Page 9

EIGHT

Killian

How did a place like this stand to lose that much money and stay open?

How much did Ricardo know about Mitchell’s loss, and was Ricardo doing something to make up the difference in Mitchell’s balance sheet without him knowing?

Caleb had created a background that would hold up under scrutiny.

According to the new legend, I was Lucas Grant—a high-rolling investor sniffing around for something off-market, something exclusive.

A man with tastes leaning toward the extreme.

Ricardo didn’t know me, didn’t know Killian either, which was precisely how Caleb had planned it.

Clean separation. No shared history. Just a hungry newcomer with enough cash and curiosity to get in the door.

Lucas Grant didn’t look like me. Not really.

Caleb had built the identity, but I brought it to life.

The clothes were sharp—designer jeans that clung, a shirt unbuttoned low enough to hint but not tell.

I kept the stubble thick and the hair artfully messy—effort made to look effortless.

Dark glasses hid my eyes, allowing people to project whatever they wanted onto me, and I slumped a little to disguise my height.

Attitude did the rest.

Lucas moved as if he owned the space. Like the world already owed him more than it gave.

My gaze was full of contempt, shoulders looser, cocky smirk ready to go.

My temporary identity was the kind of guy who didn’t need to ask questions—he expected answers.

And if someone didn’t offer them, he made them regret it.

That was the vibe. And tonight, that vibe was going to get me in the door .

Caleb had found evidence of cash payments funneled into a holding account, proving Price was doing something to earn money. Was Ricardo running something other than drugs out the back?

Kids maybe?

“Tell the boss Lucas Grant is here,” I told the nearest bouncer.

The guy didn’t move at first. Chewing the inside of his cheek as if he were deciding if I was worth the trouble. Big guy, thick neck, fists like hams. He looked me up and down as if he was trying to place me, then gave a little grunt.

“You got an appointment?”

“He knows what I’m here for.”

He dragged his gaze from my head to my toes, checking for weapons maybe, although I wasn’t hiding anything in this outfit, or maybe he was judging me. He thumbed his radio, murmured something low, then turned slightly, shoulders tight.

“Wait here.”

Of course I’d wait. I always did what I was told when people were watching.

Ricardo Price was down at the bar in minutes, armed with a grin and a white shirt unbuttoned to his waist. “Mr. Grant,” he purred, sliding over to me, shaking my hand, his free hand on my waist. Every muscle in my body wanted to recoil, to break his fingers individually.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean in either. “I assume you know why I’m here.” I said.

He ordered us drinks without asking. “On the house,” Ricardo said, with an expansive wave of his hand.

“Nice atmosphere,” I commented, all innocent.

He glanced at the near empty place, his smile faltered a little, the practiced lines on his face cracking with something like suspicion. I could almost see the quiet desperation in his expression. Do you have money?

“Always quiet on a Thursday,” he defended.

“Of course,” I said, and pretended to sip my drink, the whiskey burning my lips, but nothing more. I turned to face him, hooking my foot on the rail, keeping an eye on my back in the mirror. “So what do you have for me?”

“What are you looking for?” he asked, leaning in. He smelled of sweat and desperation and was ripe to be played.

“What do you have?”

“Any drug you want.”

I huffed. “I was looking for something different.”

“Like? ”

I lowered my tone, licked my lips. “Something unique and young. Male.”

He didn’t act surprised. “What makes you think I got that?”

“Heard through the grapevine.”

He eyed me with suspicion, and I didn’t move. I hoped to hell any background checks he’d run when I’d made this damn appointment had held up. Finally, he seemed to decide I was dark enough inside to earn a right to what he was selling.

“Got some young ones fresh off the farm.” He dipped his gaze, smiling, oily and cruel. “ Real fresh, if you know what I mean.” Then, he added a wink, and I wanted to smash my glass into his face.

“Yeah?”

“Interested?”

“Maybe.” My stomach turned, but I swallowed the bile and flattened my tone.

I needed him to keep talking. I scanned the bar, pretending to listen as I did.

Two exits marked staff only had cameras and keypads; security at each of them.

This place was wrapped tight tonight. I turned to face the sparse crowd, the camera in my button catching what I hoped was enough to gather more intel.

And that was when I saw him . For one heart-stopping moment, I thought I was hallucinating. But no—there he was in the worst possible place at the worst possible time.

Jamie.

Fuming. His hands clenched into fists. Staring at me as if I’d dragged him into Hell. Right in the middle of the dance floor, like a fucking beacon of idiocy, the rest of the world spreading around him.

For fuck’s sake.

I muttered something to Ricardo about needing the bathroom and ducked out, inclining my head to the idiot mechanic, weaving through the sweat and alcohol.

Cold water, a locked bathroom, all of them separate here, and maybe five minutes to have a fucking talk with him, and ask what the hell he was doing here.

That was all I needed. I waited until he turned the corner, saw where I was, and thank god I stepped back from the door because it slammed against the wall as he burst in, and he was in my space before I could breathe, a whirlwind of temper.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snarled, His anger burned hot and fast, and tonight it was aimed at me. I locked the door and leaned on the small sink. I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. He was already vibrating with fury. “Why the fuck are you letting Ricardo Price touch you?” he snapped again.

I straightened, calm on the outside, and took him in—the way his leather pants clung like paint, the tight shirt revealing tattoos that twisted like secrets along his arms. Every inch of him screamed deliberate temptation.

Dark glasses perched in his messy hair, his lips parted enough to make him look dangerous, and the way he moved—as if he knew everyone wanted him and didn’t give a damn—was enough to make anyone stop and stare.

He looked like sex and violence wrapped in velvet, and he vibrated with a tension that had nothing to do with nerves. He was dressed to be touched and dared anyone to try. And that attitude? It was a weapon all on its own.

“What are you doing here, Jamie?”

Jamie took a step closer. “Why is Price all over you?” And just like that, the whole room narrowed to his eyes, blazing with hurt and heat. Not jealousy. Rage. Maybe both.

I smirked. “Ricardo?”

Jamie laughed, bitter and sharp. “You flirt with scum like that for fun?” He pressed a hand to my throat, pushed me back to the wall, acting as if he had control.

“He’s a mark, and I flirt with scum like that to learn things, Pretty .”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But his voice dropped to something raw and jagged, as though it had been dragged through glass. “Don’t fucking do it again.” His gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened and sliced straight through me.

“What are you doing here?”

I could feel the heat coming off him, fury radiating like static. I turned away to break the tension, to stop myself from saying something I’d regret, but then he caught my arm—fingers iron-hard, voice cracking with something close to desperation.

That was the moment. The shift. The match struck the fuse.

He surged forward as if he wanted to shake or kiss me—I couldn’t tell which. We collided, words and breath tangling between us, fury giving way to something more raw. Something neither of us could name yet. And then all hell broke loose.

He slammed me against the bathroom wall, mouth hot and hungry on mine.

My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt as our teeth clashed.

This wasn’t sweet. This wasn’t tender. This was raw need, frustration boiling over into something primal.

He was marking me in a way that felt like insanity.

Jamie’s hands were everywhere, ripping at my clothes as if they’d personally offended him.

I matched his urgency, shoving his shirt apart so that I could dig my fingers into the lithe muscle.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he growled at my throat, biting down hard enough to make me hiss. “Coming here alone.”

“My undercover persona doesn’t need anyone backing him up.” I grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to look at me. “And what’s your excuse for being here alone?”

I didn’t let him answer, crushed his mouth to mine again, lifting him onto the sink. His legs wrapped around my waist, drawing me near, and I felt the hard length of him through our jeans. His hands slid under my shirt, calloused fingers tracing fire across my skin.

“I’m observing,” he confessed between ragged breaths, voice rough with desire and something like shame.

I should have been angry. Should have pushed him away, told him to leave. Instead, I dragged him closer, losing myself in the heat of his mouth, the pressure of my body on his.

The bathroom was filthy, the bass from the club vibrating through the walls, but none of that mattered. Nothing mattered except Jamie’s hands on my skin, his breath hot, the way he said my name like a curse and a prayer .

He worked open my jeans, and I fought to open his, his eyes darkening as his fingers wrapped around me.