jail bars shut. “Burghm.”
I snort. “Is that the sound of metal hitting cinder block?”
“Yes, it is, Phoebe Graves. You win at charades.”
I pat myself on the back.
He smiles and tries to take away the shitty vodka cranberry.
I cup my hands over the glass. “Hey, I’m drinking that. It’s Belvedere, incredibly smooth.” I take a sip, and this time, I don’t grimace. “And that’s what I’m going with when someone asks me why this tastes like asshole.”
He gasps. “You’ve tasted asshole before?”
Hailey laughs at her book, but she’s definitely laughing at him. His grin widens over at Hailey, then his deep laughter cascades when I flip him off.
I lift my glass. “Bartender, you never carded me.”
“You’re twenty-one, aren’t you? You just had a birthday recently,” he teases.
I’m smiling, and I reach across the bar and shove his shoulder.
“Happy birthday,” Hailey says from her book.
“Thank you,” Oliver and I say in unison.
I shake my head at him. “She was talking to me, dummy.”
“Hey, don’t you dare call your big brother a dummy. We share the same genes, so that makes you—”
“Also a dummy,” I say unabashedly. I wear my lack of smarts as fact. Not necessarily with pride.
Oliver leans over the bar. “You’re not dumb, Phoebe.”
“You have to say that. You’re related to me.”
He purses his lips in such an Oliver way that says he disagrees.
“What’s the markup on a bottle of Macallan?” Nova asks while checking his phone and walking toward the bar. Stern lines crease his forehead. “Ten grand?” He’s asking all of us.
“I thought it was more,” Hailey mentions.
“I thought it was less?” I chime in.
“It’s more.” Oliver procures a notepad to check.
I glance between Nova and Oliver.
The three of us look too much alike. Natural dark brown hair. Same cocoa brown eyes. Olive skin tones and heart-shaped faces. We had to make conscious choices to appear different.
Nova buzzes his hair.
Oliver dyes his strands a lighter shade of brown.
I keep mine dark and use makeup to plump my lips and widen my eyes. Honestly, I do the bare minimum, and I should one hundred percent thank my brothers more. Anytime Mom has pressured me to dye my eyebrows and cut my hair, they remind her that wigs exist and they’re already doing shit to look less like me.
I guess the irony is the less we look like one another, the closer we’ve become.
“Markups aren’t supposed to matter that much, right?” I ask my brothers. “We’re still going to slap on an insane service charge.”
“And hostess fee,” Hailey pipes in. “And the fees for the broken bottles that they don’t remember breaking. Overtime fees, for sitting in the VIP section for longer than allowed.”
“Fees for breathing,” I add, which is a fake fee that makes Oliver grin and Hailey smile.
“Numbers matter,” Nova says seriously. He’s the cleanup guy. The getaway driver. The one who ensures none of us ever get caught. I see Nova as the fail-safe. The last rope that’ll break our fall, and I can’t imagine what it’s like being that person.
I can’t reply to Nova—not when another voice booms throughout the empty nightclub. “Has anyone talked to the bouncers?”
Everett Tinrock.
The godfather.
And in actuality, Hailey’s father.
Air suctions from the bar. We’re all sitting stiffer and breathing less. Pissing him off just comes with lectures that I’ve already memorized, and I’m not in the mood to be talked down to. We’re not twelve anymore.
As Everett approaches, he instantly shuts Hailey’s book. “Go get ready. The other servers should be here soon.”
Hailey obeys without much protest.
“The bouncers will be here on time,” Nova tells Everett. “They know if no one can pay the bill, they’ll need to escort them to an ATM.”
“Good.” He eyes Oliver, who’s busying himself behind the bar, basically removing himself from the godfather’s long to-do list.
Everett side-eyes Nova. “What are you wearing?” he asks.
My brother is in a cargo jacket. “I’m changing later.”
“Change now. I wouldn’t believe you’re the general manager of this place unless I was blackout drunk.”
Nova just nods and pockets his phone.
“Phoebe, you need to change, too,” Everett decrees. “It’s time.”
It’s time.
Nova gives me a long look, but I don’t want to see the emotion he’s battling. I don’t want to know what’s tumbling inside his head. I just want to do my damn job like he’s about to do.
I have a purpose—a thing I’m good at. And tonight, we’re supposed to bank three times as much as all the nights before. I won’t screw this up.
Neon lights blink frenziedly inside the club. Music thumps harsher against my temples—a sensory overload I’d like to unplug from with a shot of whiskey. Or even Oliver’s shitty vodka. But I know it’s better if I stay sober and in control.
So I’ve been pretending to sip tequila shots, cocktails, anything that men keep buying for me. As a bottle girl, I’m hired to socialize with different VIP sections and coax them to order more alcohol. But my mom specifically told me, “You’re something between a bottle girl, a stripper, and an escort, bug. You’ll be the girl all the men want in their section.”
I think she severely overestimated my sex appeal.
Even though I’m scantily dressed, the pole dancers are drawing more attention and tempting more men. They actually have talent, and even if I would grade my lap dance skills as a solid B minus, I’m not the second coming of Marylin Monroe.
I could use a strong drink, and the sheer amount of willpower to not down bourbon right now is impressive on my part. I’m giving myself some kudos in case this all goes haywire. Might as well be self-congratulatory now.
I won’t screw up. The reoccurring thought is a banging gavel in my head.
I’m not channeling a deep confidence. I’m just so afraid of being the one to mess up an entire con. It’s as if every cell in my body resists the idea of failing. Like failing equals death, and self-preservation will kick in before that happens.
“We’re not selling by glass tonight!” Hailey shouts over the music to a VIP table, a pen and pad in her hand. “Just by bottle!”
I try to concentrate on familiar voices, not the hands roaming up and down my hips. Meaty hands. I hope he washed them. I intake a tense breath and force a sultry smile, leaning only a little closer. The mark is named Henry Something-or-Other.
It’s not that important for me to remember. He’s mid-forties and here for “business” as a consultant to tech firms.
“Like Google,” he’s said five times already. Must be some amazing company, considering all of his business buddies are already sloshed in our VIP section of leather couches. They’re salivating over the cute redhead shimmying against a pole on a circular platform. One businessman mimes grabbing her boobs, and I restrain the urge to glare and simultaneously eye roll.
I grind lightly against Henry’s lap.
“Bottle girl!” his friend shouts loudly at me, the one who just squeezed the air. Basically a breath away from biting his knuckles and coming in his pants. “Come here, baby!”
I flash a flirty smile. “I’m with your boss.”
He laughs. “He’s not my boss!” This prick is a little younger. Thirties, maybe. Henry Something-or-Other is supposed to be my mark. He’s the one I’m positive has loaded pockets. All the VIP tables have a ten-thousand-dollar bottle service minimum. And that’s before the markup.
Two days ago, Trevor Tinrock swiped Henry’s ID when he exited a high rollers lounge at a nearby casino. Trevor even placed the wallet back into Henry’s pocket, all without Henry knowing. He’s been cleared. Background checked. No connections to anyone too powerful. No one that could come after us. And it didn’t take much influence from Everett to persuade Henry to come to the club.
Most of tonight’s revenue is coming from him. And he has no idea yet.
“I’m not his boss,” Henry confirms with a grin. “We’re coworkers. Why don’t you show him a good time, too, yeah?”
Shit.
While straddling Henry, I slowly run a finger down the nape of his neck and drink in the trail I draw. “Shouldn’t he find his own bottle girl?” I lean closer and murmur against his ear, “I want to be yours.”
I feel his dick harden against my thigh.
I’m nothing, really. Weightless. Floating. Hoping he wants me, even if that kind of yearning for him is gone inside of me. Faded into oblivion. Impossible to reach.
He’s grinning. “You’ll have to find another girl, Reece.”
“Hey, hey!” Reece waves toward a male server, but Hailey is quick to answer and beelines for my section. Her slim-fitting black dress is much classier than the red lace panties and bra I’m wearing. My getup is considered “an outfit” but let’s be clear: it’s lingerie.
“Can I help you with something?” Hailey asks him. “Another—”
“A bottle girl. The best you have.” He snickers with his friends and downs a flute of champagne.
She jots down on the pad. “Right away.” The way she says it, I know she’s never going to bring anyone out to him. They’ll wait and wait and still be charged.
Henry’s warm breath heats my ear now. “You available for a private show, sweetheart?” His drunken, half-lidded eyes meet mine.
“One more bottle?” I coax.
He waves quickly at Hailey. “Another one of these.” He points to the ice bucket before she turns away. It’s a thirty grand three-liter bottle of Dom Pérignon. Triple the price of its retail value. But it’s not a particularly unique year. He was sold earlier on how this case of Dom we just got imported is one of the most exclusive champagnes in the world, and that is true. About the rosé.
This’ll be his third bottle of overpriced Dom.
After another scribble on her notepad, Hailey dashes away.
Henry’s hand traverses down my thigh, inching closer and closer to the lace of my panties. I slide backward, off him, but playfully smile while showing off my ass. I do the Legally Blonde thing—bend and snap.
“You like that?” I tease.
“Love it, sweetheart.” He winks a drunken, oozing wink.
I’m floating into nothingness. And as I turn my back to Henry, I see another couch that faces ours.
I see him.
My pulse hitches.
Paddles jolt my lifeless insides.
Rocky has an arm over the black leather couch, a cigar burning between his fingers, and glass of iced bourbon in his hand. In his demeanor alone, he looks born from rare champagnes of the world and worth more than the oxygen everyone is breathing.
And he’s staring right at me.