I’d loved him too much for an unreciprocated relationship. Too much to bear him smiling at me before going off to fuck other people, no matter how much I loved our club.
I’d had to run a long fucking way away to forget about him.
Right into the arms of a tosser called Vincent fucking Blackthorne.
And then I’d run right back again.
But it was too late. Andy Morgan would never forgive me for it, and he’d never let me forget it, either. And he shouldn’t. I didn’t deserve it. I’d left him with all of this in his lap for three fucking years and hadn’t even bothered calling to say hello. Running this club was harder than I thought, so much harder than I remembered.
He had every right to hate me, and every right to tell me to leave.
“I don’t mean to poop on your pity party,” Topaz said. “But that’s your night out there. Enjoy it. Fuck what he thinks and what he wants. You put the work in and you should enjoy it.”
“I don’t know if I can enjoy it without him.”
She rolled her eyes, and it shocked me so much I laughed through my tears. “You’re both as bad as each other,” she snapped. “Get the fuck out there and rock that party, or I might be slapping both of your asses one of these days.”
I really didn’t see that one coming.
***
Andy
I poured myself a triple whisky and kicked my feet up on my desk while my club partied without me. The place was heaving, I could see it on the monitors, and whatever email PR Faye had put together had worked like a dream. The club was a sea of masks and bodies, and those bodies were moving, dancing, laughing. The club was alive. It dazzled with life.
Because of her.
Because of Faye fucking Devere.
She brought things to life.
And God, how it fucking pained me to admit it, even to myself, but she brought me to life, too.
The thought of going out there and admitting how well she’d done, how she’d achieved in a few weeks what I’d failed to achieve in three years, not the general behind the scenes crap that keeps this place ticking over, but the actual work of bringing the club to its potential, creating a thrill, a buzz, an atmosphere that people would be talking about right through to its next fucking birthday. She’d done that.
And she’d done it in spite of all my sarcastic little digs and comments, in spite of all the blocks I’d put on her, and what she was allowed to do.
I could only imagine what she’d have achieved if I’d been on her side.
But she’d bailed on me once, and she’d do it again, and all of it meant nothing if it wasn’t constant. An enthusiasm that burns hot but quick isn’t worth shit, not in a concern like this. You need regularity, community, a build-up of company values over time. Faye couldn’t do that, she’d waltz away and leave the club in the lurch and it would be up to me to pick up the pieces again.
Only I didn’t want to pick up the pieces again. I wanted her.
I didn’t want this place without her, not now she’d come home. Not now I’d seen how good we could be.
I downed my whisky and poured another, then switched the monitor from one camera view to another. I looked for Faye, and even in a sea of masks she was easy to spot. She was the only one on the floor not wearing one, and she looked divine, dancing and twirling free. I couldn’t make out her face but I knew she was smiling, and I knew everyone else would be smiling around her.
Fuck this shit. Just fuck it.
Another triple went down like wildfire, but I knocked it back anyway and grabbed my jacket.
It was time for Daddy Explicit to make an appearance. I only hoped I hadn’t left it too late.
***
Chapter Twenty
Faye
The dancefloor was a sea of people, and I was right amongst it. My heart was pounding, adrenaline pumping after a couple of swiftly downed Screaming Orgasms, and I was high, flying, twirling around the place with Raven and Cara at my side. The crowd moved as the music changed, and it swept me up. Raven’s black feather mask plume disappeared in the throng and I was amongst the unknown, the faceless, a world of hollow-eyed masks and laughter, of bodies pressed to mine. Hot bodies, horny bodies, and suddenly I was no longer at Explicit on my own turf, I was in the heart of the action in Vincent Blackthorne’s mountain sex den, and the faces weren’t just faceless, they were terrifying.
“They’re all for you, pretty bird, all of them. You’re going to make me so proud, sweet girl, so very proud.”
He kisses my lips and holds me close, but I’m shaking in his arms. I’m shaking so hard my legs threaten to give up on me. “My legs,” I say. “They’re like jelly. I don’t know if I can walk.”