Page 2

Chapter 1

Deirdre

“It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.” Edgar Allan Poe

I pull my white blouse over my head, smooth out the fabric of my black plaid skirt, and glance at my reflection in the tiny mirror propped up on the dresser. The harsh lighting of my bedroom—well, Gabe’s, my coworker turned roommate, spare bedroom—doesn’t do much for the paleness of my face or my mood. My shoulder-length, jet black hair is frazzled, the ends curling in different directions despite my best efforts to tame them with the old flat iron that I bought at the local thrift store. Gathering my hair in my hands, I pull it back into a slick ponytail on top of my head, wrapping a strand of hair around the rubber band.

After blending some blush onto my cheeks to give my face some color, I let out a shaky breath and apply my favorite matte lipstick. It’s an old tube and is down to the last bit of product, but the deep orchid color makes my blue eyes pop against the otherwise boring black and white schoolgirl outfit. It’s so cliché. But when you work as a cocktail waitress at a gentlemen’s club, the outfit could be worse.

“You’re going to be fine,” I mutter to myself, adjusting the white button-up shirt and leaving the top button free—just enough for the imagination.

My eyes dart away from the mirror as I fumble with the knee-high socks and proceed to slide the black flats on my feet. They’re the only part of this outfit that makes me feel comfortable working at this club. My mind is spiraling as I get ready for work. Since I finished enrollment this morning, my thoughts have been racing through every possible worst-case scenario that may transpire over the next few weeks as I adjust to a new normal.

I can feel the anxiety in my stomach bubbling even more as I try to focus on not being late for my shift.

“It’s just a new school, in a new place. No big deal.” I exhale.

But the reflection staring back at me doesn’t look convincing.

I’ve seen the kind of people who attend Ivy League schools. I do not fit in here. The only reason I stayed in New Haven was because Gabe convinced me to. And, of course, because Cornelia Heights has one of the top literature programs in the country, specializing in several of my favorite literary poets and American writers.

I spent most of the summer prepping for my first day, but no matter how prepared I am, I still fear I am going to be an outsider, just a lowly cocktail waitress playing dress-up as a student. Normally, I would not mind standing out, but with everything that has happened over the last year, I need to blend in.

“D, you ready?” Gabe’s voice calls from the living room, pulling me from my thoughts. He always does that. It’s like he knows when I need to get out of my head.

“Almost!” I shout back, fumbling with my gold earrings. I grab my apron and purse off the bed, but not before giving myself one last look in the mirror. I rest my hands on the edge of the dresser, and I let out another shaky breath.

Looking back in the mirror one last time, I attempt to talk myself up.

“You’ve been through worse. You’ve survived worse,” I whisper.

My eyes flick to the edge of my dresser, where a small stack of books is waiting to be packed for tomorrow. On top is the one I have been flipping through the most: The Oxford Handbook of Edgar Allan Poe . Poe was one of my favorite American writers that we skimmed over in high school, so I was ecstatic to find a university that employed one of the top Poe Scholars in the country. I just hope he isn’t some monotone, stuffy old man.

Next to the stack of books is a worn black leather journal I take everywhere with me. Being a literary major, I tend to write everything down, like what happens throughout the day, my thoughts, and feelings. The last year has been an adventure, and one day I may be too old to remember it, so I keep this journal to look back on.

“D!” Gabe calls again; this time louder.

“I’m coming!” I shout, shoving the journal in my bag and grabbing my phone from the bed. Flicking the light switch off, I shut my door and barrel down the stairs.

When I step into the living room, Gabe is leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. The top button of his shirt is undone, with his sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms, and the hem tucked into his black slacks. His blond hair is damp and slightly messy from the shower, and he still has a towel slung over one shoulder.

At least he’s dressed this time.

“Why were you rushing me? Are you even ready to go?” I snap, somewhat irritated.

Walking over to me, he throws the towel on the couch and grabs his truck keys.

“Of course I’m ready. I’m rockin’ the natural look tonight,” he says sarcastically and flips his hair to the side, mocking me. “Let’s go.”

He follows me out the door, and we shuffle into his truck. The ignition roars to life as we back out of the driveway and head to work.

As we drive down the highway, Gabe breaks the silence and teases me. “D, you have this deer-in-the-headlights look, like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Are you okay?”

I force a smile, shrugging as I tighten the seatbelt across my lap.

“Just a little first-day jitters, I guess. One more sleep until I meet my new roommate. Two more days until I start classes. Starting a new school is…a lot.” I pause. “Plus, I am leaving you. You’re like my security blanket.”

Gabe gives me a knowing look. “We’re still going to be working together three nights a week.”

He sighs, “It’s not just starting school, is it?”

I can feel the curve of my lips falter, and I make myself look away, out of the window. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

“I know you’re scared. But you’re not running anymore. You know you don’t have to do this alone,” Gabe says softly, his voice losing its usual teasing edge.

“I know,” I say quickly, trying to change the subject, my tone coming out sharper than I intended. “I’m fine. Really.”

As we drive in silence down the highway, I can’t shake the feeling twisting in my gut. My anxiety always gets the best of me, but this feels different. Tomorrow marks a new chapter, a chance to start over and build something new. But it also feels like the edge of a cliff, and I’m not quite sure I am ready to jump.

Looking at the clock, I groan at the realization it’s only four-thirty p.m. I wipe down the black marble bar top for what feels like the hundredth time this shift. In reality, it’s maybe the third time, as I have only been here since four p.m.

Thirty minutes.

It is not particularly busy for a Friday, yet I know our regular patrons will be strolling through the doors soon. A mix of CEOs, attorneys, and blue-collar men all coming to unwind from their busy days after they leave their respective offices, before some of them go home to their doting, unknowing wives. A select handful will stay for too long, get too drunk, and end up being thrown out by security or even Vincent. The owner of Salvation, who tends to micromanage some of the staff, usually our bouncers.

Salvation may not be a five-star upscale gentlemen’s club, but Vincent tries to keep it as reputable as he can to keep attracting business and keep his staff—mainly young college-age women—safe.

I’m having a hard time focusing on work when the next two days promise to be so monumental. I’ve been running from my past for so long, I never thought I would ever settle down in a place like New Haven. Over the last year, I have worked numerous menial jobs, avoiding making true connections and leaving the second I thought someone was getting too close. I had one goal in mind.

Protect myself.

The last few months have been exhausting with the constant running and staying in fight or flight mode. So, when I arrived here in June, I accepted a cocktail waitress position at Salvation and quickly fell in love with this town.

A gentle voice interrupts my thoughts.

“You move into your new dorm room tomorrow, right?” Gabe asks, sliding a martini across the bar to a customer.

I glance at him, tucking the white towel into my apron. I met Gabe on my first shift here at the club, and we quickly hit it off. He saved me from the rundown roach motel I was staying at and offered me his extra guest room until I moved into my new dorm room at Cornelia Heights University at the start of this semester. Gabe is not only my co-worker and roommate, but also my unofficial therapist. He has spent many nights listening to me bitch about our ridiculous customers and vent about the tremendous anxiety I feel starting over at a new college. He’s also the only person who knows why I left the West Coast.

He doesn't miss a beat and begins mixing another cocktail with a flair that never fails to earn a cheer or two from the regulars. Currently, that person is a petite blonde barely sitting on the barstool as she leans with her cleavage smashed against the bar.

“Yeah,” I reply. “And I’m freaking out. I got my schedule today. It’s loaded down with every challenging class the university could throw at me. My roommate is a girl from New York, Claire Thompson. What if she hates me? What if I hate her? Or worse, she could be one of those hyper-chihuahua type girls.”

Pausing, I take in a large breath and hold it.

Let’s try not to have a major panic attack at work, D.

Noticing Gabe’s current clientele, I fail miserably at stifling a giggle looking at the desperate woman sitting across from him and walk behind the bar to grab a drink tray. I can’t blame her behavior. Gabe is the epitome of hot, with his broad shoulders, prominent jaw line, and wavy blond hair. All the women fawn over him. Attractive or not, though, when we met, he instantly felt like more of a big brother to me.

Gabe chuckles, pulling another clean glass from the rack.

“You’re overthinking it, D. You may never even see the girl. Besides, for all you know, she could be quiet and keep to herself.”

I let out a huffy sigh, twirling the end of my black ponytail.

I stop twirling my hair abruptly.

“Oh God,” I groan, “what if she is the type to invite people over at all hours, blasting terrible music while I’m trying to study.”

Gabe mocks me and slaps his hands to his cheeks and gapes his mouth wide open, “The horror! A typical twenty-two-year-old college girl.”

Picking up a piece of ice out of the well, I flick it at him. “Shut up! You know what I mean. I just want...I don’t know, someone normal.”

“Normal’s overrated,” Gabe says, pouring amber liquid into a crystal highball rocks glass. “But hey, if she’s a nightmare, you’ve got a room back at my place anytime. And, bonus, I don’t play terrible music.”

He takes the credit card from the patron and hands him the glass.

With a nod, the customer walks off, and Gabe sighs, “But I really think you should give it the old college try. No pun intended. You need this experience. It was robbed from you. Go out, party, make a few mistakes, but always keep my number on speed dial in case you need me.”

I wrap my arm around him. “Thanks, Gabe. I’ll keep that in mind.” I glance at the clock one more time. “Ugh, is it really only five p.m.?”

Just as he is about to open his mouth to respond, the front door of the club swings open, letting in rays of daylight and the shadowy figure of one of Salvation’s regulars as he steps into the darkened bar.

The waitresses always fight over who is going to wait on him. I’ve never been one of the lucky ones, mainly because I keep my distance. So much distance that I don’t even know his name. Every time he is near, I can feel his intensity. He just reeks of trouble. He walks around with a dark storm cloud above him. As soon as he sets foot into the bar, the air thickens with a tension I’ve never experienced.

I could be completely wrong about the man. My gut feeling could be solely based on the fact that I do not trust any man but Gabe, but I feel like they are all out to hurt me in some form or fashion.

I watch as he moves with a purpose, his long strides cutting through the dimly lit room without hesitation. It is almost sixty degrees outside, but he is wearing a long black coat that reminds me of some 1920s gangster. The fabric is fighting against his broad shoulders, and the coat swishes at his heels with each step. Underneath the coat, I spy dark black slacks, a white button-down shirt, and suspenders. The neon lights above catch the sharp angles of his jaw and the intensity in his gaze as he heads toward the roped-off section of the club meant only for our VIP members.

Gabe’s voice once again cuts into my thoughts, “Ah. Looks like you’re the lucky winner tonight.”

Confused, I shoot him a blank stare. “W-What?”

“Treasure didn’t show up for her shift tonight. You get to wait on Mr. McKnight in the back.”

His voice is flat. He doesn’t seem to be as impressed with this man as our waitresses are.

I huff. “Who even hires someone with the name of Treasure? Like, does she even sound dependable? Maybe I can convince my new roomie to work here too. Ya know, keep up with tradition.”

I sigh again and slouch my shoulders. “Why me?”

Gabe chuckles, “You better put your game face on and look the part. Vincent will blow a gasket if Mr. McKnight isn’t taken care of.”

I whip my head toward him and slit my eyes at him. “Taken care of?”

He pours a glass of our finest red wine before holding it out to me. “Chill, D. That’s not your job but keeping him warm and fuzzy is. Here is his drink of choice.”

I swipe the glass out of his hand and place it on my tray.

“Smile pretty, D,” Gabe says teasingly.

“Shut up.” I scrunch my nose at him as I walk toward the roped-off VIP area.

The bouncer staying near the entrance notices me and unclasps the rope, nodding his head as I pass by.

“Which room is Mr. McKnight in?” I ask, curtly. I can hear the agitation in my voice. I do not feel like playing servant girl tonight to Mister Gloom and Doom.

“Seven,” he replies, pointing down the hallway.

The corridor is dark, and the floor is lined with red LED lights. The atmosphere around me pulses with low music and the muted hum of conversations. Truth be told, Salvation is not on my list of top favorite places to work, but the pay is good, and the tips from the right clientele keep me afloat for weeks. Gabe’s company is also a huge plus.

Tonight, the air seems heavier than usual. Maybe it is the nervous feeling in my stomach or the fact that I do not know what to expect from my newest patron, but the air is charged with tension as I make my way toward room seven, balancing the tray effortlessly in one hand.

Stopping at the door, I take a deep breath and exhale.

He’s just a customer.

He’s just like every other man that comes in here to ogle at the staff. Except he’s in the VIP room waiting for one of the dancers. Depending on the girl and the amount of money, it could very well be more than a dance that he receives.

With my free hand, I turn the knob and slowly step inside the smoke-filled room.

My eyes lock on his. I find him sitting in the red velvet chair in the middle of the room, twirling a cigar in his fingers. His dark hair, peppered with gray, is tousled, some of it falling in front of his eyes, and his charcoal black overcoat is draped on the back of the chair. This time, I get a good look at what he is wearing. The suspenders are loosened and pulled off of his shoulders, and the top button of his white shirt is undone. The muscular lines of his chest peek through the fabric.

His dark eyes never leave mine as I quietly walk over. The closer I get to him, the more I notice—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and eyes that seem to carry the weight of the world.

He has a kind of commanding presence that draws attention without trying.

I approach cautiously, attempting to balance my professional demeanor with a hint of the sarcasm that I use to shield myself and hide the nerves flitting around in my stomach. At first, I was nervous about school; now I am nervous for an entirely different reason.

“1998 Chateau Lafite,” I say confidently as I place the wine glass on the marble tabletop next to his chair.

His eyes feel like they are piercing through me, and his gaze assesses me for a moment before replying.

“Thank you.” His voice is low, rough around the edges, and it sends a shiver down my spine. I notice the corner of his lips curl up, almost as though he is pleased.

“You’re welcome,” I say, arching my brow. I step back, holding the tray in front of my stomach like a shield, and wait awkwardly as he takes his first sip.

Before he does, he closes his eyes and swirls the wine glass delicately in a circle under his nose. Tilting the glass to his mouth, the dark burgundy liquid meets his lips, and I watch in fascination. As he swallows, his throat elicits a low, guttural moan of satisfaction. My thighs clench in response, and I cross my ankles.

Oh, I get it now.

Opening his eyes, he glances at me. I can see the amusement etched across his face, like he can feel my reaction to him just by taking a sip of fucking wine.

“Is there a reason you’re still standing here?” he asks, as he shifts in his chair, adjusting his slacks.

“Mr. Vincent assigned me to you for the night,” I say, hating the sheepish tone in my voice.

Assigned? Really, D?

“Hmm…” He looks me up and down. His stare makes me feel one hundred times more self-conscious. I know I’m not much to look at, but I’m not a troll, either.

“Well, if you feel the need to stay,” he motions to the second chair across from him, “Feel free to have a seat until my guest arrives.”

Before I have the chance to object, my own body betrays me as I take the seat across from him, tightly crossing my legs and setting the tray on my lap.

An awkward silence descends upon the room, and I involuntarily let out a small giggle.

He looks at me, slightly confused.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” The words slip out of my mouth, surprising me.

Here comes the sarcasm. Too late now, better just play into it.

Leaning forward, I rest my hands on my legs. “Big, brooding type?” I pause. “Let me guess…rough day at the office? You come here to blow off some steam?”

He raises a brow at me, his expression still amused. “Something like that.”

Thankfully, before I can press further, a woman slides quietly into the room. She is all red lips, long legs, and exudes confidence. She strides over and places a manicured hand on his arm, almost like she is trying to stake a claim.

“Kieran,” she purrs. Her gaze turns to me as if to ask why I am in the room.

So, that’s his name.

Kieran.

I file his name away in the back of my memory, before coming to the realization that the woman before me is not one of the staff members at the club. She certainly is not one of the entertainers.

Did he really rent this room to have sex?

Feeling my cheeks flush, I step back to give them privacy, but not before giving him one last parting shot.

“Enjoy your night,” I said, flashing a sardonic smile.

He doesn’t respond, but I catch the faintest hint of a smirk before I turn away. In my periphery, I can see the woman bend over before she kneels before him. Briefly, I catch his expression. He almost looks annoyed now. Quickly, I shuffle out of the room and shut the door behind me. My mind races with thoughts of what is happening on the other side. Shaking my head, I walk back down the hallway toward the main bar where Gabe is chatting it up with another female customer.

Something about Kieran lingers in my mind, even as I continue my shift. There is more to him than meets the eye, I can feel it. My gut is telling me he really is trouble. But for now, he is just another patron, and I have a job to do.