Chapter 9
Calm Down, Max. You Can’t Go Back to Jail.
Max
When I hear the term “strip club” or even “gentlemen’s club,” I picture sweat, regret, and desperation clinging to the walls like old, knock off Calvin Klein cologne.
So when Eli and I walk into the Peppermint Elephant, I’m bracing for the worst—sticky floors, shady lighting, and half-naked women with thousand-yard stares.
But no. This place?
This place is classy.
Velvet drapes. Ambient lighting. Jazz playing softly in the background like we’re in a Bond film, not a gentlemen’s club.
The women are fully dressed—sleek black cocktail dresses, not thongs.
They’re poised, polished, and honestly? They look like high-end companions hired for conversation, not lap dances. It’s giving luxury, rather than lust.
I blink, taking it all in. “You come here often?” I ask, watching as Eli gets waved through the crowd like he’s royalty. No ID check. Just a nod from this man and doors open.
“No. Rarely, if ever,” he replies, his voice clipped.
“Then why does it seem like everyone knows you here?”
“Because they do.”
“But—”
“Max.” He stops and turns slightly, that low warning tone curling around my name like smoke. “Just walk.”
Then, he grabs my hand.
Correction: he envelops it.
The heat of his skin shoots straight up my arm, and the way he pulls me through the crowd? Possessive. Commanding. Like I’m his and there’s no question about it. It’s panty-melting, stomach-flipping, rom-com-montage-worthy good.
We weave through the plush lounge until we reach a private area tucked behind a velvet curtain. Inside, six men and four women lounge around an oversized curved booth. Low lights. Expensive drinks. It smells like cigars, sophistication, and power.
We’re led into a private section where a small group of people is already seated, and it’s immediately clear they know Eli. One of the men rises as soon as he spots us. He’s tall, bald, and bearded, the kind of presence that reads alpha at first glance but still feels easy and approachable.
“I guess you weren’t lying when you said you had a hot date, huh?” he teases, flashing Eli a grin.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Eli mutters, clearly annoyed.
“Well, what—or who—is it then?” the man asks, taking me in.
Eli gestures toward me with a sigh. “Max, this is my boy Drake. Drake, meet Max.”
I cough. Then laugh. “Your name is Drake? And you’re light-skinned? Do you also happen to like them young?”
And oddly enough, that gets a smile out of Eli.
Drake chuckles, shaking my hand. “Yeah, because that joke never gets old.” He clears his throat. “It’s actually Thaddeus Drake, the Fourth. My family doesn’t believe in middle names or mercy, apparently. It was either go by Thaddeus, Tad…or Drake.”
I nod in mock sympathy. “Wow. Yeah, no real winners in that lineup.”
“Exactly.”
Drake asks how we met, and Eli launches into the story of my near-death elk encounter and my unique handling of Canadian border patrol.
I interject where necessary, mostly to defend my choices or add dramatic flair.
But by the end of it, the entire crowd is laughing.
Even Eli, which, even though I’ve only known the man for a couple of hours, feels like a rare solar event.
Everyone else is drinking and laughing, settling into the night, but Eli barely loosens up. He stays on his feet, tells Drake he’s only here to drop off his wallet, nothing more.
Drake immediately gives him hell for it. “You are such an old man. Rarely drinks, never has fun, never lets his nappy hair down.”
“My mom says I have good hair,” Eli fires back, dead serious.
"All mothers say that when their kids are ugly and they want them to feel good about themselves!" Drake snaps, and that’s when we all lose it.
"Besides," I chime in, "All Black people have good hair!"
Eli nods, smiling. "That's what's up."
Eventually, he checks his watch and looks at me. “We’ve got about thirty minutes before we get to my house,” he says, which is clearly the cue for us to head out.
Drake smirks and wiggles his brows at Eli. “About time you got down to business, bro.”
“It’s not like that,” Eli shoots back.
My smile dips for a second. I’m absolutely not insulted that he shut the idea down so fast. Not insulted at all.
Which is ridiculous, because what am I even thinking about? This man is a complete stranger who could very well be driving me to my death, and somehow I’m imagining him going all vigilante on my vagina instead of updating Timantha with my location every five minutes.
This is exactly what happens when you read too many romance novels and start accidentally romanticizing your own kidnapping.
As we’re walking out of the VIP area of the club, the air shifts. A subtle chill snakes its way through the room just before we stop near the door. That’s when I see a strikingly beautiful woman.
She’s tall. Dark-skinned. Hair slicked back into a flawless ponytail. Beautiful in a way that makes the whole room fade around her. She’s giving Tika Sumpter meets Naomi Campbell meets French seduction. Because of course she has a sexy French accent, too.
“Funny running into you here, Eli,” she says smoothly, her eyes locking onto him like a hawk.
She turns to Drake, her voice syrupy. “Monsieur Drake.”
“Vanessa,” Drake replies, dry and uninterested.
Oh…okay. He doesn’t like her.
Then she looks at me.
Correction—she barely looks at me. Like I’m something sticky on her shoe.
And suddenly I decide, I don’t like this bitch either.
I’ve dealt with women like her my entire life. Arrogant. Polished. Dripping with entitlement. Even in my professional life, I’ve learned how to navigate their condescension, their passive-aggressive jabs wrapped in fake smiles. I’ve gotten very good at handling them.
Vanessa should tread carefully. I can fight, too. Thanks to Anastasia’s self-defense classes she gave to all of us at a book club meeting last year.
I extend my hand, my smile tight but polite. “Maxine Palmer.”
The way she addresses me, you’d think I was background noise. “Friend of yours?” she asks Eli, eyes still locked on me, never acknowledging my hand.
This skank.
I withdraw my hand and place it on my hip. “I’m Eli’s girlfriend,” I say, clear and loud, holding her gaze without blinking.
Eli clears his throat. “Max,” he warns, but he doesn’t say a damn thing to contradict me.
She scoffs, her eyes scanning my look—disheveled-chic—before she finally says, “Okay. Sure.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I beg your pardon?”
“Begging,” she says with a smug smirk, “is the only thing I could see you doing for this man.”
I take a step forward, every petty cell in my body activated. “Vanessa—was it? You’d be surprised what I can do for this man. And to him.”
“Vanessa!” Eli snaps, and her head whips toward him, eyes sharp and wide.
Like she just remembered what it feels like when he gets serious. It’s familiar to her. She’s not just reacting to a man raising his voice. She’s reacting to him. To the authority in it. She knows exactly what that tone means.
She’s intimate with it.
And right then—watching the way his command slices through the air, the way her bravado falters for just a second—I realize I want to be intimate with that authority, too.
With him.
That voice. That presence. That barely restrained power simmering under the surface.
This isn’t just a grudge between ex-lovers; this is the weight of a man who has been burned by a betrayal and is finally done playing nice.
It makes me wonder what it would take to make him truly unrestrained.
To see the walls he built against her finally crumble for me.
Challenge accepted.
“Touchy,” Vanessa teases, clearly trying to save face.
Oh hell no.
Hoe, I will bust your entire eardrum.
Calm down, Max, You can’t go back to jail. I whisper inwardly.
Yes, I’ve been to jail. It wasn’t my finest moment. I got arrested in grad school after some girl stomped on my brand-new Jimmy Choos—the ones I saved all summer for. And she had the audacity not to apologize.
Long story short, my ponytail ends up on the floor and I am the one that ends up in the back of a police car.
The judge called it assault. I called it a public service.
The woman not only stepped on my shoes. She was wearing crocks.
Vanessa turns back to Eli with fake composure. “Will you be at the Business Summit?”
His jaw ticks. “Why does it matter?”
“What’s the matter, pitch not ready?” she taunts. “You boys coming up short?”
Drake cuts in, tone sharp. “Aye, E. Tell your ex to keep our business’s name out her mouth—and firmly on your brother’s—”
“Easy,” Eli warns. “Not in front of company.”
“I’m assuming I’m the company,” I say, glancing between Eli and Drake. But they don’t respond.
Whatever they were about to say dies right there. The three of us standing together, looking like we’re sharing a joke Vanessa’s not invited into, is more than enough to set her off.
Her nose flares. “Well,” she says with a forced smile. “I have clients to attend to. If you’ll excuse me.”
“With pleasure,” I purr, refusing to look away. I hold her gaze until she turns and struts off in the other direction.
“Daaaaamn!” Drake whistles. “Little mama’s got spunk.”
I turn to him slowly, my feet still noticeably wet from the day. “I’ve also got a killer right hook, so don’t ever call me little mama again. Mmkay?”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Noted.”
Then we look at Eli. Silent. Frozen.
“Eli? You good?” Drake asks.
He finally looks between Drake and me, his voice tight. “What the hell was that? My girlfriend?”
“What? She was looking at both of us like we were a charity case and I’ll be damned if I let her get away with it. A woman like that only responds to power, so I let her have it. You’re welcome!”
“You told her you were my girlfriend, Max! Do you know what that does? I don’t need this shit!” He storms out, marching toward the parking lot.
I look at Drake. “What does that do?”
Drake lets out a forced breath. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“Okay. Well, it was nice meeting you, I guess?”
Drake nods in the direction of Eli. “You better go catch up. Eli is known for leaving people.”
I quickly run towards the exit. “Eli! Wait! Sorry!”
He doesn’t stop walking. Just throws the words over his shoulder like he’s done.
“Now, I see why you say the word sorry so much, Max. What the hell is wrong with you? Seriously?!”
The thing is, I’m normally more reserved in business settings. More cautious. I don’t flirt with strangers or declare fake relationships to their exes like I’m auditioning for a telenovela.
But there’s something about him. Something about this brooding, bossy, beautiful man with eyes like storm clouds and the emotional range of a locked vault has me unraveling with curiosity and zero restraint.
Maybe it’s adrenaline.
Maybe it’s the way he grabbed my hand back at the club like he owned me.
Or maybe I’ve just spent too much time listening to Timantha and her crew wax poetic about their scandalous adventures and steamy international rendezvous.
It’s clear I’ve gotten carried away. Lost in this imaginary Beauty and the Beast fantasy where I’m Beauty, thinking I’m charming the Beast. When really, I’m just pissing this man off. Poking the bear.
I catch up to him as we reach the truck. He stops at the driver’s side, hand hovering over the handle, but he doesn’t open it. Doesn’t move. Just stands there, shoulders stiff, breath uneven like he’s wrestling something down inside himself.
“I didn’t like how she looked at you,” I say quietly, my voice softer now. “Or how she looked at me. I wanted to punch her in the face, but instead…” I trail off, losing my words as I try to read whatever is happening beneath all that controlled intensity.
“It just…slipped out. The girlfriend thing, I mean.”
His breaths are almost calm, but there’s a storm simmering just beneath that hard exterior.
“I’m sorry, Eli.” I take a careful step closer, heart pounding. “Did she hurt you?”
He doesn’t answer. Just walks around to the passenger side, unlocks the door.
And I follow. Because even if he won’t say it, I already know.
She hurt him.
And now I want to hurt her back.
He’s stopped, staring into the passenger side window.
“Do we hate her?” I ask, stepping into his space, my hand finding his arm and lingering there, hungry to touch the heat and muscle beneath his coat. “Eli?”
He exhales sharply, and I watch the frost of his breath collide with the heat of the storm raging inside him.
Then—without warning—he turns.
One step. One shift of his massive body and I’m backed up against the side of the truck, breath caught, heart racing.
His hand slides along my side, slow, like he’s mapping every inch of me. Like he needs to know what I feel like beneath his palm. Goosebumps erupt across my skin and I swear I stop breathing. It’s no longer cold. I’m warm all over.
He’s still reserved, but he stares at me like he’s trying to translate a language he hasn’t spoken in years. Like he’s asking for something without letting the words escape.
Then he growls. Not a soft, irritated sound. A deep one. It doesn’t just vibrate in the air… it hits the ground. It hits me.
“We hate her,” he says, voice rough and unguarded.
And for a second, I forget everything. My brain short-circuits, and all that’s left is the heat of him standing too close.
I can barely think, but my brain still registers that something has just happened between us. Something has shifted.
I let out a breath, a mix of frost and expectation escaping my lungs. “Okay then, Bear,” I breathe. “We hate her.”
Hiccup.