“Well, ready or not, here we go!” she whispered as she walked through the wide double doors.
The inside of the club was everything she’d ever imagined a bar to be: dark corners, flashing lights, driving music. The beat hit her middle, and the urge to dance struck hard. Since the dance floor was below the entry, almost like a sunken pit in the middle of the room, she skirted it to look around for a few minutes, fortifying herself with a fruity drink complete with miniparasol before approaching the stairs to go below.
* * * *
“Alex! You made it!”
In a dark corner of the club’s bar, Alex Brannigan settled his frosty mug of even darker beer on the table and stood to bump knuckles with Damien, his childhood friend and owner of Thrice, before he wrapped the other man in a back-thumping bro hug. “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it; you know that.”
Damien flashed his signature pretty-boy smile, one Alex knew for a fact was a hundred percent genuine, gestured him back to his seat, and took the other one. “So what do you think?” He waved a hand to indicate the noisy room. “Great, isn’t it?”
“You’ve done a phenomenal job.” It was the truth. The place was a crush. Packed to the rafters, with every table full, the bar overrun, and the dance floor wall-to-wall mania. Damien’s infamous Midas touch was showing again. No one would have guessed that what used to be a dilapidated old warehouse could be turned into the trendiest nightclub in Atlanta. No one but Damien. Alex’s friend had an eye for the unusual, as he’d proven with his last two clubs, one in LA and the other in Denver. Hence the name.
Alex took a sip of the bitter beer, letting it soak into his taste buds as they discussed the renovations. Damien’s love for his work shone through, and Alex’s chest ached with envy. Not too long ago, he’d had the exact same enthusiasm for what he did, working his way to the top of the corporate ladder with the speed of an express elevator. He still loved the job itself, but at his level it wasn’t just about the job. It was about the politics, and God knew he was eyeballs-deep in the shit of politics. With no way out. Not without hurting the people he cared for the most.
“So what do you think of Atlanta so far?” his friend finally asked him, rubbing a hand across the dark stubble shadowing the lower half of his face.
“It’s definitely not LA.”
Damien laughed. “No, it’s not. But it has its moments.” Two skimpily clad women sauntered by, their hips swinging in opposite directions like clashing bells. Damien watched their progress with a less than professional eye. “Yep, definitely has its moments.”
Alex chuckled, shook his head, and finished off his beer with a final swallow.
Damien’s unrepentant grin gave the totally false impression of an innocent little boy; only the strong edge to his jaw and the hungry look in his eyes gave away the lie. “Hey, there’s a reason I do what I do.” His expression turned greedy as he surveyed the female population weaving around them. “And the nice thing about the women here? They’re not all silicone and collagen injections. The more natural the better, I always say.”
Alex silently agreed.
A waiter with a black apron around his waist approached the table. “Mr. Adams, Brad has some questions about—”
Damien raised a hand to cut the guy off, that hundred-watt smile softening the gesture. “I’m coming; give me just a minute.” He turned to Alex, clapping him on the back as he rose. “You won’t be a stranger, will you? I’ll have Brad send over another beer.” He nodded at Alex’s empty glass.
“Thanks, but I’ve got to head back.” It had been a long day in an even longer week, but he hardly knew what else to do with his time anymore but work. He stood and walked with Damien toward the bar. “Congratulations, man. Thrice looks like a helluva success.”
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”
Alex gave the man a rueful grin. “And that’s what we’ve always loved about you: your humility.”
Damien barked out a laugh, then headed behind the bar.
Alex started the long walk toward the front door. The bar area was situated above the dance floor, which was sunk a whole level underground, the overhang surrounded with a wrought-iron balcony of sorts that allowed partygoers to watch the action below before deciding to dive in. He stopped at the edge, leaned his forearms on the hard railing, and let himself get lost in the mindlessness of writhing bodies and pulsing rhythms for just a few minutes.
Women glanced up, over, and around, his dark good looks drawing them in. He knew what they saw; he saw it in the mirror every day. A stranger. The crisp, dark hair, brown eyes, engaging smile—they belonged to someone he didn’t recognize anymore. Inside he was numb, hanging in a limbo that dulled the hungry edge with which he usually tackled life, completely disconnected from the successful business persona that conquered anything put in his path. Oh, he knew why, understood what the problem was, but he couldn’t fix it. Just wallow in it, hide it, and hate himself the whole time.