7. Marla
MARLA
I wake up Saturday morning with my face buried in my pillow, and the first thought that hits me is a wave of pure mortification so intense I want to disappear into the mattress and never emerge.
Last night. Oh God, last night.
I saw them together. Alex and Russ, standing outside Nick's building like they'd been waiting. Like they knew.
And the way they looked at each other, that silent communication that passed between them in the span of a heartbeat, told me everything I needed to know. They'd figured it out. They knew I'd slept with all three of them.
Just my frickin' luck!
I groan into my pillow, my entire body heating with embarrassment. This was supposed to be simple.
Anonymous hookups for research purposes.
No strings, no complications, and no awkward morning-after conversations.
Just experience I could use for my romance writing, then move on with my life.
Instead, I've somehow managed to sleep with three men who apparently know each other well enough to have late-night business meetings in luxury penthouses.
What are the odds?
What are the actual statistical odds of that happening?
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling of my bedroom, replaying the moment I walked out of Nick's building and saw Alex leaning against that black SUV.
The way his eyes had locked onto mine and the recognition in his expression.
Then Russ pulling up in his own vehicle and the instant understanding that flashed across his face when he saw both me and Alex.
They know. They definitely know.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it without thinking. It's a text from Sharon, the third one this morning.
Girl, you need to call me. I heard something crazy at work last night.
I drop the phone back onto the nightstand without responding. I can't deal with Sharon right now.
I just want to hide in my cottage and pretend the last three weeks never happened.
Of course, I know what she heard. She'd heard I slept with three friends and they'd just found out.
I don't want to even think about it. I won't be able to show my face at the Ivory Wolf ever again.
I don't even think I can manage to go into town. I might meet one of them, or overhear whispers and gossip about me.
And that's not something I'm willing to deal with. Not after Zach and how he ruined my reputation. Oh God, I'm smack dab in the middle of another scandal... again.
Only this time, I can't afford to pack up and move to another town like I did before.
What did they say about me after I left?
I can picture it too clearly.
The three of them sitting in Nick's penthouse, probably with expensive whiskey, discussing the woman who'd somehow ended up in all their beds.
Did they laugh?
Did they think I was pathetic?
Did they compare notes about my performance, my body, or the things I said?
The thought makes me want to crawl under my bed and stay there forever.
I force myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away some of the embarrassment.
It doesn't.
If anything, standing under the spray just gives me more time to think and replay every interaction I've had with each of them.
Russ at the club, buying me a drink, his easy charm and playful confidence.
The way he'd made me feel safe enough to bring him back here, to my sanctuary.
The way he'd touched me, like I was something precious and exciting at the same time.
Alex a week later, calm and controlled, studying me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.
The smoothness of his approach, and the way he took charge without being aggressive.
His downtown condo with its floor-to-ceiling windows, the controlled precision of everything he did.
Nick just last night, quiet and intense, watching me with those green eyes that seemed to see straight through every defense I had.
His penthouse and commanding presence, the way he'd pulled responses from me that I didn't know I was capable of giving.
Three different men.
Three completely different experiences.
And apparently, they all know each other.
I get out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror.
My face is flushed, whether from the hot water or the continued embarrassment, I'm not sure.
My red hair hangs in wet waves around my shoulders, and my blue eyes look wider than usual, almost panicked.
"You're an idiot," I tell my reflection. "A complete and total idiot."
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Sharon. I ignore it.
I get dressed in comfortable clothes, leggings and an oversized sweater, and make my way to the kitchen.
Coffee. I need coffee if I'm going to survive this day.
I go through the motions of brewing a pot, but my mind is elsewhere, still circling the same mortifying thoughts.
Did they think I was trying to play them?
Did they think I knew who they were and was deliberately sleeping with all three of them for some reason?
The idea makes my stomach twist.
But how could I have missed it?
Now that I'm thinking about it, there were signs. Things I should have noticed.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and carry it to my small living room, curling up on the couch with a blanket.
My laptop sits on the coffee table, waiting for me to work on my blog posts or my romance novel.
I should be writing and taking advantage of all this new experience, turning it into something productive.
Instead, I just sit there, staring at the closed laptop, my mind replaying details I'd overlooked before.
The security at the Ivory Wolf.
I'd noticed it was tight, but I'd assumed that was normal for an upscale club.
Now I'm remembering the way those men had carried themselves, the bulges under their jackets that I'd tried not to think too hard about.
Those weren't just bouncers.
Those were armed guards.
The black SUVs.
All three men had arrived in them, sleek and expensive with tinted windows.
I'd thought it was just a rich-person thing, but now I'm remembering the way other vehicles had seemed to follow at a distance.
Security details, probably.
The private elevators.
Both Alex's building and Nick's had required special access to reach their floors.
Not just a key card, but actual security checkpoints with guards who'd looked at me with suspicion before letting me pass.
The way all three men had seemed completely comfortable around armed men. Not nervous or concerned, just casually accepting of the presence of people with obvious weapons. Like it was normal and expected.
My coffee grows cold in my hands as I sit there, piecing together a picture I really don't want to see.
These weren't just rich businessmen. They weren't just successful entrepreneurs who happened to frequent the same club. They were something else. Something dangerous.
The realization settles over me like a heavy blanket, making it hard to breathe.
I'd been so focused on my own nervousness, my own inexperience, that I'd completely missed the obvious signs that these men were likely wealthy beyond my comprehension.
I think about the way Russ moved, that constant alertness beneath his playful exterior.
The way Alex assessed everything around him with those calculating eyes. And how Nick commanded his space like a king in his castle.
A chill runs down my spine. These are dangerous men. Genuinely, seriously dangerous.
And I slept with all three of them.
My phone buzzes again, and this time I grab it, desperate for a distraction from my spiraling thoughts. It's Sharon again.
Marla, seriously, call me. Something weird happened at work last night and I need to talk to you about it.
I drop the phone back onto the couch cushion. I can't talk to Sharon right now. Besides, I know what she's going to say. She's going to tell me that there are rumors going around about me.
Just like last time. Only, last time, I didn't do anything to deserve the talk. That was all Zach's doing. This time, I absolutely did.
I try to work. I really do. I open my laptop and pull up the document for my romance novel, staring at the cursor blinking on the blank page. I should be writing.
I have so much material now.
But every time I try to write, my mind drifts back to that moment outside Nick's building and how the men looked at me, as realization that they'd all slept with me seemed to dawn on them. I could be mistaken.
My overactive imagination could have seen connections that weren't there. But I don't think so.
I close the laptop and abandon any pretense of working. Instead, I pace around my cottage, moving from room to room like I'm trying to outrun my own thoughts.
It doesn't work.
The cottage is small and cozy, my safe space. But right now it feels like a cage, trapping me with my mortification and my growing understanding of just how badly I've screwed up.
The afternoon drags by with agonizing slowness. I try to read, but I can't focus on the words.
I try to watch something on my laptop, but nothing holds my attention.
I make lunch but barely eat it, my stomach too twisted with anxiety to handle food.
My phone keeps buzzing with texts from Sharon, but I ignore all of them.
I'm not ready to face whatever she wants to talk to me about.
By the time evening rolls around, I'm exhausted from doing nothing but thinking in circles.
I'm curled up on the couch again, wrapped in my blanket like armor, when I hear a car pulling up outside.
My heart jumps into my throat. What if it's one of them?
What if Russ or Alex or Nick decided to come here, to confront me about what happened?
Since they know each other, Russ could have told them where I live.
But when I peek through the window, I see Sharon's beat-up sedan, not a sleek black SUV.
Relief and dread war in my chest as I watch her get out of the car, carrying bags of what looks like takeout food.
She doesn't knock.
She never does.
She just walks right in, using the spare key I gave her months ago.
"Okay, seriously, what the hell?" she says as soon as she's through the door. "I've been texting you all day. I was starting to think you were dead."
"I'm not dead," I mutter from my blanket cocoon. "Although I wish I were at the moment."
Sharon sets the takeout bags on my kitchen counter and turns to look at me, her hands on her hips.
She's still wearing her work clothes, black pants and a fitted black top, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.
She looks tired but concerned, her eyes scanning me like she's checking for injuries.
"What's wrong?" she asks, though her tone suggests she already knows.
"Me," I say, pulling the blanket tighter around myself. "I've created a disaster."
Sharon's expression softens, and she comes over to sit on the edge of the couch. "The three guys thing?"
"The three guys thing," I confirm miserably. "Sharon, they know each other. They all know each other! I saw two of them together last night outside the third one's building, and the way they looked at each other, they definitely figured out that I'd been with all of them."
"Oh shit," Sharon says, but she doesn't sound as surprised as I'd expected. "Yeah, I kind of figured they might know each other. Rich guys like that, they tend to run in the same circles."
"It's not just that they know each other," I say, sitting up slightly. "Sharon, there's something off about them. The security and the armed guards, and how everyone at the club treats them. They're not just rich businessmen."
Sharon waves a hand dismissively. "Rich people are paranoid. They all have security. It's normal."
"This didn't feel normal," I insist. "This felt dangerous."
"You're overthinking it," Sharon says, standing up and heading back to the kitchen. "Come on, I brought Chinese food. You need to eat something, and I need to tell you about the absolute chaos at work last night."
I reluctantly extract myself from my blanket cocoon and follow her to the kitchen. She's already pulling containers out of the bags, the smell of fried rice and orange chicken filling my small space.
Despite my anxiety, my stomach growls. I haven't eaten properly all day.
We settle at my small kitchen table with the food spread between us, and Sharon immediately launches into her story.
"So, you know how you said those three guys probably know each other?" she says around a mouthful of lo mein. "Well, last night after closing, they were all there. Together. In the back office area where employees aren't really supposed to go."
My chopsticks freeze halfway to my mouth. "All three of them?"
"All three," Sharon confirms. "Russ, Alex, and Nick. I only caught a glimpse because I was heading to the back to grab my jacket from my locker, but they were definitely there. And the vibe was intense, Marla. Like, seriously intense."
"What do you mean, intense?"
Sharon leans forward, her eyes bright with the excitement of good gossip.
"Okay, so I'm walking down the hallway, right?
And I hear voices coming from the office.
I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, I swear, but the door was partially open and voices carry.
I heard two of the other bartenders talking in low voices. They sounded worried."
"Worried about what?"
"That's the thing," Sharon says, gesturing with her chopsticks.
"I only caught part of it before they noticed me and shut up real quick.
But I definitely heard one of them say something about 'the three owners' disagreeing about something important.
And the other guy was saying they needed to be careful because when the bosses are fighting, everyone suffers. "
The food in my mouth suddenly tastes like cardboard. "The three owners?"
Sharon nods. "I didn't think much of it at first, but then after they saw me and stopped talking, I started putting pieces together. Marla, I think Russ, Alex, and Nick might own the Ivory Wolf. Like, together. As business partners or something."
Which means they're not just three random rich guys who happen to know each other.
They're business partners and work together.
They probably see each other regularly, make decisions together, and run their business together.
And I slept with all three of them.
"Marla?" Sharon's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "You okay? You look like you're going to be sick."
I set down my chopsticks, my appetite completely gone. "They own the club," I say quietly.
Sharon's eyes widen as the full implications sink in.
I drop my head into my hands. "Oh shit."