Page 1 of The Contract

ONE

Tristan

This is probably a stupid plan. Like most of my plans. Like everything I’ve ever done.

Damn it, no. This is gonna work, even if it takes time. It’s not like I have anything else to do. It’s not like anyone cares how I spend my time, or will even notice if I get myself killed. Cuz, yeah, I know that’s how this is gonna end. I’m notactuallystupid, no matter what my foster father said.

Fuck. Why am I still thinking about him? I’m twenty-six. That was a long time ago, and he’s good and dead.

Right now, I need to focus. It’s Friday night and Lush is packed. As packed as it gets anyway. This nightclub is so damn exclusive that “packed” means the leather couches and chairs are all occupied by the city’s rich and stylish.

Saylor, Lush’s manager, sticks a straw in the martini I just poured, plugs the end with a manicured nail, and tests the drink.

She’s gorgeous, like everyone here. Heart-shaped face, thick dark hair spilling down her back, an outfit of leather and lace hugging her curves. But she is, fortunately, gay.

I don’t know why I just said fortunately. It’s not like I’d expect her to be into me. Maybe because, with her being gay, I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be into her? We can just be people.

Her glossy lips quirk as she flicks the straw into the trash. “Not bad, Tristan. We might keep you.”

My pathetic heart swells like that means something more thanyou’re not fired. “I told you I could handle Fridays.”

“Ha. You just wanted to watch Carmen shake her ass.”

I smirk like Saylor expects, but I hadn’t actually noticed the Latin pop singer beyond her awesome-fucking vocals. Setting the martini on the tray beside a bourbon that costs more than my electric bill, I glance across the room to the stage.

Lush has a sweet design. It’s open. I can see everything from the slightly elevated bar. The staggered levels with little flights of steps, all the curved couches and short walls, make every spot feel likethe spotto be. The stage curves under a mezzanine-level entrance that descends on either side, letting everyone make a grand entrance like frickin’ Cinderella.

On the stage, Carmen sashays like she knows her business, putting the sequins glittering all over that tight red dress to good use under the golden lights. Why the hell didn’t I notice those hips? What’s wrong with me?

Trying not to think about it, I set into my practiced walk and take the drinks to the posh couple waiting for them. In my stolen clothes, using mannerisms copied from movies, no one knows I’m the kind of trash that has no business setting foot in this place.

When the owner Rafael hired me, he said I had “the right look.” Yeah, no shit. I’d been perfecting it for three weeks.

My face helps with that. When I look in a mirror, I can see, objectively, that I’m good looking. As soon as I step away from my reflection and am back inside my own head, I feel like that fact vanishes. But whatever. It’s part of what got me in the door. That, and the haircut. I guess it was worth paying for. Can’t steal that, unfortunately, and no way was I attempting the fade cut with textured top.

With graceful hand movements, I deliver the drinks like I’m just one more part of the elegant atmosphere. They don’t even notice me.

That’s what I need. To go unnoticed. So I can watch. So I can listen.

Lush attracts a particular type of New York’s rich and powerful. It’s the blend of classy and sexy—and the very exclusive sex club downstairs. There are lots of dirty hands here, no matter how polished the nails are.

That’s why I’m here. For a particular pair of dirty hands.

On the last night I saw my brother, he dropped a name. Lorenzo Capelli. The tabloids pop up all kinds of shit about the 60-something businessman. Suspected mob ties. Mysterious disappearances.

My brother, of course, didn’t make the papers whenhevanished. No one cares about unwanted people disappearing. Shit, Evan didn’t even make the papers sixteen years ago when he vanished from our foster home. So, this time, he’d already been a ghost.

He certainly seemed like a ghost to me, appearing out of fucking nowhere in my shithole apartment three months ago.

Why the hell did I have to get angry with him? Maybe if I’d known it was a one-time thing, that I’d never see him again, I would’ve reacted differently. Maybe if he hadn’t been so weird and cold and unfamiliar.

Of course, hedidpromise he was coming back. He said to pack my shit and wait. I yelled at him, like an idiot. Then I did what he said.

I stuffed my crappy clothes into a stained duffle bag, like when I got sent back to the group home after my foster father died. Same fucking bag.

I waited.

At first, I was pissed at him for abandoning me again. Then I remembered that name he dropped.

---