Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Who are you?” Rafe asked just to watch him sputter. His cheeks turned a splotchy red and he flashed an incredulous look and half laugh to the rest of his crew as if to say, can you believe this guy? “Come on, man.” His tone was friendly but his beady eyes conveyed the threat Rafe knew all too well. Guys like this lived to flex their power, and all it would take was one word to Malcolm. “Stop joking around.”
Uh-huh. Same two-faced entitled posturing Rafe had come to expect from everyone who ran in the Lockwood circles. Rafe rolled his eyes internally but forced a laugh. “Sorry, Craig.” Though it physically hurt, Rafe added, “Sam, he’s fine.”
Sam lifted the rope and didn’t even try to trip Craig as he passed by with an arrogant sniff. Rafe would have to give Sam a raise, like, yesterday.
“Welcome to Switch.” Rafe shook Craig’s hand and gave himself a mental pat on the back for not shuddering at the contact. Jesus, the guy’s hands were slimy—like his personality. “Can I get you anything from the bar?”
“Three bottles of your most expensive vodka to start.” It was said with such smugness Rafe’s fists tightened and he had to consciously loosen them.
Luckily, Craig had never been too bright. Otherwise he might have picked up on the not-so-subtle daggers Rafe shot from his eyes.
“Right away,” he said.
Fuck, he really couldn’t wait until he had the freedom to tell all these douche nozzles to shove their pretension up their asses.
Soon. He could keep his nose clean for a little longer. He could toe the line and not let on what he was planning. He could keep Hop’s involvement quiet.
He could.
As he made his way to the bar, doing his best to avoid the worst of the crowd, he kept telling himself he could handle it. The mantra played on a loop in his head like Stuart Smalley’s Daily Affirmations. He was strong enough, smart enough, and goddamn it, people trusted him.
Chapter Twelve
Rafe would’ve gone home, but having Craig in the club put him on edge so he stayed later than usual. He didn’t know the kid well, but he’d seen him at a number of events over the years. Always hanging on Malcolm’s every word like a sycophant and snickering behind his hand. Craig wasn’t in the same class as the Lockwoods, but boy, did he put on a facade that fooled most people. Too bad his daddy was only a millionaire and new money at that. The fact that Malcolm actually hung out with him would, to some, be considered charity.
Even so, he was higher on the ladder than Rafe. It didn’t matter that he was almost a decade younger or that he’d never had a job. One wrong word and Rafe would be called in for a lecture. It wasn’t so much the reprimand Rafe wanted to avoid. It was the extra scrutiny that would undoubtedly accompany it. Any spotlights would make it more difficult to keep his plans to himself.
So, he’d told Mark and Sam to keep an eye on the group and to give them whatever they wanted. Then he retreated to his office, impatiently waiting for them to leave. The sooner they did, the sooner Rafe would relax. The sooner he could go home, the sooner he could sleep.
And dream pastel fantasies.
Fuck.
He tugged his hair. Enough, seriously.
The papers on his desk gave him something to focus on and for the next hour Rafe managed—mostly—to keep his eyes on the numbers and graphs instead of the clock. Radio silence from his employees should have helped, but it didn’t. The quiet concerned him. In most circumstances, Mark was brilliant, but dealing with spoiled rich brats wasn’t something he excelled at.
Just a peek. That’s all he needed. He’d just make sure everything was going smoothly.
Music rushed at his senses when he stepped onto the balcony. The lights below were a dizzying swirl of color that painted the dancers like a master artist. He didn’t bother scanning the crowd on the main floor when his mark would be found in the VIP section.
Craig was still there.
He drank directly from the bottle of Cîroc clutched in one hand as he stared at the dance floor. He seemed so intent, almost mesmerized. Rafe followed Craig’s gaze and—
Fuck.
An unmistakable figure with pink hair—Hop.
The brightest fucking person in the room, as if a thousand spotlights had focused on him. He fucking glowed.
Sucking air through his teeth, Rafe gripped the handrail. Seeing Hop on the dance floor with a stranger’s arms snaked around his waist ripped the ground from under him. It left him reeling with the weirdest combination of panic and desire.
Head buzzing, Rafe flicked his gaze back to Craig.
What was that look? Did he recognize Hop? Or shit, was it attraction?