Page 12 of Enemies

Ash barks out a laugh, the genuine kind I haven’t heard in far too long. “Fuck, Harry. I think I’m in love.”

5

RAE

“Hello, American,” a male voice whisper-shouts as I yank off my headphones at the end of my set.

The man standing within earshot is my age and the kind of preppy handsome that sells Ralph Lauren campaigns.

I look at the security guard, who is facing the other way. Not again.

“Hey!” I shout at the guard, who finally turns back, spotting the man next to me.

“He’s a VIP,” the guard mouths.

Perfect. I should’ve known Debajo would be one of those places where VIPs get whatever they want.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to be friends.” The man who approached me offers a blinding grin that’s familiar and not. “That was quite the set. Have a drink with me.”

“I’m not sticking around.”

“Please?”

I could use a drink. Plus, I won’t be able to sleep for hours.

With luck, I’ll get to bed by six o’clock in the morning, stare at the ceiling for a few hours while waiting for a response from my lawyer, then drag myself out of bed midafternoon to do a little sightseeing and get my bag before catching a flight out of here.

“You’re buying,” I inform him.

Before heading to the bar, I stop in the bathroom, pop two ibuprofen, and wipe the sweat from my face and neck.

My new friend meets me outside. “Not going to lose this wig?”

I hold a strand up. “This is my natural hair color.”

He grins. “I’m Ash. Now is when you tell me your real name.”

“I don’t think so.” I settle in next to him as we head through the private backstage halls. Security lets us pass without comment.

“Damn it. It was going to seem natural when I called you Raegan, but I guess I can’t say you told me.”

I stop abruptly. “How did you?—”

“Come on, blondie.” He grabs my wrist and tugs me after him.

My real name might be on every contract, but I keep my personal life separate where I can. It’s strange hearing not only my nickname, which all my friends use, but my full name.

“Wish I could hide out for privacy,” he says, reading my mind. “I play pro football.”

I scan his lean form. “Quarterback?”

He scoffs. “Proper football.”

He holds the door for me, and I walk through into another world. There’s a private bar, beautiful people lounging at tables, a poker game in one corner. The veneer of casual exclusivity is impossible to miss. Diamonds against crushed velvet. Wool suiting on faded leather stools.

My gaze lands on the table of men playing cards. One in particular has me stiffening.

Harrison King is wearing a suit tonight. He’s impeccable. Not runway-model beautiful, but mafia-don ruthless. Sharp angles and unyielding planes. His strong face is sculpted into an intense study of the cards in front of him, the ones on the table.

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