Page 2 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

JULES

T he club doesn’t look like much from the outside.

There is no neon sign. No music spilling into the night.

No lineup or velvet rope. Just a stone building near Central Park, with impressive double doors and the street number in a heavy gold font.

The man outside is big enough to stop traffic and looks like he could put his fist through the wall.

He looks like Hulk, I think. Maybe Thor.

I look past him. The place looks exactly the same as I remember.

The kind of club that’s meant for folks with money and black Amex cards and private cars.

Out in LA I used to frequent places like this all the time.

Back before things got bad. Before my father lost all of his money and retreated from the world.

Before my mother left him for another younger, richer man, giving up one family for something shiny and new and uncomplicated.

Before everything fell onto my shoulders.

I don’t belong in this world anymore. Haven’t for a few years now but I don’t have the luxury of turning back.

My brother’s medical bills are stacked so high I can barely keep track of them.

And the jobs I’ve managed to get through a temp agency aren’t enough.

Dog walking and cleaning apartments only gets me so much.

I need something better—something that pays real money.

And this job with evening hours is perfect.

I can still walk the dogs, keep a few cleaning clients, but more importantly, I can visit my brother more often.

The fact that it’s at the place my dad used to own should bother me, but I guess I’m too numb and my pride is in pieces. That’s what happens when you have to be an adult. And I’ve had to be one since before I was legal.

The doorman studies me as I climb the stairs.

His arms are crossed, with big black tattoos peeking out from underneath the rolled up sleeves.

Tribal for sure. Kind of cliche, though I would never tell him that.

His hair is pulled back into a bun, and he sports a trimmed beard.

He watches me, and though I don’t flinch under his stare, my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.

I have to get past him to get inside and the Horner name won’t help me here.

“Name?” His voice is a low rumble.

“Jules Harper. Henry said to come by. Said to tell you that I’m on the list.” My voice stays even, though I have to work for it.

If he turns me away I don’t know what I’ll do.

I’m almost desperate. I smile up at him.

I’m not vain or anything, but I know the power I hold.

The power these cheekbones and hair and eyes and mouth give me.

The guy doesn’t budge.

He studies me, eyes narrowed intently and sighs.

I hope he doesn’t notice the cheap attempt at a French manicure, or the scuff on my Louboutin’s.

He grabs a cell from his pocket and makes a call.

Says exactly four words. “There’s a woman here.

” He listens. Nods. Then he jerks his chin toward the door.

“Inside. Straight to the bar. Ask for Brent. Don’t wander and don’t look. ”

It sounds like a threat, but I manage another smile and push through the door, so relieved I want to cry. I take a moment, get my shit together and then step forward.

Walking in here is like a returning memory.

One that’s been hidden for ages. A club like this is a different world for sure.

The air feels warm, rich. Music plays low, the notes wrapping around conversations as I walk toward the back where the bar is located.

It’s bigger than I remember. Everything is polished wood and soft light, and the people are as varied as the dress code.

There are men in tailored suits and expensive Italian leather shoes, while others are dressed more casually in jeans and Tees.

I see women wearing dresses that while expensive, are tacky.

They show more than they cover. Definitely new money or, more likely, high end prostitutes.

I’m not judging. Hell, there are nights when I’m home, staring at the stack of bills on the hall table, thinking how easy it would be to make them all go away.

I knew girls in college who had sugar daddies on the side.

Wealthy men who bankrolled their lives. Maybe it’s my only choice.

Just two weeks ago I turned down a trip to Venice with an old girlfriend and her two male friends.

I knew what the drill was, but I wasn’t that desperate.

Yet.

I wince at the thought and push it from my mind. No sense getting ahead of myself until there’s no other option.

I lift my chin, smooth my hands down my tailored black slacks, and keep walking. No coat, no layers to hide behind. If I look like I belong, maybe they’ll believe it and offering me a job will be a no-brainer.

A man spots me right away and waves. Introduces himself as Brent the man Henry had told me to speak to.

He’s younger than I expected, easy smile, warm eyes.

The kind of good looking that would make most women take a second glance.

Most men too. He seem nice and genuine. The kind of person who makes this whole thing feel a little less overwhelming.

“Jules, right?” he says with a wink. He sets down a bottle of Macmillan and leans forward with a smile.

“That’s me. Thanks for letting me stop by.”

“No problem. Anything for Henry. We don’t hire new staff often because our turnover is practically zero.

No one likes to leave once they’re in, which for us, is great.

Because of that, we’re picky.” He pauses and nods.

“But I think you’ll do fine. As you can imagine we have an exclusive clientele and working here is a great opportunity for the right person. ”

“I’m that person,” I say, hoping I sound convincing.

He grabs a clipboard and slides it across the bar. “Fill this out. You’ll still meet with management, but I’ll fast-track your file. You’ve got experience?”

“Yeah. Mostly smaller places. Diners. Cafés.” Places where a good tip was five bucks and the fanciest thing on the menu was a milkshake. Maybe a cheeseburger with bacon.

“We all have to start somewhere.” Brent grins knowingly. “This is something else entirely, but you’ll figure it out.” He nods to the right. “There’s a table through those doors for the staff. You can fill this out there.”

I nod and walk around the bar, then through the double doors. I can hear the sounds of the kitchen and smile at the curious looks I get from a couple girls who walk past with plates of food.

Quickly, I fill out the form. Name. Birthdate. Address. All good so far. When I get to the “emergency contact” line, I hesitate. Shit. I could add Shelli, but I suppose I should ask her first. I leave it blank and hope that it won’t be a problem.

When I’m done I walk back to the main room and hand the application to Brent.

I glance around. The crowd feels untouchable, like bad things just slide off them.

Like their lives are encased in gold. For a second, I remember what that felt like because it wasn’t so long ago that I lived this life.

I had the black Amex. The cars and jewels.

People who say money doesn’t buy happiness don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.

It might not buy it, but it sure as shit helps.

I sigh and roll my neck, then slowly look up.

There’s a long, tinted window on the upper level, overlooking the floor. It’s dark behind the glass, but something about it makes me nervous. I know what it is, of course. I had my sweet sixteen birthday party here. I know the window is two-way. I’m being watched and I don’t like it.

I look away, casually, take a step back. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Instead, I focus on Brent again. “Think I’ve actually got a shot?”

“Pretty sure with that face you’ve never been turned down for a job before,” Brent says with a grin.

If only he knew. No experience is no experience.

I nod and force a smile, even as the weight from above lingers.

Sweat breaks out across my skin leaving goosebumps in its wake.

I don’t like this feeling. I tell myself it’s just nerves.

That I’m imagining it. But deep down, something tells me I just stepped into something I don’t understand.

Maybe I should go. Find something else. I take another step away, trying to decide what to do.

Brent glances toward the end of the bar, where one of the hosts is motioning to him. He mutters something under his breath, then turns back to me.

“I gotta deal with this, but hang tight for a sec, Jules. Management wants to meet you tonight instead of tomorrow.”

My stomach dips. “Now? I thought this was just paperwork?—”

“It is,” he says, but he looks a little too careful when he adds, “He likes to make the call early if he’s interested. Means you don’t waste your time, you know?”

I nod, though unease curls low in my gut. The way he says he makes it sound like I’m about to meet more than a manager.

“Give me a moment.” He confers with the host about some problem and then grabs a keycard from behind the bar. He motions for me to follow. “Come on. Private suite upstairs.”

Okay. Upstairs. Two-way window. That weird feeling of being watched. This makes almost pull back. Makes me almost tell Brent this isn’t for me. But then I think about the pile of bills I need to pay and swallow my fear.

Can’t be as bad as selling myself to strangers.

I trail Brent through a side hallway, away from the hum of music and conversation. The sound fades behind us, replaced by the quiet thud of our footsteps and the faint hum of the elevator we step into. The doors close and I know there’s no turning back.

Brent doesn’t make conversation on the ride up and I’m more than happy to keep my thoughts to myself.

The elevator dings softly, and when the doors slide open, the space beyond feels familiar, but different.

Warmer, yes, but heavier. The lighting is softer, the music a faint echo from below.

The floor is dark hardwood, and the light walls are lined with expensive art.

A few of the pieces I recognize because they used to belong to my father.

I don’t know how to feel about that, so I push all thoughts of my father out of my head and try to concentrate on not making an ass out of myself.

Brent steps out first. Why do I feel as if I’m being offered up as some kind of sacrifice?

My heart is in my mouth and beats so fast I feel slightly dizzy.

At the end of the hall, a set of double doors stands open, spilling a glow of amber light into the corridor.

Voices drift out—low, male, punctuated by laughter.

Brent pauses just outside. “He’s expecting you. Just… be polite. Answer his questions. Don’t overthink it and you should be fine.” He offers a small smile and steps back.

Before I can ask who exactly I’m about to meet, Brent heads for the doors and gestures me inside.

The room is huge, designed like a cross between a lounge and a private club.

There’s a long bar to the right, deep leather couches scattered around, and floor-to-ceiling windows on one side overlooking the city—the opposite are the two-way windows that overlook the club.

The space has been redone since the last time I’d been up here.

I see four men and alarm bells begin to ring. Danger they say. Get the hell out. Heart in my throat I try to stay calm, but this doesn’t feel great.

One of the men is sprawled on a couch with a blonde draped over him, both of them laughing at something the other said. Two others lean against the bar, sipping from crystal glasses. The fourth…

The fourth is standing near the wide window that looks down on the main floor of the club.

His back is to me, broad shoulders framed by a perfectly tailored shirt.

Even from here, there’s something about him—stillness, control—that makes the air feel charged.

I know in an instant he’s the one I’m supposed to see.

Brent clears his throat. “Boss, this is Jules Harper. She’s here about the position.”

The man by the window turns and everything in me goes still.

He’s… beautiful. There’s no other way to describe him.

Thick dark hair cut expertly in a way that lets the waves frame a face made of hard angles and calm intensity.

He’s sporting the kind of five o’clock shadow that enhances all of it.

His eyes—God, his eyes—lock on mine, and I feel pinned in place, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had.

I can’t tell the color from where I stand but they’re light.

A perfect foil for his dark, good looks.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just studies me, slow and deliberate, cold even. As if deciding whether I’m worth the oxygen in the room. The silence stretches long enough that my palms start to sweat. Can he hear my heart beating like a fucking drum?

I don’t think I’ve ever had such a visceral reaction to a man before and I’m not quite sure what it means. Mouth dry I consider saying something, but what? My brain seems to be on hiatus and my feet feel like they’re encased in cement.

Finally, he sets his glass down and steps closer, each movement unhurried, precise. The two men at the bar fall quiet, watching. Even the guy on the sofa lifts his head and pushes the blonde off of his lap.

“So,” he says, voice low, smooth, but edged like a blade. “You want to work here.”

It’s not a question, not really. More like a challenge.

I want to turn my ass around and leave but I think of my brother. Of the bills marked overdue. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.

“Yes. I…Brent said you were hiring, and I’m?—”

His gaze doesn’t waver, and for reasons I can’t explain, my words tangle in a whole bunch of nothing. I can’t seem to make my tongue work. My pulse pounds in my ears.

There’s something about him—something dangerous and magnetic all at once. And standing here, with every instinct screaming that I should tread carefully, I realize something. I have no idea who this man is, other than knowing he’s a big deal.

But it feels as if he already knows everything about me. I should be scared. Terrified even. Instead, I’m curious and maybe a little bit reckless. Not a great combination, but with limited choices in my immediate future, what the fuck as I supposed to do? Run?

I lift my chin and wait. I’m done tucking in my tail. Done with the shit jobs and shit pay. I want this job. And he’s going to give it to me.