Page 4 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

JULES

O f course, I’m running late.

The old clock on my kitchen wall ticks louder than usual, a steady reminder that I need to be out the door in twenty minutes, and I still haven’t even finished my makeup.

The apartment smells faintly of coffee and the lemon-scented cleaner I doused the counters with this morning, trying to make the place feel less… tired. The building is decades past its prime, and so is most of the furniture inside, but at least it’s mine free and clear.

Technically, it was my Aunt Marcy’s before she passed last year.

The oldest sister of my mother, she didn’t have much.

And whether she felt sorry for me after everything or wanted to send my mother a mental fuck you, she left me this one-bedroom apartment and I’m grateful.

Because without it, I have no idea where I’d be.

Probably sleeping on someone’s couch, a bench in the park?

Hell, I don’t even own a car to call home.

“Bob, move,” I mutter, nudging my cat off the bathroom sink.

Bob—named for my favorite singer, Bob Marley—is a scruffy gray cat with one ear that folds funny and a tail that stops halfway down, like he was born mid-thought.

He blinks at me with slow, lazy judgment, the way cats do, before hopping down to curl up on the toilet lid, his half-tail twitching erratically.

The tiny mirror above the sink reflects my rushed reflection: long dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, crisp white silky blouse, and a black, tailored pencil skirt pressed as neatly as my ancient iron will allow.

Not exactly high-end but polished enough to pass the “this girl belongs here” test.

My phone, propped against the soap dish, crackles with the sound of Shells’ voice over speakerphone.

“Jules, you can’t be late your first night.

Do not give them a reason to fire your ass before you get a paycheck.

” Shells’ voice is a mix of urgency and sass.

We’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember.

Her mom used to clean our place in Palm Springs and we’ve always kept in touch.

She’s gotten me through some of the darkest times I’ve ever had, and even two states away, she still manages to boss me around like we’re seventeen again.

“I know, I know,” I mutter, swiping mascara on my lashes with quick precision. “The clock hates me, I swear. I was supposed to have an extra hour, but Billy’s nurse called and?—”

Shells’ tone softens. “How’s he doing? Does he like the new place?”

I pause, biting my lip. “He’s doing great. The new facility has everything he needs you know? It makes all this other shit worth it. I just wish it wasn’t so fucking expensive.”

My brother needs special care. He was in Europe a few years back and he took out his motorcycle.

He didn’t make the bend in the road. He hit a tree and for a while I didn’t think he’d make it.

But he’s strong and he lived thought his brain isn’t what it used to be, and he needs special care and medication and rehab therapy.

Every bill, every delivery of medication, every hour of care—it’s like pouring water into a bucket with a hole in the bottom.

No matter how hard I work, I can’t fill it fast enough.

But I do it for him because he’s my brother.

For the longest time he was the only family I had that cared.

The only one I could count on and now I’m all he’s got.

Shells sighs. “I wish I could help. You know I would.”

“I know,” I say, softer now. “This job’s just… it has to work out. It’s the only thing standing between us and another panic month where I’m pulling out my hair trying to find that extra hundred bucks.”

“Then make them love you,” Shells says, her voice snapping back to determined mode. “Smile, hustle, and pretend you’re not terrified, even if you are. Guys with money love confidence. Especially when that confidence comes packaged in long hair, great tits and lips any porn star would want.”

“Jesus, Shelli.” I shake my head and stare at my reflection.

“What? We both know you’re fucking hot so use it. Your tips are your lifeline. Especially at a place like that. Private clubs pay out huge. Just… don’t get wrapped up in any of them, okay? The men I mean.”

I know what she means. I pout at my reflection, blotting on a neutral lipstick. “I’m going there to work, not to fall in love with some guy in a suit, Shells. Promise.”

“You better. Call me when your shift’s done so I know you survived.”

“I will.”

I hang up, stuff my phone in my bag, and scoop Bob off the toilet lid so I can grab my jacket—then remember I don’t own one decent enough for where I’m going.

It’s late Fall and warmer than ever, but still.

I jog to the closet and pull out a favorite faded denim jacket.

It’s not built for warmth, but it will have to do.

Bob meows once as I lock the door behind me, his half-tail twitching like he doesn’t approve.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “Let’s hope they like me.”

My first shift at the most intimidating private club in Manhattan is about to start.

And I can only hope I’m not walking into something I can’t walk back out of. Because that would suck.

An attractive blonde gives me the onceover the second I step through the employee entrance, her expression a mix of curiosity and appraisal.

“You must be the new girl,” she says, her voice smooth and easy as she hands me a black half-apron. “I’m Cassidy. Brent said you’d be shadowing me tonight. Training shift—so watch, listen, and don’t screw up.”

Her tone isn’t unkind, just brisk and all business.

She’s tall with legs that seem to go on forever and a confidence I can only hope to fake by the end of the night.

Her uniform fits like a glove, and I get the distinct impression she doesn’t just work here, she owns every room she walks into.

She is the woman I’ve always wanted to be.

“Got it,” I say, tying the apron around my waist, my fingers fumbling slightly.

She looks at me again, one perfectly shaped brow lifting. “You ever work a place like this before?”

“No,” I admit. “Diners, cafés… nothing like this .” I’m too embarrassed to admit, that up until a few years ago I’d never worked a day in my life.

She sighs, like she already knew. “It’s not hard if you pay attention.

The members are… particular. They pay a lot of money for the right to privacy so they like discretion.

You’ll see a lot of faces you know from like, TV or the news or celebrity types.

A lot of athletes. The men like pretty faces and the women, for the most part, will ignore you because of that pretty face.

Just keep that smile bright, and don’t engage unless you’re asked a question or something.

Do that, and you’ll make more in tips in one night than girls working down the street at Empire make in an entire month. ”

I nod, my heart hammering harder than I want to admit. It’s not fun wanting something so bad that it makes your stomach hurt.

Cassidy gives me a quick tour of the floor, pointing out sections, the bar, the VIP tables tucked away in the back and the enclosed private balconies.

“We rotate tables and sections, but your first few shifts you’ll shadow me.

Watch how I handle our clients. We have a lot of help, extra runners for when it’s super busy.

But us, you and me, we’re first line of contact.

We’re about image and experience as much as food and drink.

This is a classy place but our customers aren’t always classy if you know what I mean.

” She offers a smile. “You’ll be fine and we’re on balcony duty. We’ll make bank, trust me.”

We stop near the edge of the bar, where Brent is already pouring drinks with effortless speed. He gives me a wink as I pass, like he knows I’m one deep breath away from panicking.

Cassidy leans in slightly. “Rule one—don’t ever gossip. Not about members, not about staff, not about anything . Everyone signs NDAs, but it’s easier to never repeat what you hear or see. Not even in passing. Trust me, it will keep your job safe.”

“Noted,” I murmur, forcing myself to match her easy pace as we weave through the tables.

The club feels even bigger tonight. The low lighting, the ever present hum of music, jazz tonight, the soft murmur of expensive conversation—it’s all designed to make people forget the outside world exists. To forget rules exist.

I can handle this, I tell myself. It’s just another job. Just another night. I’ll pretend this place is nothing more than the diner I worked at last month. I won’t think about the fact that at one time I played here. Upstairs in that space occupied by the most intimidating man I’d ever met.

My mouth goes dry at the thought and I glance up, then look away just as quick.

I need to focus. I need to excel. But as Cassidy guides me past the main floor, toward a set of stairs that leads up to the private balcony tables, I feel it again—that prickle along the back of my neck, like someone’s watching.

I glance up again, my eyes drawn to the second floor where a darkened window overlooks everything below.

I wonder if he’s up there. I want to ask about the manager, but I don’t.

I was so nervous the night before I don’t even remember his name.

Or maybe he never gave it. But his eyes, those stayed with me until I was alone in my bed, trying to sleep.

He’s dangerous and there’s something about him that makes me want to know more. Pain or something like it.

Cassidy moves like she’s gliding instead of walking, her balance perfect even with a tray stacked high with drinks.

I, on the other hand, am still trying not to trip over my own feet.

I should have worn more practical shoes, but it’s too late.

I only hope that these four inch heels won’t be responsible for me breaking my neck.