Section 6
HR Is a Suggestion
Gia
Red is breathing.
That’s the only way to describe it—the club inhales customers and exhales sweat and low impulse control. The lights pulse like a heartbeat, crimson and shadow. Someone is always kissing someone they shouldn’t. Someone is always lying. Someone is always watching.
That part’s intentional.
I lean against the bar and survey my kingdom. Business is good. Which means trouble is on layaway.
“Your new guy’s been standing in the same corner for forty minutes,” the bartender says, polishing a glass that’s already spotless. “Either he’s extremely professional or extremely weird.”
I glance toward the corner.
His back is against the wall, arms crossed, motorcycle helmet reflecting the club lights in sharp, glossy fragments. People glance at him, do double takes, then decide nope and redirect their attention elsewhere.
“He’s hot,” the bartender adds helpfully.
“I know,” I say.
I’m not afraid of sex. Sex is easy. Sex is a transaction with excellent cardio benefits. Sex doesn’t ask you to explain yourself or remember birthdays or pretend you wouldn’t burn the world down for the right reason.
Commitment, on the other hand, is a scam invented by people who want leverage.
Lucky is my employee.
Employees are off-limits.
I can go home with the girl in the red dress who keeps glancing my way like she’s trying to decide whether I’d ruin her life or improve it. (Both.) I can disappear into the crowd and scratch the itch like a grown woman.
I do not need to be thinking about the way a faceless man in a helmet looks like a bad idea I’d enjoy too much.
“Stop staring,” the bartender says.
“You know I can fire you, right?”
Red doesn’t go ten minutes without trying to eat itself.
First incident: a man in a linen blazer who thinks VIP means immune. He’s loud, handsy, and very committed to misunderstanding the word no. I’m three seconds from intervening when Lucky moves.
One moment he’s standing in his corner, the next he’s there with a hand on the guy’s wrist, light as a suggestion. The other on his shoulder, guiding him back like they’re mid-dance.
“Hey, man,” Lucky says, voice warm, almost cheerful. “We’re not doing that.”
Linen Blazer laughs. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”
The helmet tilts. “Your exit strategy.”
A subtle change of pressure. Linen Blazer winces and lets himself be steered toward the door.
I raise a brow.
Second incident: two girls arguing over a spilled drink that’s about to become a hair-pulling performance art piece. Lucky crouches between them like a referee.
“Okay,” he says. “Deep breaths. You’re both hot. You’re both right. Let’s not ruin that.”
One of them blinks. “Are you… flirting?”
“With both of you?” he says easily. “Only emotionally.”
They laugh. He offers napkins like a peace treaty and backs away.
Third incident: a guy tries to sneak backstage. Lucky blocks him with casual ease.
“Private area.”
“I’m with the band.”
Helmet leans closer. “Cool. Name two songs.”
The guy opens his mouth. Closes it.
Lucky pats his shoulder. “Almost.”
When he turns, he catches me staring.
He walks over, helmet still on, and leans an elbow on the bar like he belongs there.
“Busy night,” he says.
“Is this your first shift or your audition for employee of the month?” I ask.
“Depends,” he says. “Is employee of the month allowed to tackle people?”
“Only if it’s photogenic.”
“Damn. Missed opportunity.”
That’s his real weapon—that he enjoys this. Dangerous in a way that laughs at rules instead of breaking them outright.
He shifts, resting his weight back on his heels, relaxed now that he’s near me. Too relaxed.
“You run this place like a general,” he says. “But everyone’s having fun.”
“That’s called competence.”
“I respect it.”
“Just so we’re clear,” I say coolly, “I don’t sleep with employees.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Good.”
I blink. “Good?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Makes it way more exciting when you absolutely will.”
I stare at him.
“Shit, I—that wasn’t supposed to come out.”
He tilts his head like Diablo when he’s trying to cute his way out of a scolding for eating my shoes
I point toward the corner. “Go stand over there before I fire you for predicting my poor life choices.”
“Yes, boss,” he says, too easily, already backing away. Oh. He can take directions.
Then—because he’s feral—he adds, “You seem like someone who bites back. I like that about you.”
I glare. He laughs and retreats to his corner, helmet gleaming, posture back to silent menace.
Then my phone vibrates.
And again.
Problems.
I step away from the bar and check the screen.
EMERGENCY MEETING. NOW.
VALENTI CREW MOVEMENT CONFIRMED.
I sigh. The universe hates a smooth opening night.
I don’t have a driver available. Unless…