Chapter One
Jill
The next man to ask me what I’m doing after work is getting stabbed.
Violently and repeatedly.
You’d think they’d learn, because I’m definitely not the first female bartender at the club they’ve asked to do a shot with them. But they never do. I’m not here to party or dance. I’m fucking working. And if they refuse to learn, I’m happy to be their final lesson.
“Three shots of Patron, and pour one for yourself, sexy.”
I suck in a calming breath before looking up at the man leaning over the bar, tapping his credit card against the counter. He’s as generic looking as they come—the leering eyes that stare none too subtly at my big tits, the cocky smile meant to be charming, and the plastic credit card he’s trying to stretch past its default limit.
“No can do, handsome. I’m on the clock.” The practiced line flows from my mouth with ease. I’ve worked here at Inferno—Chicago’s most popular and expensive nightclub—long enough to know not to bite the hand that feeds me. Telling off every man who makes me want to grab a sharp object and start slashing—however tempting it might be—would severely affect my tips. And I need to make as much money as I can right now.
Working at this nightclub isn’t my idea of a good time. It’s not my idea at all. I miss bartending at the luxury hotel bar I worked at up until a few months ago—before everything happened. But I’m here to work off my brother Tommy’s debt to the owner of the club. The loan sharks didn’t exactly give me a choice in the matter. The money isn’t coming from Tommy, so it was either pay up or suffer the consequences. So now I belong to Inferno, and whatever money I earn goes towards the debt.
Walking into Inferno feels like stepping through the gates of Hell—if Hell was full of people fueled by booze and had seven-star service. The entire building is shrouded in red lights, dancing off the matte black walls like flames that engulf the space with hedonism. Fog machines in the rafters above the dancefloor meet red lasers that cast a red haze over the dancers. The music is always blasting, and energy is always high.
Inferno is never lacking in work or tips. The sheer number and caliber of clientele that walk through the doors every night keeps the drinks flowing and the minimums high. You have to pay to play here, something even basic frat boys are learning the hard way with every swipe of their credit cards.
Filling orders left and right—a muddled cocktail here, a round of shots there—I keep an eye out for any familiar faces in the crowd. Having worked in the service industry for a while now, I know that regulars mean better tips. They might be annoying, but you know what they say about making deals with the devil you know.
My eyes lock on the blond man moving through the crowds past the bar, greeting partiers like a king greets his subjects—his self-importance is astounding. Jonas Firth is the previous owner of Inferno, up until about two weeks ago. Rumor has it he lost ownership over a high-stakes poker game. I don’t doubt it for a second. The bastard thinks he’s invincible, and I know how much he loves a poker game. Even after losing the best nightclub in the city, he’s strutting around like he’s untouchable.
Fucker.
The image of my brother’s ransacked apartment, covered in blood and damage that the police called ‘evidence of foul play’ in Tommy’s disappearance, has hatred bubbling through me like acid. He’s the reason my brother is missing and assumed dead. Up until recently, Jonas had been my living nightmare.
When my brother got in too deep with his gambling debts, it was Jonas and this club that he lost to. My brother dug himself into a three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollar hole he couldn’t climb out of. And when he couldn’t come up with the money, they took his life instead.
The authorities think there’s a possibility Tommy is still alive, and they promise they’re looking into it. But a gambling addict with a history of skipping out on his debts isn’t exactly a top priority on their list of missing persons.
I believe Tommy’s dead. I know my brother better than anyone—the good and all the bad—and he wouldn’t have gone this long without trying to contact me if he were able. He’s gone, and I know who’s responsible.
My eyes track him as he makes his way past the dance floor. Jonas Firth is the farthest thing from invincible. He doesn’t know it yet, but he will. I’m going to show him just how easy it is to make him bleed. My heart rate spikes with excitement, adrenaline rushing through my veins until I’m lightheaded. It’s been a long time coming. I’ve bided my time, and tonight is it.
Tonight, Jonas Firth dies.
I’m going to enjoy this.
“Jill, go change.” My manager’s voice pulls me back into the moment. “The new boss wants you on service.” I open my mouth to agree as a habit before realization sets in.
I’ve done bottle service before, and there’s a reason I like to stay behind the bar. I have no qualms about doing what needs to be done to earn the good money. A desperate woman can’t be picky. But if I’m going to be forced to work in Hell’s Inferno, I would prefer a good three feet of counter space between me and the customers. I thought Jonas being gone meant I was safe from pimping myself out.
“I’m a bartender, Miranda. Jonas is gone. I don’t do bottle service anymore.”
“You do tonight,” she states. Noticing my glare as I place my hands on my hips, she sighs. “Please, Jill. This isn’t my decision. They asked for you specifically, and new ownership means a whole new set of rules.”
“Fine,” I concede.
“Thanks, doll. I don’t want either of us getting fired tonight. I can’t handle this place without you.”
Not that I would get fired. Or even could get fired from this place. I’m already working here against my will.
“Which table?” I pull my apron from around my waist and toss it below the counter.
“VIP.”
“Gold?”
“Executive lounge.” High rollers. “You have fifteen minutes. Go get changed. Trinity will meet you in the stairwell with the bottles.”
I huff out a sigh, making sure to get dramatically louder as I pass her on my way out from behind the bar, laughing as she swats me with her towel. “Tits up.”
“Ass out,” I call over my shoulder, finishing the mantra of the Inferno bottle girls. Pushing through the door marked Employees Only, I make my way to the bottle girls’ dressing room. Pulling a change of outfit from my locker, I strip out of the black bodysuit and black jeans I wore for my bartending shift.
Luckily, I don’t have to wear one of the usual bottle girl outfits of a black sequin bikini top, high-waisted thong bottoms, and fishnets with thigh-high boots. Those outfits don’t come in a size with double digits, and I have more body than most people know what to do with. The closest I get to wearing a size two is if you add another two in front of it. Hot as I am, I’m a big girl, so I bring my own attire when I’m forced to be a bottle girl.
My black two-piece set consists of a long-sleeved crop top that sits off my shoulders and ties at my breasts, and a little black mini skirt. I have absolutely no issues showing skin, I have a lot to show. But I choose who gets to see my assets and when. I slip on some sexy strappy black heels with red bottoms before walking over to my vanity.
Rifling through my makeup bag, I pull out my lipliner and lipstick combo, both in the Inferno signature blood red. Red lips are part of the bottle girl uniform, along with a headband adorned with glittery red devil horns.
Pulling my dark hair out of the high ponytail, I shake out my waves. Getting this long, 70s-inspired shag haircut was the best decision I’ve made in a long time. I finger brush through my full bangs, fixing how they sit on my forehead and accentuate my eyes. A few spritzes of perfume has me smelling delicious.
Stepping back, I twist to check myself out in the mirror from every angle.
Fuck, I’m sexy.
Time to go drain a couple of men’s bank accounts until it’s raining down on me. The more money I make, the sooner I’m free of this place.
Trinity’s waiting for me at the bottom of the private stairs. She turns to flash me a smile, and it’s genuine—which isn’t something I can say for all of the girls working here.
“Could you possibly be any more beautiful?” I ask.
“You’re a total bombshell,” she says, making me smile. I almost wish I could hate Trinity, with her silky blonde hair, legs that go on for miles, and the type of body lingerie is designed for. But she’s honestly one of the most genuine girls I’ve met in this city, and her beauty matches her brains. She’s gorgeous inside and out. If I have to do bottle service, Trinity’s the one I want to partner with. She loves her job and knows how to have a good time. Not to mention, she rakes in the tips.
“I know,” I say, giving a little shimmy that sends my tits swaying and earning a laugh. “We’re a couple of showstoppers.”
“What did they order?” I ask, looking at the bottles she’s holding. Inferno has a fifteen thousand dollar bottle minimum just to sit in the executive lounge for the night, so I’m not surprised to see over twenty grand worth of champagne and cognac in her arms.
“Two Louis Roederer Cristal and Remy Martin Louis XIII,” she responds, handing off one of the champagne bottles to me. As one of the regular girls, she’ll be taking lead on this group.
“Damn, mo-ney,” I comment.
“Tell me about it,” she laughs.
The sound of our heels clicking echoes through the stairwell under the pulsing music playing from the DJ booth. The stairwell leading up to the Executive lounge is one of my favorites. Arches made of black lights lead up the stairs every four steps, with flickering red lights that climb the matte black walls like red flames on both sides of each stair. It feels like you’re in a tunnel that leads straight to hell, and I like it.
We pause on the landing at the top of the stairs to prepare the sparklers on the champagne. Taking a deep breath, I look at Trinity. “You ready?”
“Let’s get these tips.” Her straight white teeth glow under the black lights as she grins. “Tits up.”
“Ass out,” I reply, pasting on my own smile—it’s the one designed for male customers, specifically the ones with real money. I press the lighter to the sparklers, setting them ablaze as the sparks fly dramatically.
Pressing the button near the door, music pumps through the lounge with a heady beat that sets our pace as we strut into the lounge with the bottles raised over our heads. Pumping our arms to the rhythm, sparks flying, we make our entrance. All eyes are on us.
The Executive lounge is a glass box that overlooks the club above the dancefloor, the privacy glass allowing the VIP guests to see out without being on display themselves. Soundproofing gives the option to sync the speakers up to the house music or select something different. A large, tufted blood-red sofa curves around a circular table that faces the club below, the rest of the space decorated in decadent matte black. A small bar sits in the corner closest to the door, with a fully loaded bar cart situated near the guests.
Five men sit scattered around the sofa. Jonas Firth smirks at me from the end closest to me. Just the sight of his blond curls makes my blood boil. He doesn’t know what’s coming for him, but for now I need to do my job. At least while there are witnesses.
The four other men I haven’t seen before. Sitting next to Jonas is a man with the term ‘hipster’ written all over him—dyed black hair peeking out from under an olive green fisherman beanie, mismatched ginger mustache, and brightly colored new-school tattoos placed like patches on the visible skin of his lanky limbs.
Another man sits in the center of the couch, his black hair cut close to his scalp with expertly trimmed facial hair. Tattoos climb up his bulky biceps like snakes on his rich, dark brown skin. He flashes a smile of dazzling teeth when he spots me and Trinity, his eyes bouncing between us.
The man next to him has a grizzly, overgrown appearance—wavy brown hair curling over his collar, and facial hair that looks several days overdue for a trim. His black button-up shirt gapes open to show symmetrical black patchwork tattoos scattered across his hair-littered chest.
At the end of the sofa, next to the grizzly, is a man who sucks up all the energy around him like a black hole. I’ve felt his eyes on me like a spotlight since I stepped foot into this room. Reclining on the couch, long jean-clad legs outstretched, arms spread across the back of the couch on either side of him, he tracks me with half-lidded eyes that pierce my very soul. He watches like the Grim Reaper, waiting for people to throw their souls at his feet, and I’m sure they do.
Tattoos cover every inch of visible skin, climbing up his neck to his jawline and down the backs of his hands. I have no doubt that the ink continues to cover the rest of his built body beneath his black t-shirt and worn leather jacket. Several silver necklaces hang from his neck, a heavy silver cross catching the flashing club lights. His dark brown hair is buzzed short to his head, a clean stubble covering his strong, angular jaw.
Ripping my eyes away from the man stealing the air from the room, I focus on finishing out the song, the heavy bottles above my head giving my arms a workout. Taking the lead, Trinity steps forward to greet the men.
“Hello, gentlemen. My name’s Trinity, and this is my friend, Jill.” I give them a sultry wink. “You ordered some bottles and a good time, and we’re here to deliver. Let’s get these drinks flowing.” She sets out to open the bottles and starts pouring drinks while I focus on the mixed drinks at the bar.
Making my way through the men on the couch, I take drink orders. When I hand Jonas a rum and coke, my smile is genuine as I picture what I have planned for him. The patchwork man next to him—who introduces himself as Dane while he feels me up with his eyes—orders a whiskey sour. The gorgeous black man, Anders, and the grizzly man, Messer, each order a vodka on the rocks, along with premium champagne. Trinity makes a show of pouring the bubbly for each of the men. Then she gets to him.
He doesn’t introduce himself, he simply reclines on the couch like he owns the room. There’s an air of arrogance about him, a slight smirk on his unbelievably gorgeous face. Placing a glass of champagne on the table in front of him with a dazzling smile, Trinity addresses him in her best money-making voice.
“What else can I get for you?” she asks.
“Cognac straight,” he replies simply before his gaze moves back to me. Opening the Remy Martin, I pour him a glass. His eyes don’t move from me once. Not when I hand him the drink, not when I move away when Anders calls for some of the cognac. Not when Messer leans over to say something to him, making him smile in a way that sparks between my legs. I can feel his eyes on me, heady and unrelenting, for most of the night.
Most clubs have strict rules about touching the bottle girls, or at least they claim to. And most tables on the floor are monitored by security, so the girls have an easier time with the men who get too handsy. But Inferno is more ‘hands-on,’ especially for the VIP tables. Touching is allowed, and bottle girls do what they have to in order to get the men to empty their wallets and max out their Amex cards. Short of having sex on the sofa or standing on the table and stripping, everything goes.
When Dane wants me to dance with him, I do. I let loose and move my body with his to the thrumming music. He presses close behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist as he grinds against my ass. I’m good at shaking my ass, and there’s a lot of ass for me to shake. It’s definitely one of my best assets.
Trinity and I dance, mingle, and keep the drinks flowing. With every movement, every laugh, every appeasing smile, I can feel his eyes on me. His gaze follows me like a shadow–dark and knowing.
“Do you need anything? More cognac?” Trinity asks him. He looks up at her in consideration for a moment before responding.
“I want a venom shot.” His dark gaze moves from Trinity to lock on me. “From her.” Trinity backs off as I grab the bottle of tequila from the bar cart, along with the salt and lime wedge. His eyes skate over my skin, making my nerves go haywire. My heart rate jumps, and my core clenches with desire. He’s as hot as he makes me feel.
Strutting over to him, I swing one leg over his lap to straddle him. If he minds my full weight in his lap, he doesn’t show it. This is what he asked for, and his hardening cock against my thigh tells me exactly how he feels about it.
Sticking two of my fingers into my mouth, I suck on them before dragging them back out slowly to draw an x over my heart in my saliva. His hooded eyes track my movements carefully. Taking the salt, I pour some onto the dampness on my left breast.
Tossing my hair, I make a show of arching my chest towards him in offering as I lift the tequila to my mouth. He doesn’t hesitate to lean down and run the flat of his tongue across my salted skin. The heat of his mouth makes my breath hitch before I take a big swig.
Pushing him back against the couch and leaning over him, my hand circles his throat under his jaw and tilts his head back. I lean in as he parts his lips for me to spit the shot of tequila into his mouth. His groan is lost in the music, but I feel it vibrating in his chest. Reaching for the lime wedge, I place it between my teeth. When I lean in to let him take the fruit with his own mouth, he lets it drop between us as his lips claim mine.
Goddamn.
The way his mouth moves against mine feels like he’s waited a million lifetimes to kiss me. Taking in long pulls, deep and hungry—he devours me until I can feel it all the way down to my toes. He draws me closer until I’m sinking into him as I let him take my mouth with unrelenting passion. Our breath mingles, passing oxygen back and forth until I’m lightheaded. His hands—big, strong, tattooed hands—grab handfuls of my thighs and ass, greedy to own and explore.
Demanding entry, his tongue plunges into my mouth, pulling a soft moan from me. Potent chemistry sparks between us until we’re engulfed in white-hot flames. I rock against him, my pussy wet and needy for the massive erection I can feel growing beneath me. My hands run down his chest to fist the lapels of his leather jacket, pulling him impossibly close.
I need more.
I’ve never been so overtaken by a man before, never been drowned in so much lust that I’m left gasping for air. A growl vibrates through his chest when my teeth catch his bottom lip, giving it a sharp tug before licking the pain away. When my teeth graze his tongue, it’s like I’ve unleashed something inside him. His hips grind up against me, his rock-hard cock rubbing me right where I need it, earning a soft gasp.
Sure fingers are slipping under the hem of my dress on a mission when a percussive sound rips us back into our surroundings.
Bang!
Breaking away from each other abruptly, I’m suddenly being hugged to a strong, solid chest.
The pop of a champagne bottle is followed closely by a bang of the cork hitting the ceiling and a chorus of excited shouts. Everyone else has migrated to the other end of the sofa, where Trinity is opening the second bottle of champagne. As realization sets in, I can feel his body relax against me, his arms loosening their protective hold.
Pulling out of his grasp, I slide off his lap onto the sofa next to him. Forcing a deep breath, I look up at the ceiling as I regain my composure—or at least the appearance of it. Glancing over at the man I almost fucked right here in front of a bunch of people, I can see he’s doing the same thing. Resting against the back of the sofa, he tilts his head to look over at me, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Smiling, his tongue runs along the bottom of his top teeth in a way that’s both self-satisfied and begging for more. My red lipstick has transferred onto his lips, making them look even more tempting. I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from leaning back in for round two.
Without a word, I stand from the couch. Ignoring the intense gaze I can feel touching every inch of my body behind me, I readjust my skirt and run my fingers through my hair.
I make eye contact with Trinity across the room. She looks pointedly at the mirror behind the bar, and I know I need to clean up my lipstick. That’s the only thing her eyes tell me before she turns back to the guests—no judgment or disapproval. That’s why I love her.
Stepping behind the bar, I take a moment to fix my lipstick where it’s smeared. Luckily, this lip combo is fairly makeout-proof and cleans up with a few swipes of my finger. I take this time to fluff my hair and straighten my bangs as well. Lust still thrums inside me, making me wish I could turn around and have the sinful man finish what he started.
I don’t feel a single ounce of regret. There’s nothing for me to feel bad about. If I were a real employee, I might have something to worry about—there are certain lines bottle girls and guests aren’t supposed to cross. But I don’t give a single shit about this job. In fact, I’d love to be fired. So if the mysterious new owner has a problem with me fraternizing with their hot-as-fuck guests, that’s their problem.
They can kiss my fat ass.
I release a cleansing breath and force myself to refocus. As much as I need to be railed into oblivion, my energy needs to be directed at another goal tonight. Jonas can have a great time drinking at the club tonight, but it’ll be his last. He’s going to feel every bit of pain he’s inflicted on others, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.
Gazing at my sexy reflection in the mirror, the pulsing club music dances through me. I can see the tattooed god checking out my ass in my peripheral vision. I suck in a deep breath, soaking in the attention and the energy around me. Turning around, I swipe a bottle of vodka off the bar along with a couple of shot glasses. I’m ready to take on the rest of the night.
Bring it on.
I exhale a sigh as I sit in the chair in front of my vanity. It’s been a long night—lucrative, but long. My feet are killing me, my bra straps are digging into my shoulders, and this horned headband is giving me a headache. I’m exhausted and so ready to get out of here. Anticipation runs through me at the thought of my plans for the rest of the night.
Pulling out my money bag, I toss the crumpled pile of cash onto the vanity. Most of my tips from tonight were on cards. I wrote down the exact amount of my card tips, not that I’ll ever see that money. It’s already gone, just like this cash is about to be. But if I’m going to be forced to work off my brother’s debt, I want to know exactly how much this place is getting from me. I’m not giving a single cent more than I have to.
Since I need money to live, the club pays me a small salary that goes straight toward my expenses. It was a fight with Jonas to have any type of pay at all, even the small amount I’m getting. The amount of money I’m taking home right now is abysmal—I can barely cover my bills. I’ve been living mostly off savings and credit cards. And I’ll admit I use the attention I get from men for the luxuries they offer me that I can’t afford for myself right now.
What can I say? If a man is going to be a douchebag, he might as well do it while I’m eating a three hundred dollar steak.
Letting out an exasperated breath, I refocus on the task in front of me. I count out each stack of money, flattening and organizing as I go. Being a bartender, I rarely see bills larger than a twenty. Turns out bottle service brings in the fifties and hundreds because these stacks are larger than I expected.
I sit back in my chair and breathe out a laugh. This is a lot of money. More money than I’ve ever made in a single night. More money than I’ve ever heard any of the other bartenders and servers making.
More money than they would ever expect me to make.
Even a fraction could really help me right now. I never agreed to how much would be taken from me, and I fucking earned this money. Every cent of it.
I count the money again, pulling a few bills from each pile to set aside. Folding the smaller stack of contraband bills, I tuck it into my bra cup until it’s no longer visible.
“Those horns suit you perfectly.” The deep voice from behind me vibrates over my skin. Movement catches my eyes in the mirror as a large figure emerges from the shadows. The blood freezes in my body, every one of my muscle’s tenses, as a man steps forward from where he stood against the lockers and into the glow of the vanity lights.
Every inch of visible skin up to his chin is inked with tattoos, his deep brown eyes catching mine in the reflection without letting go.
The tattoo god from the VIP lounge.
“You can’t be in here.” My voice sounds as tense and surprised as I feel.
He stalks closer, his approach slow like a predator toying with its prey. I sit frozen, tracking him with my eyes in the mirror.
He chuckles—deep, rich, and dark. It’s both arousing and alarming.
“I wouldn’t bet on that.” His choice of words picks at me and my situation, making my shoulders straighten in defiance.
“Do you always go to clubs and lurk in the women’s dressing rooms?” I challenge, my voice cold. One of my hands slips into the shelf beneath the vanity, past my makeup bag, and grips the handle of the four-inch switchblade I keep hidden. The cool metal in my hand is calming, reassuring.
“Only the ones that I own,” he responds easily.
Realization runs through me like a chill. He’s the new owner. The new owner of Inferno just had his tongue down my throat and his hands on my ass. I’m still wet from that kiss, and my pussy pulses at the thought of it.
He stops behind my chair, holding my eyes in the mirror. Leaning forward, he plants his hands on top of the vanity on either side of me, his arms caging me in. I press my thighs together as the scent of leather hits me.
His hands are large and strong, the ink covering everything all the way to his fingernails. Several silver rings adorning his fingers glint in the light. I can feel his necklaces falling against my hair, the weight of his heavy silver cross pressing against the nape of my neck. He’s completely engulfed me.
My eyes hold his in the mirror, equally thrilled and terrified.
“Looks like you had a good night.” He nods down to the cash, innuendo heavy in his voice.
“It could’ve been better,” I respond simply. I don’t know where this is going, so I’m not giving anything more than I get.
“Count it for me.” There’s a demanding edge hidden in his calm tone. I reach for my pile of tips before his next words stop me. “All of it.”
I freeze.
He knows.
Of course he fucking knows. He saw me take the money and hide it.
“If you don’t give me the rest of the money, I’ll enjoy taking it from you, little devil.” His hands stay firmly planted, but I feel as if he reached into my top and fondled me.
Heat spreads through me—whether from fear or arousal, I’m not sure. After a second of hesitation, I reach into my top and pull out the hidden cash. His eyes break from mine to follow the movement of my hands as they reach beneath the mesh and lace to produce the evidence of my crime. Caught red-handed.
Damn.
“Well, would you look at that?” His face lowers, his mouth close to my ear. “Some of my money made it into your bra. I guess that means you need to start over.”
“You’re really just going to loom there in my personal space?” I shoot back, staring him down and quirking my brows. He grins, and I swear my panties dissolve.
“Seems like I’ve gotta keep a very close eye on my money around you. Besides, I really like being in your personal space.” His eyes move back to my hands. “Go ahead.”
I count out each stack of bills carefully, then count again to be sure. Once I’m satisfied, I move to the receipt with my tips from credit cards. The total comes out to just over two thousand dollars.
“Not bad, only three hundred and twelve thousand dollars to go.” His smirk doesn’t falter when my glare snaps to the mirror to meet his gaze. “We’re going to have a lot of fun together, little devil.”
“Don’t count on it,” I snap. “And my name is Jill.”
“I know exactly who you are.”
A thrill runs through me, my body telling me to run. But I’m not going anywhere. I simply narrow my eyes at him, unamused.
“I’m Gage Lawless. It’s not a name you’ll ever forget.” He leans in so close his nose brushes against my hair, sending goosebumps over my skin. “I own you now, Jillian Hart.”