Page 1 of Never Dance with the Devils
KAYLA
“You lost, little girl?” the man asks. The smirk on his face grows exponentially as he gives me a slow up and down wolfish look, using his mini flashlight to highlight my more desirable assets. And I’m not talking about my Rolex.
I am neither little at five-seven in my bare feet, nor am I a girl. Even when I was a child, I was never a mere ‘girl’. I was born into the type of privilege that comes with a legacy all its own, one I used to my best ability, meaning I was a bitch long before it was acceptable to saddle me with such an insulting label.
But the truth is, I am a bit lost, because despite my best intentions, today has not gone to plan.
It’s been shit from the start of my day at five in the morning when my coffee pot released thick, clumpy sludge instead of my much-needed brew, to the meeting that went haywire when the CEO who I thought was a sure-thing signature on our merger contract decided to let me down gently, informing me that he’s decided to ride his company into the ground instead of makingbank by selling to me. Well, to Blue Lake Assets, but that’s basically the same thing since it’s my family’s capital investment firm. And now to my current situation, which is standing on the sidewalk in front of what is most definitely a club, given the throbbing bass of dance music pouring out through the closed door behind the well-dressed bouncer, and not the bar I asked the hotel concierge to recommend.
I consider my options. I could go back to the hotel’s bar. But that idea is dismissed before it even fully forms. The bartender there is a bit too chatty, bordering on flirty, and I want to sip my consolation drink in peace. I glance up and down the sidewalk, seeing if there might be someplace else more in line with the vibe I’m looking for, but it seems to be storefronts, all of which are long-closed for the evening. I give the bouncer a glacial look. “That depends. Do you have scotch?”
A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest as his smirk morphs into a full smile. “Yeah, we got scotch.”
“Then I’m not lost.”
For the moment, that’s true. A double pour of scotch to soothe away the day’s failures is all I want, and it’s on the other side of that door.
In the larger sense, though, I do feel adrift.
I’ve built a reputation at work for beingthecloser on difficult assignments. Yet, today’s shitshow ended without either a closing, or at a minimum, the favorable negotiation I’m known for. Am I nursing my wounds? Yes. But only in private, at a bar where I can sulk over a drink and analyze what went wrong to prevent it from ever happening again as I move on to the next project, the next acquisition, and the next big thing. That’s business, something I’m well-versed and experienced indespite being on the cusp of thirty. I grew up sitting in the corner of my dad’s office while he negotiated contracts, planned mergers, and plotted hostile takeovers. It’s all I’ve ever known, and all I’ve ever wanted to do—live up to, and maybe even outshine, his achievements.
“Have a good time,” he says, opening the door. He doesn’t even ask for my ID, which is safely housed in my wristlet bag. Not sure whether I should feel insulted by that or not.
Inside, the music is louder, but thankfully not eardrum-blowing. It’s more of a deep thrum of bass weaving through the darkened space. There’s a dance floor filled with writhing bodies and a stage where the DJ can oversee the effect his work is having on the crowd. I bypass that entirely and make my way to the bar on the far side of the room, where it’s a little quieter.
“What can I getcha?” the bartender asks, his ear tilted toward me as he wipes the shiny surface.
“What’s your top-shelf scotch?”
That gets his full attention and he gives me a once-over too. “Got some twelve-year-old Johnnie Walker, if that’s your thing, or an eighteen-year-old blended Dewar’s. Pricey, though. Just warnin’ ya.”
I nod. “Double of Johnnie, please.”
“You want a seat at the bar?” he asks even though every stool is taken. “Or a spot in VIP?” He lifts his chin, pointing toward an upstairs area.
If I’m honest, I’m not surprised by the special treatment. Everything about me is cultivated and curated to immediately communicate with a glance that I’m a ‘power princess’, from my blonde hair, to my designer office attire including tasteful jewelry at my ears andon my fingers, to my posture, to my aura of importance, though all of that relates to the power portion of my image. The princess part? That’s on me to live up to as the only daughter in a family of five boys, all born to business royalty. Because of that, I’m always treated well, no matter where I go or whether they know my family name, though I’m not averse to throwing it out as a targeted missile when it's warranted.
“Bar, please, if a space becomes available,” I answer politely. I have high expectations, but I’m not rude about having them met.
He finishes my pour but keeps the tumbler and gestures for me to follow him. I scoot around a few people, and when he stops in front of a young guy nursing a beer, the bartender tells him, “Shawn, you gotta move, man. Lady wants a seat.”
Oh, shit. I didn’t mean for the bartender to kick someone out of their seat. But Shawn doesn’t seem surprised. He simply stands, offers a fist bump to the bartender, and holds an arm out for me to take his place, though he also gives me a head-to-toe once-over, which I pointedly ignore. I’m not here for small talk, to make friends, or to hook up, especially with a guy wearing a wrinkled and faded T-shirt with what I think is a sports team logo on it. I sit down, and the bartender places my scotch in front of me, taking my credit card. “Tab or close out?”
I tell him to close me out and a moment later, he brings my bill back. I leave him a generous tip, both for the heavy-handed double pour and for getting me a place to sit and watch the action without being a part of it. He knocks on the bar, telling me to wave him down ifI needanything at all. He’s attractive, but also not my type.
Not that I have a type. Though I used to. Business types in suits and Rolexes with investment portfolios were the only acceptable suitors for me. But I learned the hard way that like doesn’t always mix with like the way you’d think. In fact, in my experience, it tends to create a sense of competition and rivalry, and when I inevitably come out the winner, men can’t handle it. Which is why I’ve chosen to spend my valuable time focusing on work.
I sip at my scotch, mostly ignoring the crowd around me, but their energy is still good to sort of soak in, like a warm bath for the spirit. I spend too much time alone most days. Even when I’m around people, like at the office, I’m alone. Nobody dares to get too close to me.
The Ice Queen. Kayla the Cunt. Ball-busting bitch. Bomb in pretty packaging.
A smile ghosts across my lips at that last nickname. It was at least said affectionately by one of my brothers. And I can’t deny that it’s true.
I used to be nice. Nice got me trampled like a bug. Run over, stressed out, dismissed as unimportant, and though it took some tough lessons, I figured out that being nice and being a good person weren’t the same thing. Now, I’m a bitch… to those who deserve it. I’m cold to those I don’t know. And only the people I care about get the real me. Like my brothers and their wives and girlfriends. I’ve never had friends to do fun things like spa days and Margarita Mondays, but thanks to my brothers, now I do.
I fucking love and will bury a body for my sisters-in-law.
I wish they were here tonight. They’d listen to me rant and rage about idiot CEOs who think they know better than facts and figures and whole-heartedly agree that he really should’ve signed the contract with me because I’m the best of the best and he’ll rue the day he refused the opportunity I presented him. Then, they’d tell me their life updates, and I’d laugh at how Dani told a customer off with one of her trademark middle-finger salutes, gasp at Samantha’s latest podcast topic, which would be something crazy like ‘How Flared Does It Need To Be?’, and we’d all ooh and aah over baby pics of Janey’s son, Emmett.
