Page 10 of Beautiful Enemy

I feel the pulsing music through the leather of my dress shoes before I hear it. I approach the door that leads to the club, then turn and take the stairs up to the second level. At the top, security opens the door. Pulsing music flows into me, through me.

The metal grate flooring creaks beneath my feet on my way to my private booth next to two other VIP booths upstairs. Below, revelers drink and dance to the opening act.

I pause, one storey up with a perfect view of the performers and the crowd.

I’ve been out all day but have confirmed with Natalia and Toro that my newest contractor intends to play tonight.

I knew she would see reason. She might be fiery, but there was no way she’d abandon this. I’d sue her fast enough she’d land on that curvy bottom.

The first time we met, at the island wedding of my friend Tyler, she was fury itself. Barely waiting until after the cake had been cut and the couple rode off into shining bliss to rain righteous hellfire on me.

I told her the same thing I’d tell anyone criticizing my business:

Thank you very fucking little for your input.

Evidently, she wasn’t pleased with my reaction.

A single social media post condemning my business caused the door income of my best club to drop by half overnight and spurred a bloody mountain of paperwork and hostile media inquiries my team had to deal with. Most of them made their way up to me and ruined a string of otherwise good days.

A small consolation was that she exploded in an equally bad way.

My PR staff told me that while a few fans had applauded the move, many were ambivalent. More importantly, no club owner from London to Miami would touch her for fear she’d find fault with their operations.

Part of me envies her idealism. We were all naïve once, even if the last time I knew so little of the world I was still in knee socks.

“Whisky, Mr. King?” the upstairs VIP bartender asks, and I nod.

“In my booth.”

“Sí, señor. You have a visitor.”

Before I can demand who the fuck is in my private space, the bartender’s gone. I round the corner of my booth and stiffen.

“Let me guess—half your renovation budget was for the club and half for whisky.” The last person I’d expect is sitting in the booth in khakis and a polo shirt, nursing a drink.

“Ash. I didn’t realize you were coming.”

My brother Sebastian is a decade younger, and has a propensity to avoid me unless he wants to lay blame at my feet.

“Premier League has been over for a week.” He flashes a grin. “Thought I’d raid the bar at your newest club.”

“I’ve bought two more since.”

“Yet you’re still here. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were hiding.”

Ash doesn’t miss a thing. He’s the smarter of the two of us, yet he plays professional football and I’m the one running a corporation.

“I’m not hiding. I’m relaxing.”

His smirking gaze runs from my dress shoes up the suit to my tight face.

“You look positively rejuvenated,” he quips. “When will you stop this relentless quest for acquisitions? When you own every entertainment venue in the world?”

I accept the thirty-year-old Glen Scotia whisky the bartender brings on a monogrammed napkin. “We’ll find out.”

I sip, and the smooth alcohol lingers on my taste buds.

“Our parents wouldn’t want you to do this,” he says.

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