Page 11 of Enemies

“Leni texted this afternoon to say I should come down to see a show,” Ash says over the music. “She also said a woman tore you a new one.” His grin flashes white for a second before the club lights go dark.

The hairs on my neck lift in anticipation.

The DJs change over. It happens every night between the opening act and the headliner, but tonight, I feel it.

It’s a tug in my gut, a thrumming in my veins.

It’s why I came, though I’d never admit it.

The way she spoke to me earlier… No one challenges me like that.

She can’t honestly think she’ll get out of this deal. The fact that she’s here means she’s admitted the truth.

She’ll bend to me, like everyone else does.

When the black light comes on, the crowd erupts.

She’s on stage, her hair, trousers, and cropped body-hugging top glowing white before the lights change to a more normal range.

Out of costume, off stage, she’s moody, seething. A girl who hissed at me like a cornered animal.

On it, she’s vibrant.

Her clothes cling to her body in a way that draws attention to her curves but also lets her move uninhibited. A long, blond wig is a stark contrast to her warm skin and dark lashes, thick and lowered as she studies the computer in front of her with the intensity of a rocket scientist navigating a launch.

“Little Queen,” Ash observes. “The name suits her.”

I’ve always preferred women as careless as they are beautiful. But there’s something about her that makes it impossible to look away.

“She owes me,” I say at last, my voice gravel. “And even queens must pay their debts.”

This arrangement is supposed to be strictly business, but the idea of seeing her admit she can’t fight me is oddly appealing.

Fuck. I need to get laid if a naïve young American hurling insults at my decency and my empire makes my cock hard.

But I’m still watching her, trapped in the limbo she creates with her energy, her music, leaning in like a shameless voyeur.

She’s the rebel girl every horny teenage boy at boarding school badmouthed, then secretly fucked his hand to at night while wishing it was her pussy instead.

I expect my brother to rip into me for being soulless. When I finally force my attention to him, he’s watching her, as entranced as every one of the drunk and high patrons below.

“She’s pretty.”

Alarm coils in my gut. Before I can snap a response, or even decipher the layers of my reaction, the track changes.

Boys want a fight

Want to prove they’re right

Let them scratch and hiss

Circle when they piss?—

The words seep into my skin.

My gaze narrows on the DJ, and as if she senses it, she looks up toward our booth.

And in a move as graceful as it is deliberate, she flips both middle fingers.

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