Chapter 2
T he Black Ledger.
I flip the card over between my fingers, the weight of it strangely heavy. All black, sleek, expensive. The gold foil letters catch the morning sunlight streaming through my window. The front is stark—just those words.
The Black Ledger . No title. No job description. Just the name.
The back is even more cryptic.
An address. Nothing else.
I stare at it for another long moment before tossing it onto my nightstand, exhaling a groan as I flop back against my pillows.
It’s nearly noon, and I’m still in bed.
Last night should have ended in disaster.
But somehow, it didn’t.
Steve was carried out.
Literally.
Harper and I stayed.
We danced. We drank. We soaked up every second of the VIP treatment we didn’t pay for.
Men surrounded us, offering drinks, offering their hands, offering to take us home. But none of them held my attention for longer than a passing glance.
Because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about him .
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed.
The storm in his eyes.
The rough edge to his jaw, a shadow of stubble sharpening the cut of his cheekbones.
The way his dark hair showed the beginning signs of gray throughout.
An older man.
That realization alone makes something tighten in my stomach.
Fuck. He only looked sexier because of it.
I bite my lip, heat curling through me as my mind drifts exactly where it shouldn’t.
His hands—big, warm, rough—gripping my hips.
His body pressing mine into the bar.
His mouth claiming mine—hot, hard, devouring?—
I want to keep going with this fantasy but the buzz of my apartment intercom, shatters it like glass.
“Perfect timing, Harp.”
I run a hand over my face, pulling myself together, and shuffle out of bed toward the call button.
A loud, pained groan crackles through the speaker.
"It’s me ," Harper moans. "Open the damn door. I’m dying."
I smirk, pressing the button to let her in.
A minute later, she stumbles inside, sunglasses on, a bag of food in one hand and two obnoxiously large, iced coffees in the other.
"Well good morning." I fold my arms. "How are you feeling, sunshine?"
Harper flops onto my couch, groaning dramatically. "Like my soul left my body and I barely convinced it to come back. But I brought sustenance, so I expect zero judgment."
She waves the bag of food like an offering.
I snatch it immediately. "None given."
I unwrap my sandwich and take a massive bite, barely suppressing a groan as the greasy, carb-loaded goodness hits my tongue.
"So," I say through a mouthful, eyeing Harper over my coffee cup, "how was the bartender?"
Harper pushes herself up, tossing her sunglasses onto the table with a satisfied smirk. "Oh, babe, phenomenal ."
I raise an eyebrow.
She stretches her arms over her head like a cat waking from a long nap. "Three orgasms. Three —and that was just round one."
I nearly choke on my coffee. "Jesus Christ."
"Oh, don’t act so scandalized. It was art. Pure, unfiltered, Michelangelo-sculpted-that-shit level of perfection. And he’s Italian. The tongue work? Superb. The stamina? Elite. And best of all…" She sighs dramatically. "He made me waffles afterward."
I chuckle, taking another long pull of cold coffee. "So, love at first fuck?"
She scoffs. "Please. Love is for people who don’t have better things to do. I’m just saying, if I ever get a commemorative plaque for outstanding life achievements, last night is going on there."
Harper finally takes a bite of her own sandwich. "And, lucky for you," she pauses for a drink, "he has a friend."
"As most people do,"
Harper grins. "Are most people members of the nine-story sex club where they work?"
Reaching into her purse, pulling out two silver coins, she tosses them onto my glass coffee table with a soft clink.
Slowly, my gaze lifts to hers as I pick up one of the large coins.
They’re thick, weighty-looking, and identical—both stamped with a bold, raised number two on either side.
She waggles her eyebrows, smug as hell. "Yeah, babe. It’s real. "
“Whoa.”
“And we’re going.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh, but you are.” Harper focuses on her sandwich like it’s restoring her lifeforce.
It probably is.
I shake my head, setting the coin back on the table. “Harper, I really don’t have the funds to go gallivanting through a sex club. Hi, your jobless friend. Remember?”
Harper waves a dismissive hand, unbothered. “I don’t mean tonight .” She leans back against the couch, stretching her legs out. “My vagina is currently in recovery mode. Last night was a fuck-a-thon of Olympic proportions, and frankly, I need a nap before I can even consider stepping foot inside a place where people are actively getting railed.”
I snort, shaking my head. “I repeat. I’m not going to a sex club.”
“You are going to a sex club,” she says, pointing at me with the last bite of her food. “I leave for vacation tomorrow, and when I get back? You better have a job and be ready for a night filled with sin .”
I open my mouth to protest again, but she levels me with a look.
“Babe, The Masquerade is just the front. The real club is inside.” Harper waggles her brows picking up a coin and tossing it back into my lap. “Nine levels of Hell, straight up to The Devils Playground. And these? These are level access coins. Number two means I got us into the ‘soft exploration’ floor. Vanilla kinks, voyeurism, a little light bondage. ”
I blink. “You got us in?”
“Mhm.” She takes another smug bite of her sandwich. “Well, my new situationship can get us in.”
I set the coin down. “Yeah, not happening. ”
There are more things to worry about. Like the fact I’m already drowning financially and now I have no job.
I groan, rubbing my hands over my face. The events of last night replay in my mind—getting fired, Steve getting his face rearranged , and then… him.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed.
The raw power in his movements. The way his steel-gray eyes locked onto mine, like he saw right through me. Like he knew me.
I bite my lip, hating the way my stomach clenches at the memory.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
Harper hums, eyeing me over her coffee cup. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
“Whaaat?” I draw the word out. My high-pitch tone giving away the lie.
She grins. “Ohhh, you so are.”
I glare, reaching for my own coffee. “We’re changing the subject.”
“Fine. Let’s talk about your new mystery job then.” Harper nods toward the sleek black card sitting on my nightstand. “Did you look it up?”
I sigh. “Yeah. There’s nothing . And it’s not my new job.”
She frowns. “Nothing?”
“Not a single mention of The Black Ledger anywhere. No website, no job listings, no sketchy forum rumors. Just…” I grab my phone and pull up the only thing I did find, turning the screen toward her. “…this.”
A tall, sleek skyscraper. Black glass. The name The Black Ledger displayed in massive gold letters across the front.
Harper whistles. “Damn. That’s… intimidating as hell.”
“Right?” I murmur, staring at the screen. “It’s like it doesn’t exist.”
But it does.
And I can’t stop thinking about it.
Harper eyes me over her coffee cup. “So… are you going on Monday?”
I snort. “Or, hear me out… I could just sell feet pics.”
She groans. “Oh, Jesus.”
“No, I’m serious,” I say, setting my phone down. “There’s this woman on the internet who bakes cakes, and then— steps on them —barefoot.” I gesture dramatically. “That’s it. Millions of views. Thousands of subscribers. People are paying to watch her obliterate buttercream with her toes.”
Harper stares at me, unimpressed. “So, your backup plan is to become a cake-stomping sensation?”
I nod. “I can step on cake. I have feet. I’m qualified.”
She scoffs. “I don’t think we’re at feet-pic desperation levels yet.”
“Yet,” I mutter, sipping my coffee.
Harper stretches…again, groaning. “Look, all I’m saying is, you should go. What’s the worst case that could happen? You walk in, it’s sketchy as hell, you walk right back out.”
I chew my lip and pull my auburn hair to the side, splitting it into three sections and braiding it.
It’s a ridiculous idea. But is it really worse than where I’m at right now?
I have no job. No other immediate options.
Rent is bleeding me dry.
My credit card debt is stacking up.
The job market is garbage.
I’m going to spend the next few days sending out applications anyway. What else would I be doing on Monday?
At best , this is some high-paying job that I miraculously qualify for and has immediate openings.
At worst …
Well.
“I could get murdered in a skyscraper.” I deadpan. “That would kind of suck.”
“Agreed.” Harper tips her coffee at me. “But I don’t think killers walk around giving out business cards.”
“You never know. It’s working.” I stuff the wrappers from our sandwiches back into the paper back.
“So, you’re going.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“You’re going.”
Yeah. I’m going.