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Bridger

W hen another mass message lights up my screen, I swear under my breath. I don’t need to open it to know it’s going to be another shot aimed straight at me. Whoever’s behind these messages knows exactly where to hit the hardest, twisting things just enough to make me question everything.

Anonymous Message

Daddy’s money won’t protect Sanderson forever. Looks like the golden boy’s got a few cracks. It won’t be long before he crumbles.

I slam my phone down, pacing my room as anger knots in my chest.

“Fuck, dude.” Steele watches from my bed, worry etched on his face. “It never ends. Why can’t the tech department just shut the server down?”

“I’m done waiting for the university to handle this.” I grab my keys, already moving. “I’m going to take care of it myself.”

Before he can argue, I’m out the door and in my car, heading toward Holland’s place near campus. I have no idea what I’ll say when I see her, but I can’t sit around watching my life get picked apart one message at a time.

As I pull up, I spot Holland leaving the townhouse. The red glint of her hair catches the porch light as she strides toward her car. With her attention focused on the phone in her hand, she doesn’t notice me. It’s so damn tempting to confront her now and force her to admit what she’s been up to, but my curiosity stops me from acting on impulse.

I follow at a distance as she heads toward the north end of town. When she pulls into the parking lot of a well-known strip club, I almost miss the turn.

There is no damn way Holland Tate is headed to a place like this.

Unless she figured out I was following her and is fucking with me.

Now that, I believe.

My brow furrows as I take in the sign and rows of expensive cars lined up in the lot. My black BMW fits right in. Anticipation clogs my lungs as I wait for her to slam out of the car and confront me.

There’s a part of me that relishes the idea of finally having it out with her.

Except, Holland never glances my way. She gets out of her car and strolls through the door like she owns the place. I sit stunned, watching as she disappears inside the building without so much as a backward glance.

What the hell is she doing in a place like this?

Meeting someone?

Working part-time as a waitress?

A hundred questions flood my brain, and not a damn one of them makes sense.

I wait a few seconds, debating if I should go in or wait out here in the parking lot.

In the end, my gnawing curiosity overrides my irritation. I glance around the inside of my car before finding a ballcap and tugging it low over my forehead as I step out of the vehicle and make my way to the entrance.

A guy in a slick suit and sunglasses at the door gives me the once-over. “ID?”

I slide my license from my wallet and hand it over. He glances at it for a second or two before studying my face and returning it.

“Enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, knowing there’s no possibility of that happening.

My gaze slides over the interior. Dark wood lines the walls, giving the place a warmth I hadn’t anticipated, almost like it was designed to be inviting and intimate. The lights are dim and strategically placed, casting a soft, warm glow that makes everything feel private. Deep crimson velvet booths curve along the edges of the room, each one secluded, with plush cushions and polished black marble tables that catch the light from flickering candles.

Instead of the stale, smoky scent I’d imagined, the air is faintly spiced. Amber maybe or something else that feels unexpectedly sophisticated. The bass-heavy music thrums through the space, vibrating up through the floor in time with the rhythm of colored LED lights outlining the room. I can feel the steady pulse in my chest. It all adds to the surreal, almost hypnotic atmosphere.

The stage draws my attention. It’s raised and round, with an LED-lit walkway stretching out toward the crowd. It feels like something out of a luxury Vegas club. A polished brass pole stands in the center, catching the light from above, while rich indigo curtains frame the stage, giving it a dramatic, theatrical look.

This place is designed to make you forget the outside world. Every detail is precise, intentional, crafted to make you feel like you’ve stepped into another reality. One that’s a hell of a lot more exclusive and glamorous than I imagined.

I make my way toward the bar, all the while trying to blend in. A bartender with soft-pink lipstick and a bright smile pours a drink without me asking.

“I haven’t seen you around before. What’s your name, handsome?” she purrs, sliding the drink my way.

I pull the cap lower, giving her a brief smile before scanning the room again. “First time. Just looking for someone.”

“Oh, aren’t we all,” she says with a laugh, her gaze lingering before she drifts away.

I take a sip as my gaze sweeps over the tables, half expecting to see Holland tucked away in a corner with some old dude. But there’s no sign of her anywhere.

Five minutes pass and I glance at my phone, growing antsy.

After ten, my impatience is stretched thin.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Maybe she was onto me the entire time and slipped out the back door.

I wouldn’t put it past her.

She’s definitely wily that way.

Just when I consider leaving, the music shifts. It’s more of a low, sultry beat that fills the room as the stage lights dim. The female announcer’s voice rolls through the speakers, smooth and slick.

“Please welcome... Lavender Smoke.”

My gaze snaps to the stage as a figure emerges from the shadows, her hair a sleek lavender bob that frames her face, casting her features in a surreal, dreamlike glow. It takes a second for my mind to play mental catch up and the realization to sink in.

I’m barely able to breathe.

Heavy makeup transforms her into someone almost unrecognizable.

Someone confident and unattainable.

She’s wearing an outfit that’s practically painted on, strappy and shimmering with each calculated step. The sight is like a punch to the gut.

Holy shit.

Holland moves with assurance as her hips sway in a rhythm that matches the pulse of the bass. Every step is controlled and measured, as if she not only owns the stage but every eye in the room.

And it’s true because I can’t fucking look away.

More than that, I don’t want to look away.

My focus is locked on her.

On the way she moves.

On the calm, unbothered expression that’s so different from the guarded, sharp-tongued girl I’ve come to know.

Holland’s gaze skims over the crowd, cool and detached, but she doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. She’s untouchable, commanding every inch of the stage with an ease I’ve never seen before. Almost as if this version of her was always there, hiding beneath the surface, waiting for the perfect moment to step into the light.

I’m struck by the sheer contradiction of it.

The girl who once told me with a laugh that she couldn’t dance to save her life is here, moving like she’s born for the spotlight.

It’s not just the shock that hits me.

Possessiveness rushes through me as I realize every guy in this place is watching her the same way I am.

My jaw clenches as she reaches up and slowly slips her top off with a practiced movement. Her gaze remains distant, almost detached, like she’s somewhere else. Jealousy coils tight in my gut as the audience starts whistling, tossing out crumpled bills, their eyes glued to every sway of her hips.

The simmering anger inside me blazes, but I can’t ignore the other part that’s darker and feels a lot like fascination. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s fucking incredible. The way she moves, the way she owns that stage.

I’ve never seen Holland look more powerful.

More in her element.

I down the rest of my drink. My grip on the glass is so tight, it’s a surprise when it doesn’t shatter.

The lights shift again as her set ends and she saunters off the stage, slipping into the shadows as the music fades. I release a shaky breath, the fury and twisted thrill of finding out one of her secrets burns through my veins.

When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I ignore it.

I have to find her.

I need to know what the hell she’s doing here.

At the very least, this is leverage.

Holland Tate isn’t as bulletproof as she thinks she is.