Chapter 29 Where’s Freddy?
Where's Freddy?
August
Kelley’s McLaren growls beneath us, low and impatient, city lights smearing across the windshield as rain needles the glass. No backseat. No space to breathe. Just engine and bad decisions.
“I told her I wouldn’t land until morning.”
Kelley hums. “You did.”
“Said I’d be out cold by the time she got home.”
“Mhmm.” A beat. “And where is she?”
I exhale through my nose. He’s not asking.
“Out,” I admit. “Lucid. Some Halloween thing.”
His mouth ticks, satisfied. There it is.
I turn my head, watching him now. “That wasn’t the plan.”
“That wasn’t your plan,” he says, easy as breathing.
“Kelley—”
“Relax.” He taps the wheel once, deliberate. “We show up, we say hello, we leave. Everybody wins.”
“How come when you say ‘everybody wins,’ it sounds like the exact opposite?”
That earns me a grin. Slow. Interested.
“I thought you were down bad for her,” he says, glancing over. “Figured it’d be more efficient to just… go to the source.”
I shake my head, but I don’t tell him to turn the car around.
That’s the problem.
“You just want to watch it happen,” I say.
“I want to go to a party,” he corrects, like that’s the only part that matters. “Your girlfriend just happens to be at the biggest one in the city tonight.”
A beat stretches between us, tight as wire. I don’t miss the emphasis on girlfriend.
Then, almost as an afterthought—
“Besides, it’s Halloween. That’s basically a license for mayhem and mischief.”
I shake my head, already knowing I’m not getting out of this. “You are a terrible influence.”
“You want to stay on my good side, right?” he says lightly. “Then we’re going.”
I don’t respond.
“You sure about this plan?” I ask instead.
“We’re on the guest list.”
I lift a brow. “Of course we are.”
He grins. “I’m Kelley Wilde. Before I was a businessman, I was a bad boy with a trust fund. Same skill set, different wardrobe.”
I glance over, taking him in—button-down, unbuttoned just enough, socks, not a trace of shame.
“You’re really doing Risky Business right now?”
He doesn’t even look over. “I’m doing it better.”
I huff a laugh. “You wore tighty-whities outside the house once. I reserve the right to doubt you.”
He grins, unbothered. “This is fashion-forward.” A beat. “And I look like Tom Cruise—if he was half Black and had swag. Respect the man.”
I snort despite myself. “Your Tom Cruise obsession is pathological.”
“Tom Cruise is the greatest actor of our generation,” he says solemnly. “And representation matters.”
By the time we pull up, the club is already bleeding onto the street. Bass rattling the pavement. Neon slicing through rain. Costumes everywhere. Latex. Glitter. A man dressed as money arguing with a woman dressed as a nun.
The valet barely glances at me.
His eyes go straight to Kelley.
“Kelley Wilde?” someone calls.
Phones lift. Whispers ripple. Recognition spreads fast and greedy. The heir. The headline. The man who used to be on the gossip blogs before he learned how to buy them.
Kelley opens his arms like a benediction. “Happy Halloween.”
Cameras flash.
“August James!” someone shouts—late, like an addendum.
I slip on my aviators and give them a half-smile anyway. Controlled. Polished. This used to be normal. Now it feels like wearing a suit that doesn’t fit anymore.
Kelley claps my shoulder. “See? They missed you.”
“I don’t miss this,” I mutter.
At the door, the bouncer straightens the moment Kelley steps forward.
“Mr. Wilde.”
The rope moves without being touched.
Kelley gestures to me. “My plus-one. Be gentle. He’s sensitive.”
I flash my ID. The pat-down is quick, almost deferential.
“Welcome to Lucid.”
Inside, the bass hits hard and immediate. Smoke. Sweat. Sequins. 2Chains rattling through the place like a warning. It’s loud enough to vibrate my teeth, bright enough to blur the edges of thought.
I don’t party anymore. Not like this.
For a second, it’s too much. The noise. The bodies. The attention. I exhale slowly, grounding myself.
Kelley leans in. “Drink first. Judgment later.”
“I thought we were on a mission.”
“We are,” he yells back, already clocking the VIP section. “And look—our host.”
He nods toward the roped-off area where a crowd bends around a broad-shouldered man in black, laughing easy, magnetic without trying.
Monroe Hart.
Running back. Windy City's favorite headline. My client first. My friend, lately—whether I planned on that or not.
Monroe catches sight of Kelley and lifts his glass in salute. The crowd shifts with him, gravity recalibrating.
Of course he’s here.
When Monroe Hart walks into a room, the rules don’t just rearrange themselves. They ask permission.
I scan the crowd anyway, pulse ticking up.
She’s here.
I know it.
Kelley nudges me. “Relax. Have a drink. Keep an eye out for your girl.”
I scan the crowd. Costumes blur under the lights. Bodies grinding. Somewhere in the chaos, Harlee’s here. I can feel it.
I check my phone. Still nothing.
“Good,” I mutter. “She doesn’t know I’m here early.”
Kelley grins. “Live a little, August. It’s Halloween.”
We reach Monroe’s section and the energy shifts immediately. Roped off. Elevated. The crowd parts for him like he’s gravity.
“Look who finally came out of hiding,” a deep voice calls.
Monroe Hart steps forward, Roman gladiator armor catching the light, grin wide and unbothered.
Kelley laughs, clapping him on the back. “Arena looks good on you. You ready to cause problems?”
Monroe pulls me in with a quick handshake and back-pat. “About time you showed up. Now I can stop hearing about it.”
He sweeps an arm around the section like he owns the place. Teammates. Body paint. Bottles already sweating on the table.
“That’s Derek,” he says, pointing. “Pirate. Marcus—vampire. And these two?” He gestures to us. “Corporate America’s finest. This one’s Kelley—no pants, all audacity. The serious one is August. He scares easy but means well.”
Kelley bows. “Brains and cheeks.”
I lift two fingers and grab a shot.
The DJ flips the track and the section loosens instantly. Bodies bounce. Laughter spikes.
“Some things never change,” I mutter.
Kelley smirks. “Speak for yourself.”
Still no Harlee.
“See anything interesting?” Monroe asks, clocking me.
“Just taking it in,” I say, eyes already back on the crowd.
Kelley elbows me. “You look like you’re about to audit the DJ. Drink.”
Monroe claps his hands. “Shots.”
The waitress appears like she was summoned. Tequila. Henny. Something blue and smoking.
Salt. Shot. Burn.
The edge softens.
“It’s good to see you out,” Monroe says. “Didn’t expect you on Halloween.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I say. “You good?”
He takes a long pull from the bottle. “Bye week. Needed air.”
I eye the Henny. “You don’t usually drink like this in season.”
His smile tilts, tired. “Camille and I split.”
“Damn.”
“She found out about Monica.”
“Shit.”
Kelley slides between us, arm around both shoulders. “Are we doing therapy or tequila?”
Monroe straightens, armor back in place. “Tequila.”
Like clockwork, a woman in a barely-there cat costume appears at his side. He leans in, conversation closed.
Kelley turns to me. “Any luck?”
I shake my head. “Jackson says she’s here. Just hasn’t reached out.”
“Text her again.”
“I have.”
It comes out clipped. Too much of this night is out of my control.
Kelley squeezes my shoulder once and disappears into the crowd.
I stay put a beat longer, scanning. Somewhere in this chaos, she’s here.
And when I find her—
I don’t finish the thought.
I move.
The whole club shifts.
Then the DJ grabs the mic.
“Alright, Chi-Town! You ready to level this shit up?”
The crowd roars. Something electric crawls up my spine.
“Straight from the city, the baddest in the game—make some noise for the one, the only… Wynter!”
The room explodes.
My pulse kicks. If Wynter’s here, Harlee’s not far.
The spotlight swings.
There she is.
Center stage. Radiant. Wild.
She’s dressed in a glittering beige-and-green Girl Scout costume, copper curls bouncing beneath auburn light that glows like spun cinnamon. The skirt rides high on her thighs, a bedazzled yellow bra flashing beneath a cropped jacket and open button-down.
Two dancers flank her.
But the stage belongs to her alone.
She grips the mic, grin sharp. “How we feelin’ tonight?”
The crowd loses its mind.
“Richie—play my shit!”
The bass drops hard.
Wynter slides into the opening hook, voice smooth and dangerous, skating over the beat like it owns it. The remix hits heavy—pop, hip-hop, R&B braided together with attitude. Her hips hit every count. The crowd follows without question.
She isn’t performing.
She’s consuming the room.
I feel a sharp nudge.
Kelley.
He’s frozen, drink hovering halfway to his mouth, eyes blown wide like he just spotted God—or sin—under a spotlight.
“Yo,” he says slowly. “Who the hell is that?”
Wynter rolls her hips, curls bouncing, mic trailing down her body like it owes her money.
Kelley exhales, reverent. “Because I think my soul just left my body and filed a restraining order against my self-control.”
I reach over and press a finger under his chin, closing his mouth before it becomes a public issue. “Down, boy.”
“That,” I say over the music, “is Wynter. Harlee’s best friend.”
His grin spreads, unashamed and bright. “I want to be best friends too. Respectfully.”
“You were just giving me shit for being in a relationship.”
“Yes,” he agrees easily. “And now I understand the ecosystem.”
Wynter drops it low. Rises slow. The dancers orbit her like she’s the sun and they’re lucky to survive the pull.
Kelley shakes his head, impressed. “Nah. This is dangerous. This is how men ruin their lives and write albums about it.”
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
He finally looks at me, eyes still glassy. “You brought me to this club.”
“This was your idea.”
He smiles, slow and smug. “Exactly. And this is why I’m the genius.”