13. Dean
DEAN
The scent of Michelle’s perfume still clings to my collar as I walk into Aura, my body feels electric, wired from what she just did.
I hadn’t expected that. When she called, I told myself I’d just give her whatever she needed, no expectations. But the second she touched me, every shred of restraint shattered.
She dropped to her knees and took control like it was already hers. And I let her. That is never what happens. I’m the one who sets the pace. I keep the control. But with her, I gave it up without a second thought.
Levi and Drew are waiting in my office, both leaning against the desk like they’ve claimed it.
Drew’s in his usual suit, probably more expensive than mine.
Levi’s dressed up too, which means something’s happening.
He’s in a navy waistcoat over a pale blue shirt, the top few buttons open to reveal a gold chain resting against his chest. A couple of rings flash as he shifts his weight, matching the glint of a small hoop in his ear.
He checks his watch with a theatrical sigh.
“You’re late,” Levi says as I step in.
I am. Six minutes, not enough to matter, but it still sits wrong with me.
Before I can reply, his eyes drop to my hand.
“That from a fight?” he asks, nodding at the bandage. “You win?”
I glance down at it. “No.”
“You need backup, you call us next time.”
“Doubt you could handle him.”
Levi straightens, eyes narrowing with that familiar, hungry spark. “Oh yeah? He armed?”
“Cat,” I say.
He blinks. Then exhales hard, deflating like a balloon.
Drew, still posted against the desk, lets out a short, sharp laugh.
I sink into my chair and regret it immediately. They don’t follow. Just stay standing, solid and quiet, and now I’m looking up at both of them.
“What’s so important?” I ask.
“Permit’s done. The bar’s yours,” Levi says.
“You came all the way down here to tell me something I already know?”
Levi’s demeanor shifts instantly. The playful edge vanishes, replaced by a cool, businesslike focus.
“The last job went smooth. Thought we might make ourselves available for another one.”
Smooth. I guess it was. I paid thirty thousand for them to watch Michelle, and another ten to make that guy disappear. For twenty more, they would have made it permanent.
“How’d you get him to back off?” I ask.
“Just had a polite conversation,” Levi says. “Explained how the neck is just a stack of bones holding everything together. One bad twist, and the show’s over.”
“Then we scratched a little dick-and-balls into the door of his try-hard Corvette,” Drew adds.
“That was unrelated,” Levi snaps, shooting him an irritated look. “We did that for free. Out of principle. Because it’s a bitch car.”
“Oh, right,” Drew says, flicking his hand like he’s swatting a fly. Then he squints. “Is that my shirt?”
Levi doesn’t even look up. “You think I could fit into one of your malnourished little shirts?”
“We’re the same size.”
“In what dimension?” Levi asks.
“All of them. What are you even dressed up for?”
“We’ve got to get into the Westmere tonight. Try to stay conscious this time, yeah?”
Drew snorts. “You think that’s getting into the Westmere? You look like a washed-up magician.”
“And you look like you teach real estate seminars at the airport Hilton.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. A headache’s blooming behind my eyes. “I don’t have anything for you right now.”
Levi shrugs, already heading for the door. “If that changes, you know where to find us.”
“We should stay for a drink,” Drew says as he falls in step beside him. “Redhead at the bar was giving me the look.”
“You’re like a dog in heat…”
Their voices fade down the corridor, still bickering.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. I left Michelle for this? But when Ray says he wants to see you, you don’t say no. Not that it was Ray, but how was I supposed to know? They don’t talk business over the phone. I guess that’s smart.
If I hadn’t said I had a meeting, I think Michelle would’ve let me stay. She opened up to me tonight. Not much, but it was something. And somehow, that feels like more of a win than getting that permit approved.
My phone buzzes. It’s Marcus, The Red Room manager.
I swipe to answer. “Yeah?”
“We’ve got a situation,” he says, tension in his voice. “It’s Max. He’s…making a scene.”
The drive’s a blur. The Red Room. I’ve always hated the name. Pure marketing-department nonsense. I fought it. Lost. Then the lines started wrapping around the block, and suddenly my opinion didn’t matter anymore. The place prints money, that’s all anyone cares about.
Marcus is waiting out front, looking grim.
“He’s been hitting it hard,” he says. “Got belligerent when we tried to cut him off. Took a swing at Ben, missed, and went straight through the glass partition by VIP. Shattered the whole thing.”
He pauses, rubs the back of his neck. “We tried to help him up. He said he was happy where he was.”
For fuck’s sake.
Marcus leads me through the club to a roped-off area near VIP. Max is slumped on the floor, holding a bloody napkin to a cut on his brow. Shattered glass covers the floor, crunching under my shoes.
“Clean this up,” I say quietly. “And find Ben. Let him know he’s getting a bonus for the trouble.”
I step over the wreckage and crouch in front of Max, bringing us eye to eye. The air between us stinks of whiskey and blood. His gaze lifts, unfocused.
“Dean,” he slurs, a lazy smile twitching at his mouth. “You built a shitty club, you know that? Floors are…slippery.”
Frustration tightens my chest, edged with concern. Max knows his limits. This isn’t him.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I say.
I take him to the office. Max lowers himself into the chair with the movements of someone too drunk to trust gravity. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, streaked with blood. I get the bleeding stopped, mostly. Then he puts his head in his hands.
“Talk to me,” I say. “What happened?”
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore,” he says, his voice muffled by his palms. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. Just feels like…everyone else has it all figured out,” he continues. “And I’m just here. Lost.”
“Who has it figured out?”
“All of you. Will, with his family…” Max trails off, shaking his head. “And Henry. Christ, Henry always had the whole map.”
“That’s not how he saw it,” I say. “He felt like it all just happened to him. Like he blinked and woke up living someone else’s plan.
Said it never felt like a choice.” I hold Max’s bloodshot gaze.
“You picked your path, Max. You chose DJing. You chose real estate. Henry never got to choose anything.”
Max stares, his gaze glassy but fixed. I don’t look away.
“No one has it figured out. No one has it easier. Just different.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“You think I do?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, the word soft but certain.
“I don’t.” The admission feels foreign. I break eye contact, studying the thin layer of dust on the window. “You just take it day by day. That’s all anyone does.”
“I don’t want to be a realtor,” Max says, shaking his head. I doubt he’ll remember any of this tomorrow.
“Then pick a new direction and start walking,” I tell him. “If you hate where you end up, turn around and pick another one.”
Max gives a slow, heavy nod, the movement draining him. His eyes are already closing.
“And you,” I add, my tone leaving no room for argument, “don’t come to my club and break my things. Handle your shit somewhere else. Clear?”
Another nod, barely a twitch. He’s gone.
I let out a long breath, the muffled bass thumps through the walls. Leaning back, I close my eyes.
My phone buzzes. I stare at it, debating whether to answer or throw it at the wall. It’s the manager at the Ikoyi.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Got safety inspectors here,” he says, frazzled. “Someone left gear in the fire exit. They’re writing us up.”
“Then move it,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Handle it. That’s what I pay you for.”
“I was occupied,” he says. “We got a fine. Just thought you should know.”
I hang up.
Another petty problem. Maybe it’s time I took my own advice and start figuring out what comes next.