Two
ZACHARY
FOUR HOURS, I’ve been sitting in this chair for four straight fucking hours.
Stretching out the kink in my neck, I rub my thumbs over my temples to relieve some built-up pressure thumping through my head.
I’ve been reading spreadsheet after spreadsheet, dealing with invoices and stock orders.
I should hire someone to manage all of this day-to-day shit for me.
The problem is I don’t trust any fuckers with my accounts.
The way the club is making legal money this month will make it a hell of a lot easier for the accountant to clean the money from the other business I run here.
While owning one of the best nightclubs in Sydney is a very lucrative business, running the underground fight club, Club M, adds a lot more cash to the ever-growing pot.
“Bray, I see you still haven’t mastered the art of knocking.” I slide the Glock I was about to point his way back into the slot on the underside of my desk.
“Why waste precious time knocking when I can just turn the fucking handle and boom, here I am,” he replies loudly as he slumps his big form onto the couch, pouring himself a glass of Glenfiddich 50-year-old whisky. Leaning back, he pops his feet up on the table.
“Help yourself, why don’t you, and while you’re at it, get your dirty fucking boots off my table.
” He grumbles as he removes his feet, placing them back on the floor.
I give up on staring at the computer screen and join Bray at the couch, pouring myself a glass.
“We have ten fully stocked bars in this building. Why are you in my office drinking my whisky?”
The bastard just smirks at me. “You’ve got the good stuff. Why wouldn’t I be here?” I’m not buying that he just stormed into my office for whisky, however, I know my brother and I know when to pick my battles. This is one I don’t need to pick right now.
Deciding to change tactics, I ask, “You ready for the fight tonight? Think maybe you should save your celebratory drink for after you win, winning me the thousands I’m betting on you?”
Bray shakes his head, smirking. “Please, I was born ready for this fight. Smith will wish he never challenged the Brayden fucking Johnson to an actual fight in the cage.”
He’s always been so damn cocky; the fact that he’s undefeated does not help. I’ve placed a hundred grand on the line, so he better be fucking winning tonight. “You better be ready. I have a lot riding on this fight, Bray.” I try to hit home with him just how much is at stake if he loses.
“I know, bro. Relax, I got this.” He sips his drink before adding, “Also, I need you to be present on the floor tonight.”
Ah, I knew there was a reason he was in my office, and there it is. “And why, exactly, would you need me to be on the floor tonight?” I question.
I do my best not to be seen out on the floor. I would rather be in the basement watching over my fights, than watching over drunks and pushing off girls who have no sense of self-preservation.
They always come across like they’re good for the one-night deal I offer, but then here they’ll be, hanging around the following weekend with claws out and looking to stake a claim they have no right to stake.
I don’t do relationships, ever. No woman has ever kept my interest longer than a weekend to even make it seem worth considering putting myself through the hell of a monogamous relationship.
“I have it on good authority that Ella will be here tonight.” And there it is, the one reason that would have my ass out on the fucking floor; our baby sister, and when I say baby, I mean fucking eighteen years old.
“Why the fuck would she come here? This is no place for Ella.”
“You think I want her here? I have one fight tonight. I don’t need to be fighting every other fucking arsehole in this joint who looks at her, on top of the one I have to win.”
When I say nothing else, Bray sighs. “She’s eighteen, Zac.
We can’t exactly lock her away, and better that she comes to our club where we can keep an eye on her, than she goes somewhere else where anything could fucking happen.
” I have to agree with that, not the locking away idea, because that’s still a viable option to me.
“What am I supposed to do when she gets here? Just sit back and watch our baby sister get shit-faced and hit on by fucking drunks? Not happening.”
He thinks on this for a moment before responding, “When she gets here, have one of your boys take her and her friends to the VIP floor. I’ve reserved a section for them.”
“Fine, but I’m having two of my guys stay in her section all night, and when, not if but when, I’m getting locked up for murdering the arseholes who try to hit on her, you better fucking bail me out.”
Brayden smirks before getting up and walking to the door. Looking back, he says, “I’ll do better than bail you out, bro. I’ll bury the fucking bodies so that no one ever finds them. You can’t have a murder without a body, right?”
With that, he walks out the door. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s buried a body or two either.
After replying to about a billion emails, I look at the clock.
I can hear the house music of the club pump.
It’s ten to nine, still early in club time, however, I have no idea what time Ella is planning on arriving.
Shrugging out of my jacket, I remove my tie and fold the sleeves of my shirt up as I’m walking out of my office.
Dean, my best friend since high school and head of security, falls into step next to me. “What’s on the agenda for tonight, boss?” he asks.
Grunting, I relay what little info I know, “Ella and some of her friends are planning to come in tonight. I need you to find two of your best guys to escort her straight to the VIP floor—make sure they stay in her section the whole night. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but no one touches her.”
He looks at me for a moment with a look I can’t quite decipher, somewhat furious and confused. “What the fuck is she doing coming to a place like this? Isn’t she only seventeen?”
“She just turned eighteen two weeks ago; you were there at her fucking party, you moron. Until now, I’ve kept her out of here. Fuck, I’m gonna have to kill some motherfuckers tonight, aren’t I?”
Dean shakes his head, pulling out his phone. Ready to send off the orders to his men, he adds, “Don’t worry, you won’t be the only one doing the killing.” With that, he turns the opposite way, walking up to the VIP floor, while I make my way down to the first floor.
I find a spot at the end of the main bar that extends the length of the building.
From this vantage point, I can see the entrance to the club and every fucker who enters.
As I look around, I see people are already filling the top floor balconies that overlook the dance floor.
There are groups of people sitting around the sectioned areas that line the red walls of this floor.
The tables that people sit around show the vision of The Merge: bodies entwined in a sexual embrace, when two or more souls become merged to unite as one.
Over the years, I’ve built The Merge up from the bottom.
It’s now the place to come for a good night out.
What most don’t know is the real action happens in the basement, below this very floor, where my underground fight events are held, and where I should be now, instead of sitting at this damn bar waiting for my sister to arrive.
James comes over with my drink before I even have to signal for him. “This is why you’re my number one barman, James,” I say in way of greeting, taking the drink.
“I’m your number one because my hot bod brings all the girls to the bar’s more like it,” he exclaims.
I have to admit he makes a killing in tips from the ladies here, even though tipping in Australia is not common. When he first started, James demanded we place a gold tip jar on the bar with his photo on it. According to him, the jar matched the décor (or some shit) so it shouldn’t bother me.
The only time I’ve noticed it is when I see ladies strip their panties off right in front of it and place them in the jar. I keep my face turned towards the door, waiting for Ella.
“If only they knew you would never make use of those numbers or panties they slip in that jar of yours.” James laughs.
“Nope, but I’d sure as shit make use of your number if you slipped it in.
” I shake my head at him. He has been trying to get me to swing to his team since he started working here four years ago.
“Waiting on someone?” James asks as he wipes the bar down—nosey bastard that he is.
“Ella,” I say, not looking at him. That has him coughing and splattering all over the place. I wait for him to compose himself.
When he finally gets himself under control, his eyebrows raise in question. “What is she doing coming to a place like this?”
“Apparently, she is eighteen now, and this is what eighteen-year-olds fucking do on a Friday night.”
“Well, eighteen or not, she’s not likely to have any fun here with you and Bray around supervising.”
That thought makes me smile. Looking at him, I say, “You know what? You’re right. With any luck, she’ll hate it and not want to go clubbing again.” I raise my glass in cheers as he walks back down the other end of the bar to serve some early customers.
I turn back to keep watch on the door again and almost choke on the drink I was attempting to swallow. Standing in the doorway is a fucking angel. Long,
blonde, wavy hair, curves in all the right places and those breasts… Holy mother of god, what I wouldn’t do to get a taste of them. Even in the dark, she looks like a ray of fucking sunshine.
She stands there in a red dress, looking every bit a fifty’s pinup model.
Why is she just standing there? She seems to look around, taking it all in.
Just as I’m about to get up and offer her a privately guided tour, particularly to my office, some pencil-dicked douche comes up behind her and squeezes her ass.