He opened his bottle of aspirin that was conveniently next to the sink and popped a few pills in his mouth, the chalky coating churning his stomach. Turning the faucet on, he leaned over and sucked water between his lips and swallowed the pills.
Stepping into the shower, he hoped the water would wake him up and lessen the pounding in his head, but past experiences had told him that was a long shot. And within ten minutes he was walking back into his bedroom with a towel hanging on his hips—still tired as hell and feeling like ass. He paused as he glanced across the room.
His bed was empty.
Curious, he padded into the living room, only to find it empty as well. So was the kitchen.
Walking back into his room, he scanned the foot of his bed, no longer seeing bras or panties littering his floor. They were gone. And thank god. It was always nice when they took it upon themselves to leave.
After putting on a clean pair of ACUs, Rafe pulled on his boots, grunting when the pounding in his head amplified as he leaned over to tuck his pants into his blousing rubbers. Then he grabbed his keys from the coffee table in the living room and left the house.
The cool air soothed his still throbbing head as he made his way to his Jeep. It was an old Jeep Wrangler, but he loved it. Four doors, lift kit, thirty-six-inch tires—it was sexy. His prissy-ass brother thought differently, though—not that Rafe particularly cared what his suit of a brother thought about his mode of transportation. But it made him smile thinking about his brother ribbing him about it. He missed that fucker. His wife was pregnant and Rafe hoped like hell Luca was forced to trade in his vintage sports car for a minivan. He would love to see the day his top-dog, all-business brother got behind the wheel of a soccer van. Rafe knew it was only a matter of time. His sister-in-law had a tendency to get her way—from all of the Murano men. He still hadn’t figured out how in the hell she’d gotten him to take her to see that damn musical in the city a few years back. He was home visiting and by the time they had finished dinner she not only had him agreeing to take her to the musical, but she had him believing it was his idea.
His eyes did an automatic roll as he grinned at the memory.
Rafe grabbed his ID out of his wallet and handed it to the guard as he pulled up to the main gate that led in to Fort Carson. The overweight, balding man glanced quickly at his ID, then flicked it out between his two fingers, handing it back to Rafe. He nodded, then pulled forward onto post.
CHAPTER THREE
Smoothing the fabric of her red dress over her legs and making sure the girls were in their correct positions, Fallon left backstage and walked into the main level of the club. The bodies were packed in tight tonight. All the men were in suits and blazers and the few women who dawdled around the tables were in little cocktail dresses.
Fallon was unforgivingly particular with the visual quality her club maintained, and that included the appearance of her clientele. She made sure her men at the door enforced her strict dress code. She didn’t want any Joe Blow off the street to meander into her club with his jeans around his ass and his shirt sloppy, and more than likely smelly, looking to get his rocks off. Seriously. It wasn’t that type of club. She had standards. Sure, it was uptight and some presumed her to be a royal bitch, but it was her club after all. And it’s what allowed her club to stand out among the rest. It’s what made hers so successful. It wasn’t prestigious and exclusive by accident.
Among the top-shelf favorites, her bars were also stocked with premium wines and liquors and delicious imported beers. The atmosphere was luxurious and seductive, her women sensual and glamorous. They were sexy in a way that ignited uninhibited fantasies while exuding a feminine poise and allure that was provocative and inviting, yet just out of reach.
Fallon worked her ass off to ensure that her club maintained its reputation. Anyone could come to Velour—as long as you played the part—and everyone wanted to.
Illusion was a damn good seduction.
Fallon had been around the block a time or two in her short twenty-five years and had quickly learned that if she wanted to get anywhere in this cutthroat society everyone lived in, she was going to have to grab society by the balls and tell it to go to hell. Fallon did things her own way and she wasn’t going to apologize for it. She’d been at the top of the totem pole, all the way down to the bottom of the barrel, and everywhere in between. Acceptance wasn’t something she needed nor wanted from anyone—anyone other than herself, that is. And from where she stood in her Giuseppe Zanotti–sculpted wedges, she was doing pretty damn well.
Growing up in a family where social status and your ability to eat your way through the social food chain were of utmost importance, she was aware that she was creating this too-good-for-you image with her elite invitations, strict dress policy, and selective staff. She’d been bred with that image ingrained in her mind, imprinted in her genes, and just to top it off, it was shoved down her throat with a golden spoon. She’d hated the pressure and conformity that her parents had inflicted on her. Pressure to live up to their “standards.” Yet here she was, setting the bar so damn high it was near impossible to reach without stepping on a few backs to get there.