Page 75 of They Break Beauty

Right now there was this—me lounging back in a booth in the far corner near the bar of strip club, Ravage. It was a couple of hundred miles away from Stonewell and my family home in the college town’s neighboring City of Tolhurst.

It straddled the line between actual strip club and whorehouse. This place was off-the-radar with patrons needing to be on an exclusive guest list in order to gain entry. Those patrons being seedy businessmen. Real slime balls. It had been made clear to me from the moment I’d walked in after editing myself onto the guest list for tonight, that the place had no limits.

It was sleazy as fuck.

It fit well with its owner, Jeff Hurst.

At least that was the name he went by nowadays.

He’d had to go into hiding six years ago from my dad.

And me.

He just didn’t know that last part yet.

It wouldn’t be long now, though.

My intel had determined that at the start of every night he would review the guest list, then personally greet and schmooze any new blood. It was his way of being attentive in order to boost the expansion of his clientele.

He’d realize I was here soon enough.

I took another sip from my vodka and lime.

I didn’t actually like the lime aspect. I always favored my vodka straight without any adornments. But I’d requested the lime for a specific reason.

I tried to ignore the uncomfortableness of being clad in a suit. Really not my thing despite my dad’s many attempts when I was younger to make it so. I was all about casual, through and through. But this had been the required dress code. So here I was clad in a sleek black Armani suit, even a pair of designer Italian loafers on my feet instead of my usual boots. I even had product in my hair instead of leaving the curls wild and free as usual.

I finally caught sight of my target venturing out onto the club floor, enjoying the spectacle of the three topless women—one redhead, one blonde, and one brunette—grinding and working a pole on the stage.

He was in his late thirties now, still sporting that same slicked back hair that had so much gel in it that it looked greasy—I hated that look. Or maybe it was more about the memories I had associated with it when it came to him specifically. He hadn’t lost his bulky, roided out shape. The cheap gray suit he was wearing was pulling taut across his frame, too tight and looking like the seams would burst at any moment with the struggle of containing all that mass.

After a few moments he drew his attention away from the strippers and adjusted his pants obscenely, then turned to one of his staff members beside him, wherein they passed him the guest list, the thing on some ridiculously fancy gold-leaf paper.

I saw the moment he registered my name.

Well, my dad’s.

There was no way any venue would dare to deny the almighty Roman Knight entry.

Me, on the other hand? Well, I was a wildcard. More than that in this case, that bastard and I had a bad fucking history. The bastard I knew as Kyle Trass, his real name.

I watched him rapidly scan the room, his eyes wild, really showing the fear.

I drank it in like the sweetest fucking nectar.

Considering our history, it was incredibly satisfying in a sick thrill kind of way.

Finally, his gaze landed on me at the far back of the establishment.

His wild eyes widened, his shock and fear at it being me sitting here and not my dad who was far more reasonable and controlled in his actions than I would ever allow myself to be.

I smirked and raised my glass, tossing him a wink.

He pulled at his tie and swallowed hard, then raised a palm toward the two security guards with him, gesturing for them to remain where they were.

And then he approached, one wide stride at a time.

I kept my unflinching gaze on him the entire time.

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