Page 14 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

She’s been in my space for less than fifteen minutes, and already the quiet is gone. But I don’t mind because the silence I thought I wanted? Turns out I hate it.

I move to the bar, pour myself a new drink—something stronger this time—and turn toward her.

“Get dressed,” I say, eyes on the skyline. “We’re going out tonight. Why wait for tomorrow?”

Lola perks up immediately. “You sure? You look kind of tired.” She’s teasing and I flip her the middle finger.

She squints at me. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my brooding, emotionally constipated brother?”

I arch a brow. “You want to go or not?”

Her grin is instant. “Don’t be an dick.”

Lola hops up from the couch, scooping her duffel bag with one hand. “Give me twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Don’t leave without me.”

She disappears down the hallway toward the guest suite, already humming some tune under her breath. The energy she brings is like lightning—bright, a little chaotic, and hard to ignore.

I take another sip of my drink and roll the glass between my palms.

Aspen is the kind of place I avoid when I want to think .

But maybe that’s the point tonight. I don’t want to think about Jules.

About the way she stood in my suite last night, eyes big and brave, even after Braedon put his hands on her.

I don’t want to think about Braedon’s hands on her.

Or fact that she didn’t flinch when I stepped in—but she didn’t thank me either.

I don’t want to think about the way she looked like she didn’t trust me. And worse—how much I liked it.

The fact is, I don’t want to think. I want to lose myself in mindless sex with someone who doesn’t look like Jules.

Lola appears in five-inch heels, black latex dress hugging her figure, eyes smoky and sharp, lips plumped and deep red.

“Jesus, Lo, that thing barely covers your ass.”

“Concern is noted, but that’s kind of the point.” She smiles. “I have a great ass.”

Christ. I might need back up for this. I pull my cell out and send Abel a text.

Headed to Aspen.

He replies almost immediately.

***

Meet me there. VIP.

I wait for the tree dots to appear.

Is no an option?

I shake my head and follow my sister out of my place as I send another text.

Lola is in town. Could use the help.

The three dots appear again and then he replies with a thumbs up.

“Okay,” I say heading toward the elevator. I call my car service and nod toward my sister. “Let’s go.”

Aspen pulses with heat and bass. The club is downtown, not far from Times Square.

It’s dark velvet and blood-red lights and bodies moving under the hum of excess and the beat of decadence.

I haven’t been here since the night we took our company public.

Hell, it was in that VIP lounge that I etched out my plan to destroy Horner. So this is kind of like a homecoming.

We head up to VIP and the games begin. I settle back, content to drink and watch and let the noise do its thing.

Two hours later, Lola’s tossed back more shots than she should have and downed an impressive amount of Belvedere. Seems like she’s not the only Gaines battling a few demons.

She’s dancing with some tattooed woman who is higher than a kite and moves like she’s underwater.

My sister doesn’t seem to mind. She makes friends easy and doesn’t judge.

She’s having a great time, loose-limbed and laughing, reckless in a way that only women who think they’re invincible can be.

And she is—mostly—because I asked Abel to join us.

He’s always had a soft spot for Lola and I trust him.

He’s posted up at the bar, his arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath the lazy slouch of his posture. He gives me a nod when our eyes meet: I’ve got her.

Good thing, because I’m otherwise engaged.

I’m at our reserved table, tucked just above the main floor with a view of the crowd.

A bottle of top-shelf tequila sits untouched in front of me.

My jacket’s off. My shirt’s undone. And the blonde currently kneeling between my legs is doing everything right, if a little exaggerated.

The noises she makes is enough to drive me batshit.

I put my hand on her head. Tell her to shut up. I hold her in place. She sucks dick with the kind of enthusiasm I normal enjoy. But tonight I feel off.

Her hair is soft. Her mouth is skilled, so why is it Jules I see when I close my eyes? Jules I picture with her mouth on me, Jules I imagine moaning my name, eyes flicking up through thick lashes while she tastes me.

“Fuck,” I mutter leaning back as one of those options I’d thought up earlier circles my brain.

My fingers clench against the edge of the leather seat. I let her finish—not because I’m swept away but because I need the release. The distraction. The illusion that I’m still in control of my own fucking mind.

Afterward, I hand her a napkin and tuck a hundred-dollar bill into her palm. She doesn’t ask for more, just licks her lips and vanishes into the crowd, like the entire thing didn’t mean a goddamn thing. And it didn’t.

It was a straight up transaction. The most that girl would have gotten was an invite back to my place for more sex, a couple lines of coke or something harder, then a trip in my car back to wherever she called home.

It’s what I’m used to. All I ever needed before. So what the fuck is different tonight?

Lola returns not long after, flushed and tipsy, giggling as Abel appears at her side. He gives me a look— she’s done —and she throws her arms around him like he’s her personal chauffeur.

“You’re so fucking hot,” she says, laying her head on his chest. “Take me home?”

Abel glances my way. “You coming?”

“Not just yet. Take the car I’ll find my way back eventually.”

Abel’s eyes narrow. “You good?”

“Yeah. Just get my sister home. I owe you.”

Lola was pretty much passed out and the only thing holding her up was Abel’s arms. He shook his head. “And then some.”

I watched him carry her out of the bar. Good. One less thing to manage.

I grab my leather jacket, leave a fat tip for the server, and slip out the back entrance into the night air, sharp and clean and loud with city static. My head’s buzzing, my body loose, but I can’t go home yet. I don’t want the silence.

Instead, I head to Dino’s, a 24-hour hole-in-the-wall diner three blocks south. The booths are torn, the pie is decent, and the coffee’s shit but always hot.

I slide into the far corner, order a burger I don’t need and a coffee I won’t finish, and try to sit still.

There is a couple practically having sex two booths down from me and across from them at a table, three guys sit and debate the merits of the latest rounds of hockey trades.

They’re Islander fans. I’m more of a Ranger guy.

Halfway through my meal, the bell over the door rings. I don’t look up at first. Not until I hear her voice—soft, apologizing to the hostess—and then I do.

Jules. Of all the fucking places she comes here? At this time of night? It’s like the world keeps throwing her into my orbit.

She’s wearing jeans and a bulky sweater, hair pulled back in a messy knot. She’s holding a folder against her chest like a shield, her mouth tight, her eyes tired. And she looks upset.

She scans the diner, and when her eyes land on me, she freezes. Her face is white, save for twin spots of pink on her cheeks. And her eyes look so big and shiny, it’s like they’re not real.

She blinks once, a deer in the headlights, then makes a small move toward the door like she might leave.

But I’m already standing.

“Jules,” I say, loud enough to carry but not loud enough to draw attention. I nod toward the booth opposite mine. “You look like you could use coffee.”

Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I come when I can’t sleep.”

She hesitates—then walks over and slides into the seat across from me. The folder thumps softly onto the table. She won’t look at me yet. She’s tense again, like she was in the suite. Braced.

“Want to tell me what’s in that folder?”

She doesn’t answer. But her fingers press harder against the edge.

And just like that… the night gets interesting again.