Chapter 2
2
Club Velvet sits at the very edge of SoHo, skirting the line where the neighborhood’s polished cast-iron storefronts give way to the quieter, cobbled stretches of Tribeca and the denser, lantern-lit streets of Chinatown. The main entrance faces a street washed in neon and headlights, only blocks from upscale restaurants and luxury boutiques that have just closed for the night.
Inside, the club pulses beneath disorienting strobe lights. Drunk bodies dance and sway to bass-heavy music that can be felt even through the thick walls.
Soon, the club’s laughter and music will creep farther than they should, winding down streets that grow emptier by the hour.
Lila stands before the mirror in the crowded women’s restroom, making last-minute adjustments to her makeup before her shift begins. Her job takes place not here, but on the upper floor above, where the lights dim, the music softens, and the rules change. The upper level is home to The Velvet Stag, a more exclusive lounge where men with too much money to burn come to play.
Dark, smoky eye makeup, paired with a set of strip lashes she’s trying out, frames her hazel eyes, making the amber flecks glimmer beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting. Her full lips, painted with a new deep-pink gloss dusted in champagne glitter, appear even poutier than usual.
She combs through her long, lustrous locks with her fingers, carefully raking each strand into place before tying her hair into a high ponytail. Lingering in front of the mirror, she preens and prods, mentally bracing herself for the long shift ahead.
There’s a staff changing room upstairs, but Lila feels oddly safer down here, pressed into the tightly packed crowd of the first-floor restroom. Here, she’s just another body in a sea of drunk strangers, none of whom want anything from her.
Raised in a strict, conservative household by her grandmother, Lila never imagined she would step foot into a gentlemen’s club, much less move thousands of miles from her small hometown to work in one as a server.
Even after several months on the job, she still feels like she’s navigating unfamiliar territory. She tells herself it’s normal to feel nervous or out of place, especially given how sheltered her upbringing was. Still, it’s as though she’s been tossed into deep water without ever learning how to swim.
Yet beneath the nerves and guilt lies something else, a quiet thrill. An undercurrent of freedom in knowing that no one here truly knows her. Not even Claire, her roommate, who had recruited her in the first place.
“If you’re going to be a waitress, you might as well work at the club I dance at. There’s a bougie gentlemen’s lounge upstairs, and it’s way more relaxed. Management sucks and the hours are trash, but the tips will make up for it,” Claire had said. As Club Velvet’s top go-go dancer, she always had the inside scoop. “You won’t see any job listings posted anywhere. They only hire girls they think are hot.”
Her thoughts drift to the first time she met Tony, one of the club’s managers, and, unfortunately, the one who works most of her shifts. His words echo in her mind before every shift, looping like a cursed mantra.
“Your job is to look sexy and keep their drinks coming until they’re certifiably shit-faced. Smile. Laugh at their corny-ass jokes. Easy peasy. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky, and one of the geriatric motherfuckers will wife you up and write you into their will. Just remember to thank me later.”
His ugly laugh had bounced off the cramped walls of his office, disturbingly close to a hyena’s cackle. His crude instructions, paired with the lecherous gleam in his dark eyes, left her unsettled as his gaze raked openly over her body, making her skin crawl. He hadn’t even bothered to hide it. He’d made her change into the skimpy uniform right there, claiming he needed to check the fit and insisting he just wanted to be sure everything looked “right.”
Lila shudders, forcing the memory as far back as she can. She sweeps her black tote, stuffed with her street clothes, off the sink counter. With only a minute to spare, she slips out of the ladies’ room.
The staircase leading to the upper level is blocked by unfamiliar, hefty-looking men in dark suits, a clear sign that someone has reserved the entire floor. The Velvet Stag is often booked for private celebrations like birthdays or bachelor parties, but she’s never seen the whole level closed off like this.
As she approaches the intimidating security team, Lila muses that whoever shelled out enough money to claim half the club for the night must be craving serious privacy. The novelty of the situation stirs a flicker of excitement within her.
Despite staff trading stories about celebrity sightings after award shows or fashion week events, Lila hasn’t seen anyone noteworthy during her time here.
One of the bouncers recognizes her skimpy club uniform and lifts the red velvet rope. She offers him a polite, slightly awkward smile before slipping through. The pounding music swallows the sharp clicks of her stilettos as she climbs the metal staircase.
But as she ascends, she’s met with an unexpected sight: the crowd upstairs is sparse. Thinner than even a typical Tuesday night, let alone a Friday.
The second floor, styled in deep red, black, and white, carries a noticeably classier atmosphere. Tall windows frame the city lights outside, shimmering like distant stars. In place of the strobing chaos below, soft neon in muted shades of amber and rose bathes the room in a warm glow. Jasmine, musk, and warm vanilla are pumped into the air in a deliberate attempt to smother the stench of alcohol, smoke, and sweat.
“Hey, Pocket Rocket! Come here!”
The shouted command sends a spike through her heart rate, slicing cleanly through the bass.
She slowly exhales before turning.
Tony leans against the bar, flashing his signature sleazy grin as she approaches. The gold caps on his canines glint under the light. Tonight, he’s dressed in a deep purple paisley suit and a black dress shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal the muscular swell of his chest. His dark, wavy hair is slicked back, revealing a thin vertical scar running from his eyebrow to the edge of his hairline.
Towering over six feet, his olive skin covered in tattoos and his body built like an MMA brawler, he looks like the kind of man no sane person would cross, cauliflower ears and all.
As she nears, he reaches out and roughly pivots her toward the most exclusive section of the club: a raised enclave reserved for the biggest spenders.
“See them over there?” he murmurs, leaning in so close that his hot breath lifts the hairs along the back of her neck. His voice is low and smooth, so deceptively silky that it leaves her feeling grimy.
Lila’s gaze lands on a circle of rowdy men in various stages of undress. Suit jackets hang carelessly over the backs of leather chairs, ties loosened at their throats as they lounge with the easy confidence of men accustomed to getting whatever they want.
Lila swallows hard and clears her throat.
“What about them?”
“Apparently, they’re some very important people. The owners said to treat them like royalty tonight.
Tony’s hands snap down onto her shoulders like metal restraints, his fingers digging in until pain sparks across her skin. She goes rigid.
“Um—”
“So don’t fuck shit up for me.”
Lila’s stomach knots. The sudden shift in his tone sends an unpleasant shiver down her spine. Gone is the scummy yet playful Tony. The man clamping down on her shoulders now is the one everyone warned her about from the day she first started.
Her gaze flicks to the half-empty bottles of top-shelf liquor scattered across the center table, their labels catching the club’s glow. Thick stacks of cash sit beside neat white lines of powder, a few stray bills curling at the edges.
Among bodies wrapped in business suits, Lila easily spots four of the club’s top hosts. They’re draped in skin-tight mini dresses, shimmering with body glitter and jewelry as they cling to the men beside them.
“Where’s, um, Carly?” she asks, eyes darting as she searches for the experienced server meant to be partnering with her tonight.
“She called in sick at the last minute. And since I’m short on girls, you’re on your own,” Tony says. “Instead of juggling multiple sections, you only need to watch one table tonight. Just those assholes. Easy, right?”
He loosens his grip on her shoulders.
“You’re in luck, Shrimpy. You get to take home all their tips tonight.” Tony gives her a light pat. “Don’t worry about clocking in. I’ve got you. The other servers will cover the rest.”
He jerks his chin toward the other, lightly occupied tables. Though dressed like the men in the enclave, these guests keep a quieter presence, murmuring among themselves, sipping cocktails, and observing the crowd below through the tinted glass.
She looks back at Tony, jaw tight with suppressed anger. She knows exactly why she, the newest and least experienced hire, has been sent to handle the rowdiest table alone.
At that same table, Max finds himself in one of Will’s favorite haunts, a club famous for its stunning dancers and wealthy clientele. Tonight marks his long-overdue welcome-back celebration as CTEC’s newly appointed Chief Operating Officer.
Will Waldegrave, true to form, orchestrates the night like a real-life Willy Wonka, handing out designer drugs and baggies of the purest coke as if they’re cheap candy.
After the exhausting hospital visit earlier, Max, worn down and running on fumes, sits wedged between Will and an exuberant dancer who keeps plying them with shots of hard liquor.
Max declines each one, nursing a single cocktail and quietly waiting for the night to run its course.
“Pussy,” Will teases in a sing-song voice, playfully waggling a bitten slice of lemon as Max waves off yet another offer of vodka.
Max chuckles, a rare lightness settling in him for the first time in a while. It feels as if he never left. Their bond is still as strong and tight as it was when they were teenagers, causing mischief back in military school.
Around him sit other familiar faces from their shared past, shrouded in thick swirls of cigar and cigarette smoke. Their muted conversations dissolve beneath the pounding music rattling Max’s senses.
His eyes burn with dryness, heavy from a grueling workweek. He bites his bottom lip. Being surrounded by intoxicated bodies while trying to stay sober makes him regret, just a little, turning down Will’s earlier offer to pop some molly.
An open pack of imported cigarettes sits unattended on the table, tempting him. The promise of relief from the stress crushing his chest, and the fleeting euphoria smoking once brought, tugs at him.
His father wouldn’t give a damn if his thirty-six-year-old son smoked, so long as he could still run a tight ship. But after rehab, Max made himself a promise: no more addictions. This version of him is different.
He has a goal now, and it has driven every calculated move for years.
In Singapore, a city of strict order and unexpected calm, far removed from New York’s gritty chaos, he trained himself to focus only on what advanced that goal and let everything else… fall away.
You’re all better now.
Max takes a sip of his drink, the cool liquid soothing his dry mouth, and lets his gaze settle on the one man who stands out sharply in the crowd.
Paul Richardson.
Or, as most people call him: Sleazy Dick.
The nickname comes from years of backroom deals and relentless attempts to worm his way into elite circles. The same business owners who once bankrolled his campaigns have since turned on him, already hunting for someone more useful.
The supposedly shrewd politician, long entangled with Max’s father and brother in webs of mutual favors and political maneuvering, now sits before Max looking like an uncouth swine in an ill-fitting blue suit and an overly long tie. His face is ruddy and slick with sweat, bloated from the steady stream of alcohol the girls keep feeding him.
With his father dying, his brother drifting, and the company barely staying afloat, Max sees an opening, one that could secure him a firmer footing both within CTEC and among its investors. His thoughts race with plans to persuade the governor to fast-track permits for the city’s airport expansion.
Then his attention snaps to an angelic figure approaching their section.
A woman with long, dark hair and a shapely figure clad in the unmistakable uniform of a Velvet Stag waitress: a white lace bustier corset and a matching miniskirt.
Her eyes are wide and nervous as she introduces herself with rehearsed lines and a strained smile. The booming music swallows her voice; Max doesn’t catch a single word.
Like a shark scenting blood in the water, Max can’t tear his gaze away from the unassuming girl. And he knows he isn’t the only one watching.
She’s stunning. Her shy uncertainty is foreign to this unruly group, and it draws them in instantly. A predatory thrill ripples through the table at the thought of a shiny new toy to pull apart. Whispers pass between them, along with shared glances, smirks, and silent plotting.
Only Will remains oblivious, fully engrossed in shoving his tongue into the dancer’s mouth as she squirms and grinds in his lap.
Max can practically hear the unspoken agreement:
She will be their entertainment tonight.
They’re eager, far too eager, to see just how much she can take.
Paul wastes no time, barking orders for nearly every item on the menu “to celebrate our esteemed friend, Max Cooper, for finally coming back home.”
With a smug grin, Paul briefly shifts his attention to Max, unaware of the sly smirks and exchanged glances among those around them. He nudges the petite waitress’s arm with his elbow and throws a theatrical wink at the group before launching into a crude joke meant to humiliate her.
“Golly gee, they’ve got you girls wearing less and less every time I come in here.”
A few of the more chaotic members of the group chuckle, and Paul mistakes their reactions for approval. In truth, they’re laughing at him, amused by the bizarre spectacle of his desperate grab for attention. Their laughter only emboldens him.
“If the skirts get any shorter,” he continues, “I’m gonna owe the owner a thank-you card!”
“Dude… you are too much,” one of them laughs, then mutters under their breath, “…Dick.”
Completely wrapped in his own delusions, Paul barrels on, his licentious humor growing obscener by the minute. He guffaws loudly after each punchline, grinning drunkenly, proud of his captive audience.
“Careful leaning over like that, sweetheart,” he adds. “Some of us here are weak-willed.”
Max watches in silence, jaw clenched. Anger flares at the thought of working with this buffoon on upcoming state projects, but he reins it in. To earn his father’s full trust, he knows he has to play along.
At least for now.
His gaze flicks past the waitress to the man in the gaudy purple suit sitting alone at the bar, smirking as he observes the scene. Her manager must have sent her out alone on purpose, content to watch her fend for herself against a pack of depraved wolves already circling their prey.
Max presses his fingers against his aching temple.
“Do you like being bullied? Do you like crying like a fucking pansy? Stand tall. Look strong. Always. Even when you don’t feel like it, you fight back.”
His father’s voice echoes in his mind. It was a rare moment of something that nearly resembled fatherly wisdom, back when Max was still a boy.
Fucking clowns, Max curses inwardly as the stupidity escalates.
One by one, the others pile on, egging each other forward as they work to chip away at the girl’s composure. They pick up random items and drop them deliberately, hoping to catch a glimpse of her nude-colored lace thong as she bends over in the tiny miniskirt.
She looks overwhelmed yet somehow manages to remain painfully polite. Her eyes dart constantly around the room, like she’s drowning and praying someone, anyone, will throw her a lifeline.
Paul keeps beckoning her back, using trivial complaints about drinks and food as flimsy excuses to leer at her openly.
Max realizes he doesn’t care enough to intervene. He stays silent, eyes tracking her every movement. The way she shifts and fidgets, bites down on her full bottom lip, then forces a small smile at precisely the right moments stirs something dark and uncomfortable inside him.
He tells himself it must be irritation simmering beneath the surface: annoyance at her helplessness, disgust at the group’s behavior, and, finally, resentment toward himself for feeling bound and silenced by the unspoken obligation to secure CTEC’s future by keeping the governor close.
As minutes stretch into an hour, and then another, it becomes painfully clear that she’s going to grit her teeth and endure it.
Max keeps waiting for something to snap.
An indignant outburst.
A sharp retort.
A swing of her fist.
Fight back.
Do something.
But nothing comes.
Just that same rigid smile.
The longer she holds it together, the more it grates on him.
How disappointing.