all right?”
“He was in a fight but is okay. Do you want to come bail him out?”
“Yes. Yes, I will. I’ll head over right now. Thank you.”
I whipped the car around to head for the county jail on Seventh Street. The sad thing was, I’d been there so many times, I actually knew where to find the best street parking.
I headed straight for the information window. It was where they always had you start.
“I’m here for my brother, Beau Gallagher.”
The clerk couldn’t have looked more bored she as she clicked on her keyboard. She handed me some papers and directed me to another window to post bail.
After waiting twenty minutes for my number to be called, I approached the payment window.
“You’re bailing your brother out? What a nice man you are,” she said.
“Yeah. I guess.”
The truth was, I’d been bailing my brother out for a long time, whether it was saving his ass in fights when we were kids, sending him to rehab, or getting him out of jail. The two of us had come a long way from our humble beginnings, but Beau always hovered inches away from slipping into the same alcoholic despair that had ruined our dad’s life. And nearly ruined ours.
They escorted Beau to the waiting area. The shame on his face was so painful I looked down at my own feet to give him some relief.
“Var. Thanks,” he said in a quiet voice.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all good, Beau. Ready to roll?”
“Yeah. Let’s get the hell out of this shithole.”
The drive to my place was silent. I didn’t need to ask Beau if he wanted to crash at my place for the night—it was what we did when he’d fucked up. He’d come home with me for a day or two and then go back to his own place, clean up, and commit to staying sober until it all went down again.
“Beau, do you mind if I go out for a while?” I asked after he was settled into the guest room.
“Nah, go for it. I’ll watch some TV and crash after I clean up.”
“I’ll see you in the morning then?”
“Sure. And Var?”
“Yeah?”
Beau avoided my gaze, busying himself with the bed sheets. “Um. Thanks.”
I nodded. After I’d pulled the apartment door shut, I took a deep breath and headed out for the evening’s second act. Time to let off some steam.
Chapter 8
Saffi
I had to admit, I was scared shitless about my next destination of the evening after dinner with Dad, not to mention, a little titillated by Dad’s hot friend. What was the guy’s name? Oh, right. Varden. He was gorgeous, no doubt, with thick, messy hair, a perfectly chiseled face, and dark, dark eyes. And he’d worn some of the most beautiful clothing I’d ever seen on a man. Certainly nicer than anything I ever saw on the guys I worked with at the paper.
But I knew Varden’s type. Hot, rich, man-whore. And commenting on my appearance? What the hell?
It didn’t matter. I’d never see him again.
Unless Dad invited him to the firm holiday party…
I got in my car and leaned back on the headrest, eyes closed. With a deep breath, I turned on the ignition.
Let’s get this party started.
The instructions for accessing the club had come in a text message toward the end of dinner. My phone had buzzed, and for a second I was afraid Varden had spotted it. I casually glanced at the message while they discussed some sort of new industry regulations.
I was to arrive at Club Silk and ask for Miss M. The message said the building’s street address would not be visible, and to give myself extra time to identify it by looking at the addresses to the right and left. There would be no asking for identification since the club was all about protecting its members’ privacy, but I’d have to verbally agree to follow a few, simple rules.
I was to text back with the first initial of my last name.
Sounded easy enough.
I arrived with time to spare and parked a half block away so I could watch other guests come and go. The club was in the old Dog Patch district of the city, which mostly consisted of run-down warehouses and factories, tech startups, and the occasional house inhabited by hipster squatters.
I checked my makeup again and took some deep breaths to calm my nerves. I would not let this opportunity slip through my fingers. How many other chances like this would