Page 9 of Mastered By Lust

This isn’t the first time Patrick’s gotten into a scuffle. He always talks a big game. Cocky bastard that he is, this doesn’t make him many friends. He tries bringing me into his beefs with other people, too. Started doing that in middle school. I distanced myself in high school, but he’s family. Granddad told me to look out for him. My parents agreed. What can I do?

“Come on,” he says. “You’re driving. I can’t fucking see straight.”

I stare, dumbstruck, as he spins around and marches toward my Mustang parked in the driveway.

Well, fuck. I follow him outside, locking up behind me. Maybe I can talk him out of whatever crazy shit he wants to do.

Patrick directs me through downtown San Esteban and then into the Bellefleur District. Not the best place to hang out, but thanks to Granddad’s connections, I’ve never felt like there was much danger. Hell, when I was a teenager, Granddad would ask me to run errands for him here. I would deliver messages, mostly, or check up on his friends.

“Where the fuck are we going?” I ask.

Patrick fiddles with the radio. He finds an oldies station. The song has a lot of tambourines anddoo-wops. “Just keep driving.”

“We’re going to wind up in Salding.” Unlike the Bellefleur, which is at least influenced by our grandfather’s connections, Salding is a tiny little district bleeding out of the city limits. It’s glamorous, but forbidden.

Granddad doesn’t go here. We aren’t supposed to go here.

Patrick jabs the radio dial, shutting the music off. “Yeah, that’s the idea.”

“Patrick, you’re not pulling me into a fight, are you? I can’t get involved. I have a job.” I let off the gas to slow down.

“Not a fight. Chill. I found us a place. It’s fuckin’ perfect, D.”

“For our club?”

“Yeah. The location is excellent. Not as good as, say, Dorado Heights, but Salding’s nice.”

“Salding is also run by the Layton family.”

“Just check the place out with me, okay? We’ll drive by, we don’t even have to get out.”

Frowning, I follow his directions to the far end of Washburne Avenue. The buildings here are similar to those in ritzy Dorado Heights, but the polish feels more forced. Dorado Heights is a beautiful area of San Esteban without even trying.

The difference between the two districts doesn’t seem to bother any of the people walking around. Even at this late hour, there’s plenty of foot traffic.

“There.” Patrick points at an ornate brick building. Three stories tall. “The upstairs are offices. Dentist, tax accountant, law office, those kinds of things. A jazz club on the first floor won’t bother any of ’em because they’ll close by the time we open.”

I gaze at the building, envisioning a jazz club. There’d be a bright sign, lit with blue and gold lights spelling outSmooth Riff. Lively sax refrains, accompanied by piano and a chill drumbeat, would spill from the windows in the cool hours of a summer evening.

“Perfect, right?” Patrick beams at me.

It’s true—as far as the building set-up, it’s perfect.

But there’s already a business here. “What’s going to happen to the current occupant? The Pizza Prince?”

“Going out of business. Nothing’s advertised yet, but I have some sources.”

“Not any of Granddad’s friends.”

His shrug tells me that his source is indeed someone in the Aseyev network.

“Patrick, I told you we have to do this without him or his friends. And this area? We should stay away from it.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” he says. “To start our club here, we’ll need Granddad’s help with security.”

“No way. This whole district is a bad idea. You know it. I know it. We can wait until the perfect place is available.”

“There won’t be one. Dorado Heights is more than we can afford…unless you want Granddad’s help with start-up cash.”

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