Page 8 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

At the top, the double doors to Beck’s private suite stand open, spilling a warm glow of amber light into the hall.

Why do I feel like I’m about to cross some invisible line when all I want to do is turn tail and run the other way.

But with no choice, I draw in a slow breath, square my shoulders, and step inside.

The suite feels different tonight. That first night when Brent walked me up to meet Beck for the first time things had been quick, formal.

A handshake, a few questions, a steady look that seemed to weigh every word I said before he told Brent to put me on the schedule.

He’d had friends or business acquaintances. He was entertaining.

Don’t forget the half-dressed hooker with her tits out. I’m far from a prude, but that display left a bad taste in my mouth. Still, I’d feel better if she was here.

Tonight, it’s just the two of us.

I pause just inside. The large area is weirdly welcoming, aside from the fact that everything inside was chosen to project power without trying too hard.

Dark wood, leather, soft amber light. A panoramic window takes up one wall, the city glowing beyond it.

I bet he paid a fortune for someone to deck out the place.

Beck is near the bar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie gone, a crystal tumbler in his hand. He watches me. He’s quiet and still and my nerves jangle along with my heartbeat.

“Jules,” he says, voice calm and low. “Your first full VIP shift. How’d it go?”

I clutch my bag strap a little tighter, the envelope of cash tucked under my arm like it might burn through. “Cassidy said I did okay.”

“Cassidy doesn’t hand out compliments unless she means them.” He sets his glass down, eyes holding mine. “I’m glad.”

I nod but don’t reply because I don’t really know what to say.

For a moment, silence stretches long and thin, like a rubber band about to snap, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside.

Beck steps closer—not crowding me, but close enough that the air feels denser, heavier.

And suddenly I feel as if I can’t breathe.

This man makes me nervous as fuck. He’s too big.

Too powerful. Too delicious. Too dark somehow.

He scares me and I’m not exactly sure why because truthfully, he’s been nothing but polite. Hasn’t made any passes or said anything inappropriate.

His gaze dips, just briefly, to the envelope in my arm. “Grant King leave you something?”

Distracted by his full lips, I exhale, hating the heat that rises in my face. I wonder how he knows. And nervous, clear my throat a bit. “He… left a note. And a tip.”

Beck’s expression doesn’t change, but his tone sharpens by a degree. “Typical. Keep the tip.” He angles his head a bit, as if considering something. “What did the note say?”

“Um,” I lick my dry lips, but before I can form a sentence, he speaks.

“Throw away the note.”

I don’t like his tone. I mean, there’s no way in hell I was considering calling Grant King. And I would have tossed it in the garbage as soon as I got home, but still. What the hell gives my boss the right to order me around like that?

I lift my chin, more than a little curious, and try to ignore the way my heart is beating. Fast and hard. I can only hope he doesn’t notice. “Why is that your business?”

If he’s shocked, angered, or annoyed by my response he doesn’t show it. In fact a small smile plays around his mouth. “It’s not. But King’s not a man who understands boundaries,” Beck says evenly. “You encourage him—even by accident—it gets messy. Messy isn’t good for you, or for the club.”

There’s no malice in his tone, but I know it’s not a suggestion, it’s a request. An instruction. Even though I want to tell him that I’m a grown ass woman who can take care of herself I don’t. I stay quiet. I need the job.

I nod once. “Understood.”

His mouth curves—not quite a smile, more like quiet satisfaction. “Good. Go home to your…” His eyebrow shoots up. “Boyfriend? Husband?”

I feel as if we’re circling something and more importantly, that I should know what that something is. But I suppose it’s a reasonable question.

“Bob,” I say with, looking him square in the eye.

“Bob,” he repeats, questioningly.

I know he wants more but I’m not in the mood. I turn toward the door, relief loosening my shoulders, but pause when his voice follows.

“Jules.”

I glance back. His gaze is steady, unreadable.

“This job can be a good thing for you,” he says. “Just… remember the rules. And you’ll be fine.”

Something about the way he says it feels less like reassurance and more like a warning.

“I will,” I murmur, then step out into the hall. The soft click of the door echoes behind me as I disappear into the elevator, the weight of his eyes lingering long after I leave the suite.

I step out into the night, the air crisp and damp from a drizzle that must’ve passed while he was upstairs. The street is quiet, the only sounds the hum of a distant cab and the soft hiss of tires on wet pavement.

I tuck the envelope into my bag and pull my jean jacket tighter around me, the chill biting through the fabric. My feet ache, my shoulders are tight, but at least the cash tonight makes worth it.

As I head down the block, I pull out my phone and tap Shells’ name. She picks up on the second ring.

“Tell me you survived night two,” she says by way of greeting, her voice teasing but with that undercurrent of concern she always has.

“Barely,” I say, exhaling a laugh. “VIP is… different. The people up there live in another world.”

“Feel familiar?” she asks lightly.

“Yes and no. I’m so far from where I used to be that it’s all like a blur, you know?” I pause. “Grant King was there. Again.”

Shells groans dramatically. “The football guy? The one who already hit on you last night? Such a tough gig you have.”

“He left me a tip that was way too big—and a note. With his number.”

“Okay, so… hot athlete wants to buy you things. What’s the problem again?”

I pause at the corner, glancing back at the club’s shadowed facade. “Cassidy warned me about him. And Beck… told me to throw the note away.”

Shells’ voice sharpens. “Beck? As in the Beck? Your boss?”

“Yeah. He called me up to his suite before I left. Said King doesn’t respect boundaries, that it could get messy.”

There’s a long pause before Shells replies, softer now. “What’s he like? Beck, I mean. You barely mentioned him last night.”

I hesitate, glancing back once more at the dark, weathered building. “Intense. Kind of brooding. Very male if you know what I mean.” Dangerous is another good description, but I don’t say it.

“So he’s hot.”

I smile and hunch my shoulders. “Hot as hell.”

“Like on a scale of one to ten he’d be?”

“Eleven.” No point in lying. The man is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen.

“And?”

“And… I don’t know yet,” I admit quietly. “But I get the feeling he sees everything. Whether you want him to or not.”

Shells hums thoughtfully. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think the football guy’s a bad idea. And the boss? Probably worse. Just keep your head down and get paid, Jules.”

“That’s the plan,” I murmur, though I’m not sure I believe it.

We hang up, and I keep walking, the drizzle misting the air as the glow from the streetlamps pools on the slick pavement. I’m exhausted and tired and wired and I want to snuggle Bob and watch Gilmore Girls and drink a glass of cheap wine.

I head home and plan on doing just that.