Page 12 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

JULES

M y skin still burns where Braedon touched me. Not because he hurt me, not physically, but because it felt like I wasn’t even a person for those few seconds—just something he could grab. A thing he could toy with because he was rich, drunk, and used to getting whatever the hell he wanted.

I’ve known men like him my whole life, but it’s harder to deal when you’re not on the same footing. I’m not Jules Harper. I’m just a girl who doesn’t matter.

I’m still standing near the bar, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person, when the last of them leave. The quiet thud of the suite door closing behind Huxley might as well be a lock slamming shut.

Now it’s just Beck and me.

He’s still by the poker table, glass in hand, eyes fixed on me in a way that makes my pulse trip.

Controlled. Watchful. Not angry, not exactly.

But something colder. Sharper. The man is more complex than anyone I’ve ever met and I barely know him.

Which means I’m running blind. I don’t know how to react or behave.

And that’s a problem because I can’t fuck this up. I can’t lose this job.

“Your friend Braedon. I hope he gets home okay.” I shift on my feet and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear to keep my hands from shaking. “He seemed kind of messy.”

Beck doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

“I mean… I hope he doesn’t think that I’m...” My voice is too soft, and I hate the way it sounds—small. Defensive. Like I did something wrong. “That I was rude or anything. I just…didn’t like him touching me like that.”

He still watches me in silence and like an idiot I word vomit all over the place. “I was just surprised is all and didn’t want to make things worse, but I… I’m sorry if I…well, if I…” What the fuck am I trying to say? His buddy is a dick. I shouldn’t be apologizing to anyone.

You will if it means keeping this job.

“Is that what you think would’ve happened?” he asks finally, voice low. “That it would’ve been worse if you said something?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, lifting my chin slightly.

“I’ve worked enough jobs to know that sometimes when you speak up, you get punished for it.

Been in enough situations to know that when something goes sideways it’s my fault.

Even if it isn’t. I’m a hard worker and I’ll do whatever you need, except, well, not that.

I don’t think a man has the right to just touch a woman without her consent. ”

His jaw ticks once.

He sets his glass down and walks toward me, slow and deliberate. I don’t back away, but every part of me goes rigid the closer he gets. Not because I think he’ll touch me—but because I have no idea what’s coming.

When he stops in front of me, he speaks directly, his eyes intense, hiding shadows that make me wonder. “Braedon won’t touch you again.”

I search his expression, trying to read the man behind the words. Thing is, I think he means it. I don’t know why I’m surprised, but I am. I expected him to maybe apologize for his friend’s behavior. Blame it on the booze and then forget about it. And me.

“Thank you.” I manage the words. Maybe my boss isn’t so bad after all.

His eyes narrow slightly. “You work for me. And I don’t let anyone lay their hands on what’s mine.”

And there it is. The arrogance. The conviction that he owns everything in his little kingdom.

He raises an eyebrow and that shouldn’t send a chill down my spine, but it does. Not in a romantic way. Not even in a protective one.

In a way that makes it clear: he owns this place. The building. The suite. The people inside it. And right now, that includes me. I’m nothing more than a cog in a wheel and he wants to make sure the wheel keeps spinning.

I swallow hard as a new thought enters my brain. “Am I in trouble? Should I have handled things differently?”

“No,” he says, and for a second that surprises me. “You did your job.” He pauses. “But next time—don’t. You don’t have to take shit like that from anyone. Not here. Not from him. Not from any of the club members. Anyone gives you trouble talk to Brent right away. Or come to me if I’m around.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I nod. It’s all I can manage.

Beck watches me a beat longer, and something about the way he’s studying me makes me feel…exposed. Not undressed. Not sexual. Just kind of seen. The sensation is weird and damn, emotional. Or something.

“Go home, Jules,” he says finally, voice quieter now.

“It’s late.” He turns to face the expanse of the city below him and I move for the door, not rushing, but not lingering either.

My heels are loud on the hardwood. Just before I reach the exit, I pause, not sure why really, but maybe hoping he’ll speak again.

So why am I surprised when he does?

“Why doesn’t Bob pick you up when it’s this late?”

Confused, I frown and glance over my shoulder. His eyes are on me. I can’t see them, but I sure as hell feel them.

“Bob?”

“Your boyfriend.”

My mouth is dry, my legs like noodles, and I force myself to speak. “Bob is, um, my cat.”

He stares at me but says nothing more. After a few moments I head downstairs, then out into the night.

It’s nearly two a.m. and I’ve called an uber because I don’t want to walk home alone.

The city feels dangerous tonight, or maybe it’s just the cause and effect of working around a bunch of men with enough testosterone among them to make any girl feel off balance.

The moment my apartment door clicks shut behind me, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.

The silence hits hard. Familiar, comforting. No low jazz humming from the speakers, no drunken laughter or clink of poker chips. Just the old radiator hissing in the corner and the dull thump of Bob leaping off the window ledge to greet me.

He trots over with his usual saunter—three legs moving smooth as silk and that ridiculous half tail twitching in indignation. He meows once, like I’ve kept him waiting too long for dinner.

“Hey, trouble,” I murmur, crouching to scratch his scruffy chin. “You wouldn’t believe the night I had.”

Bob purrs like he’s been here all along, waiting to make things make sense again.

I kick off my shoes, shimmy out of the blouse that still smells like smoke and anxiety, and swap it for an oversized hoodie. My sweatpants are too worn and too soft, but that’s what makes them perfect.

While Bob winds himself around my ankles like a question mark, I open a can of food and dump it into his bowl. He eats like a king, loud and unapologetic.

The place is small, but it’s mine. All of it. Creaky floors and mismatched furniture I thrifted or inherited. The couch sags. The kitchen tiles are cracked. But there’s art on the walls and plants in the window, and it feels like home even when the world doesn’t.

I wander over to the small window. This place bears zero resemblance to the life I used to live.

A part of me is okay with that because my life was a lie.

I had money. Privilege. Expensive cars and clothes and jewels.

But I had no love. I had men who wanted me either as a pretty accessory, or as a prize.

And that included my father. No one in that old world was real. Everything was transactional.

I don’t miss it, I think. Then slowly smile. But man, what I wouldn’t give for a fraction of my old bank account.

I wash my face at the bathroom sink, watching the smudged remnants of mascara swirl down the drain like ink bleeding from the corners of my eyes. My reflection looks tired. Paler than usual. My lips are pinched, my eyes too wide.

Braedon’s grip. The slick, smug way his hand wrapped around my wrist. It was all too familiar.

He was so like Alexander, the man my father thought would save him.

As long as I fell in line, of course. Men with that kind of money use power to control those underneath him.

I barely made it out with my sanity intact.

God. I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles ache, then look at my reflection once more. I touch my lips and think of Beck.

I don’t know what to make of him.

He’s cold, unreadable. Power wrapped in a tailored suit and zero emotion. He’s like David and any other man from my past. And yet… tonight, he stood between me and Braedon like a wall. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask if I was okay—he just made it clear that Braedon wouldn’t try that again.

And then he called me his . Not in a romantic way. Not tender. Not even sexual. It was more than that.

Possessive.

Protective?

Dangerous.

Take your pick. I can’t figure him out yet. I wonder what he would think if he knew that my father had once owned the building that houses his club. That I’d been there many times as a young child.

But like my old life, my father is yesterday’s news so I doubt he’s even a blip on Beck’s radar.

Back in the kitchen, Bob’s finished eating and is now sprawled on the window ledge like he owns the city. I pour a glass of water and sit on the couch, one leg curled beneath me, scrolling through my phone like it might distract me.

Shells has sent a series of gifs—one with a hippo wielding a glass of wine, another with a dancing cat in a glittery outfit. She has a weird and insane fear of hippos. I smile despite myself.

Then I type:

“I have stories. Call you in the morning.”

I set my phone aside and lean back, staring at the ceiling. It’s quiet and late and I’m tired and should be asleep but inside me, everything’s buzzing—tangled memories, adrenaline still bleeding out of my system, and the weight of Beck’s voice in my ear.

"Who is Bob?”

Why would he want to know who Bob was? Why does he look at me like I am a puzzle he’s decided to solve? It makes me wonder if I’ve just stepped into something far more complicated than I realize. All I want to do is keep my head down and work. Try to get through things and hope for a better day.

Bob hops down and curls beside me, warm and familiar, his half-tail thumping gently against my leg. I scoop him up and make my way to the bedroom, where I climb on the bed and lay back. I rest my hand on his back. And for just a few minutes, I let myself breathe.

I try to sleep.

I really do.

The sheets are soft from a hundred washes. There is no noise save for the knocking from the old water pipes in the apartment below me. Bob has curled up at the foot of the bed, a warm, purring weight that usually helps me shut the world out. I should be asleep.

But not tonight.

Not after what happened. Not with Beck’s voice still echoing through my thoughts like a low note that won’t fade.

You work for me. And I protect what’s mine.

The words should have reassured me. And maybe part of me was reassured, in the moment. But now, lying in the dark, I can’t stop replaying how he looked at me when the suite emptied. Not angry. Not concerned. Something else entirely.

Cold. Calculating.

I know how to read people. Growing up the way I did with an absent father and a mother who cared more about going to a spa in Switzerland than looking after her kids, I was left alone a lot.

I became self-reliant, which I guess helped me out when we lost everything.

But the thing is, I was good a reading people.

Like I know Braedon is a dick, but I also know that he’s spiraling somehow.

I can tell that Huxley is hiding something, most likely a relationship.

I caught him on his phone more than once when he thought no one was paying attention.

Abel is quiet, but his waters run deep and Cade uses humor to mask something… pain or maybe regret.

I’m good at reading the room. Good at anticipating what comes next.

But Beck? I can’t read him. Not even a little. And that’s what makes it worse.

I don’t even know his full name. I’ve only heard other people call him Beck, and I haven’t exactly seen his name on a uniform tag or anything.

The guys wears five thousand dollar suits.

I don’t know where he came from, how he owns a club like this, or why men like Braedon and Huxley and Abel and Cane listen when he talks.

I don’t know what his story is—or why I get the feeling he’s already figured out mine.

That’s not okay.

I’ve walked into his world with my head down, just trying to survive. But tonight made one thing clear: I don’t have the luxury of just floating on the surface anymore. If I want to keep this job… if I want to protect myself, and more importantly, my brother…

I need to know who I’m working for.

I sit up in bed and grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up with that familiar dull blue glow, and Bob stirs, grumbling as he stretches out.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

I open a search tab and start typing: Beck. Nightclub. New York. Private club Central Park.

The results are vague. Rumors. Grainy photos from gossip blogs. Some whispers about a mysterious club near the park with an invite-only policy. No address. No name. Just words like discreet , powerful clientele , anonymous ownership .

Then I try: Owner of exclusive NYC club Beck

Still nothing concrete.

I try reverse image searches, anonymous reddit threads, scrolling through guest lists from galas and charity events hoping to spot his face. But he’s not the kind of man who leaves a trail.

Not one that’s easy to follow anyway.

Shit, I mutter.

I set the phone aside and rub at my temples, frustration prickling beneath my skin. It’s like he’s carved out this whole empire while staying just far enough in the shadows that no one can pin anything on him.

Which, honestly, just makes me more determined. Maybe more than a little intrigued. Scared even. Who the fuck is this guy?

Because if Beck is the one holding the keys to my future—if he’s the gatekeeper to the money I desperately need to keep paying my brother’s bills—then I can’t afford not to know who he really is.

I lie back down, mind racing, staring up at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, I’ll keep digging. Quietly. Carefully.

I’ll ask around. Watch more closely. Listen harder.

Because I have a feeling Beck is the kind of man who only shows you what he wants you to see.

And I definitely don’t trust men like that. After what happened with Alexander, I never will.