Page 1 of Brushed and Buried
1
Adrian
I hitch the duffel bag higher on my shoulder and nearly smack myself in the knee with the baton dangling from the belt loop. Graceful. Very intimidating. It’s exactly what you want in a man about to knock on a stranger’s hotel door and grind to bad pop remixes for cash.
But hey, confidence is ninety percent posture and ten percent not tripping in knockoff boots. I’ve got both. Probably.
“Bachelorette parties,” I mutter as I thumb my phone screen again, double-checking the room number for the fourth time. “All that frenetic, female-driven energy packed into one room, pretending to be anything but wild. Easy paycheck. Easy crowd. Tiaras and half a dozen bridesmaids named Ashley screaming into my ear. Just my classic Thursday night.”
The Azure Tides Hotel Resort isn’t just any hotel. Located on the coast of California near Santa Barbara, it’s an ultra-luxury beachfront resort with private villas, a rooftopinfinity pool, a full-service spa, and direct beach access. Every detail exudes refinement.
Their hotel lobby, of course, disagrees with my version of reality. It smells like someone spilled money and then Febrezed it. Polished marble tiles, thick carpets so plush they erase your sins along with your footsteps, and mirrors trimmed in gold leaf. Every surface whispers,you can’t afford to breathe here.
I catch sight of myself in the elevator’s mirrored ceiling. Lean enough to move without knocking things over, hair golden-brown and kind of messy like I didn’t try too hard, jawline and cheekbones doing their job, eyes warm brown and alert—basically, I look…fine. Probably not magazine-cover fine, just Adrian-fine.
But tonight, I am Officer Naughty in all his budget glory. My shirt is one cheap button away from exploding, the plastic badge already cockeyed like it’s pre-gaming, toy handcuffs swinging from my hip like they’ve given up on being intimidating. My aviators are crooked too, but I shove them up anyway. Commitment separates art from amateur hour. That’s my mantra.
“Room 502,” I tell my reflection, just in case it forgot. “Top floor, ocean view. Showtime.”
The elevator dings, doors sliding open to a hallway full of expensive silence, the kind that makes your bones feel like cymbals. Identical white doors march down each side, numbersetched in brass. A vase of white orchids sits in a niche like a tasteful funeral arrangement for the concept of fun.
I count them off: 498, 500…stop at 502. Music thrums faintly behind it, bass steady enough to buzz the peephole.
Perfect.
I knock, step back, and plaster on my most seductiveI’m here to ruin your last night of freedomsmile. The door swings open fast, too fast, and the expression freezes halfway across my face.
Instead of glitter and squeals, I’m hit with the smell of hops and testosterone. Four men stare at me. Four. There’s not a boa or a tiara in sight, just broad shoulders filling the doorway, beer bottles clutched in hands, and a sweating tequila bottle glinting on the counter behind them.
My hips try to shift into stripper stance; my brain screamswrong crowd, abort.
Too late.
The shirtless one, front and center, wears a golden sash that readsGROOM. He blinks, then breaks into a wide smile—confused, sure, but beaming all the same. His blond curls catch the light when he laughs, easygoing in that surfer-boy way that makes it look like fun just follows him around.
Next to him, a tall guy with golden-brown skin and a trimmed beard stands steady, tattooed forearms folded over a chest broad enough to pass for actual architecture, solid andunmoving. It’s that kind of presence you notice even if he hasn’t said a word.
Beside him, another blond leans in with sharp-edged energy, mouth tilted, eyes lit up with trouble that doesn’t need encouragement, like a mischief engine revving in neutral. And at the back…
Black t-shirt. Crossed arms. Brushstroke tattoos curling up his right arm. A face I haven’t seen this close in ten years but I could draw from memory with my eyes shut.
My throat goes dry. Every rehearsed move evaporates. Showtime just got complicated.
Vince. Fucking. Holloway.
My lungs forget oxygen exists. My knees consider collapsing, and my throat dries out so fast I nearly choke on my own professionalism.
Professionalism. I am not eighteen anymore. I am Officer Naughty, purveyor of chaos and body rolls.
I flash my brightest smile. “Evening, gentlemen. Officer…” I cock a hip, “…Tightpants, though on special occasions I answer to Stiffwood. This room’s been reported for a noise complaint.” I cross my arms, flexing them just enough to look somewhat threatening. “And honestly, it looks suspiciously like an unlicensed party.”
Trouble Blond, the one with the sharp expression and eyes lit up like sparklers, lets out a bark of laughter. “Holy shit. Trevor, you booked a stripper?”
“Wasn’t me,” Sash Boy says, also laughing too hard to care. He sprawls against the doorframe like he owns the whole floor. “But I’m not complaining. The night is already getting really interesting.”
Brick Wall crosses his tattooed arms, chest broad enough to block out the hallway light. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze lingers, steady and measuring. “Did we get the bridesmaids’ stripper by mistake? That probably means Becca’s got the actual one.”
And Vince, the thundercloud incarnate with eyes burning holes through me, makes a sound riddled with annoyance, disbelief, and recognition he’s desperate to hide.
