Chapter 8
CASSIDY
Unlike many of the members of the packed club several nights ago, my sleepless nights aren’t from alcohol or a night of depravity. They’re from adrenaline.
And thoughts of a mouthwatering, off-limits member.
I’ve barely slept since the Angels Among Sinners party. My mind has been replaying one moment on an endless loop: red lights, a pounding bass, and Max’s hands settling around my waist like they belonged there. Which is utterly ridiculous. Because men like Max don’t happen to girls like me.
I had no idea what Gianni was doing when he pulled me onto the dance floor. Once I saw Lala out there with him, I assumed he was creating a party atmosphere, grabbing whoever was close by.
Standing there in front of Max, I fully expected him to placate me with a congenial grin before turning away.
Swaying back and forth in the arms of that gorgeous man still doesn’t feel real.
I was supposed to be working. Waiting on rich men and women.
Instead a ridiculously hot billionaire was suddenly on my dance card.
I mean, what normal girl allows herself to dream that big?
“Earth to Cassidy.” Lala bumps her hip into mine as we straighten the cocktail tables along the second-floor observation deck. I almost drop the stack of new cocktail tent cards in my hand.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Guess I was distracted.”
She smirks. “You don’t say.”
We’re supposed to be resetting the lounge for the evening crowd, lining up menus, wiping down glass tables, fluffing pillows that already look like they’ve never been touched.
From up here, the club looks calm. Like a luxury hotel instead of what it really is.
An exclusive playground for the richest men and women on the planet.
Lala places the last menu card and leans on the railing, peering down at the main floor. “So. You gonna tell me, or should I just keep making up my own version?”
I freeze. “Tell you what?”
She turns slowly, eyes glittering. “About how you accidentally fell into the arms of one of the most powerful men in this building.”
I groan. “Ask your boss. I wouldn’t have been there had he not pulled me onto the dance floor. I still don’t understand how it happened,” I admit. “One minute I’m running an errand for Gianni. Next thing I know, I’m dancing with… him. Besides, it was one dance.”
“One dance with Max Wilde,” she emphasizes his name. “Self-made billionaire. Cybersecurity genius. Not the same as dancing with Fern’s balding, self-absorbed investment banker.”
Below us, Fern is already laughing too loudly at something an older man in a navy suit says, her hand resting just a little too long on his chest. Candice is perched on a barstool beside her, tits out, legs crossed as if she’s auditioning for a local plastic surgery commercial.
“They’re on the hunt early tonight,” Lala mutters. Her eyes narrow.
Candice and Fern have turned landing a rich husband into a competitive sport. Despite the lectures from Lala on avoiding crossing the line with the members, they move full steam ahead whenever they think no one’s watching.
Me? I’m just trying to keep my job and my room.
“So,” Lala presses, nudging me again. “What’s Max like up close?”
I hesitate. The honest answer feels too dangerous to share with Lala, so I settle on something benign. “He was… nice.” Well, at least that’s safer than delicious, smooth, dreamy, charismatic, panty-melting…
Lala snorts. “That’s not an answer. Nice is the hot barista at the cafe on the corner when he forgets your name but remembers your drink order.”
I rearrange the last table to give my hands something to do. I shrug, admitting nothing. Yet deep down, I enjoyed every second in his arms. And not because he was a rich, handsome, powerful man. It was the way Max made me feel when he looked down at me. Like he actually saw me.
But I’m probably kidding myself.
There’s a beat of silence before Lala smiles softly. “That’s how they get you.”
I frown. “Get you how?”
“Being nice.” She shrugs. “It’s insidious.
They throw little glances your way, looks that make you feel special.
Yet all the while they remain aloof, uninterested.
” Lala’s expression appears pained. Is she speaking from personal experience?
“You have to remember that the men here don’t end up in a place like this by accident.
They’ve either got a wife or a secret girlfriend, a sex addiction… or an emotional void.”
I glance toward her, knowing she’s probably right.
This place is more than a safe haven for rich playboys.
These men likely have issues as complicated as mine if they choose to spend their free time here instead of in a healthy relationship.
Preferring to chase their demons with high-dollar scotch, cigars, and consensual no-strings sexcapades.
Lala studies me momentarily before placing another cocktail menu in an acrylic frame. “Or maybe he just doesn’t like being alone.”
My body stiffens. Her words hit a little too close to home. I wipe down a smudge on the shiny black high-top table overlooking the first floor. “He does seem to be a bit of an enigma.”
“What do you mean?”
“He seems to be working here a lot. Sitting all by himself with a laptop. At a sex club,” I mutter.
“I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to be at his office?
I get that he probably can’t do his line of work at the corner café.
But his headquarters has to have a top-notch firewall in place.
Even his home must be secure, given his line of work.
So why keep coming back to DPG?” My gaze travels up the stairwell leading to the private floors.
“Unless he’s interested in a specific woman here. ”
“Like who? Brier?”
I again shrug, trying to remain nonchalant, but secretly wondering if he returns to spend time with someone who takes care of his needs.
Lala raises a brow. “Please. I’ve never seen him give her a second glance.”
“Or one of the girls upstairs.”
She purses her lips. “I haven’t seen him with anyone here, now that I think about it. But I guess it’s possible. Or he could go to The Rox.”
I straighten and turn to look at her. “The Rox?”
“It’s basically a modern-day brothel. An elite establishment in Roxbury, Maryland where men can have their needs met by the woman of their choosing in a private setting.
It’s one of Gianni’s ultra-private locations made available to VIP members looking for discreet interactions with women, men, or both. ”
My brows jump to my hairline. It’s still mind-blowing to consider places like this exist. I shouldn’t be shocked, given the hedonistic world we live in. Yet when your needs are very basic, a safe place to work and live, it’s hard to relate to this extremist lifestyle.
We gather the last of the supplies and head downstairs, silver trays balanced on our palms. The bass is lower tonight, the lighting a little brighter. Less spectacle. But then again, it’s early.
And that was some party. I was tempted to beg Lala to let me sneak upstairs to see The Devil’s Playground in all its glory.
Packed wall to wall with people, I might’ve been able to take it in without drawing any attention to myself.
But as the thought began to take root, Gianni came along and pulled me onto the dance floor.
As we descend the steps, my eyes land on the VIP section. Max sits, focused entirely on the screen in front of him. All dark hair, glasses, and delectable stubble. My feet tangle beneath me and I nearly tumble down face first.
Why does he have to be so freaking hot? I could’ve ended up back in the hospital from his pheromones alone.
Max on the other hand… the world could be ending, and he wouldn’t notice. He’s seated at the edge of the long table, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Again, working. Here. I can’t help it. I still think it’s strange.
The glow of the screen reflects faintly in his glasses, but my mouth waters at the arm porn on display. The veins seem to dance as his muscular forearms flex with each strike against the keys of his laptop. Jeez. I can practically smell his mouthwatering cologne from the other night.
“Speak of the devil,” Lala murmurs. She takes a scotch from a passing server and places it on my tray. “I need to go to the office and check for any new messages. Take him a drink.”
“But I—”
“Go. It’s our job to anticipate their needs.”
Before I can protest, she nudges me forward.
I walk toward him, suddenly hyper-aware of everything I’m wearing. No slinky gown tonight. Just a lavender dress that hugs my hips and silver heels I can actually walk in. I almost feel underdressed.
As I reach the table, he doesn’t even look up. My hands are shaking as I set the glass down beside his laptop, careful not to disturb him. For one second, I consider just walking away. Letting the moment pass. Letting this man remain a fantasy instead of the larger-than-life CEO I danced with once.
But something inside me rebels.
Maybe I’ll just reassure him I’m nearby if he needs anything. I lean in slightly, close enough that he can hear me without the room hearing too. “Hi.”
Max startles, hands pausing mid-type. His eyes snap up to meet mine. My breath is trapped in my throat. And for half a second, we just stare at each other. “Hi,” he says softly. Like the word surprised him.
My heart does something reckless. I straighten, trying to look casual while every nerve in my body is screaming.
Neither of us moves.
Max
I tell myself I come here to work. That the ambient noise helps me concentrate.
The low music, the muted conversations, the constant motion in my peripheral vision are enough stimulation to keep my mind from spiraling into places it shouldn’t go.
And while that may be true, my reason for being here right now isn’t work-related.
I came here today because I wanted to see her.