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)
Roland’s eyes narrowed in challenge. “I don’t remember you being so stubborn in the past.”
Forcing his fingers to loosen, Rafe consciously relaxed his shoulders. “Not stubborn, just confident.”
Another puff of that rich, spicy smoke filled the air between them. It was such a familiar scent. It put Rafe at ease, despite himself. Sometimes his father would bring one of those cigars home—a gift from the boss for a job well done. The ritual of lighting it consisted of whiskey and an old pack of matches. He always smoked on the porch, because his mother wouldn’t allow him to do so inside. But that smell would weave itself into the fabric of his clothes and stick to him for hours afterward.
He’d promised to share one with Rafe when he turned eighteen.
Then he’d died four years before they got the chance.
A pang of loss hit him hard.
It’d been fifteen years and it still hurt like it’d happened yesterday whenever he allowed himself to remember.
“I’d like you to increase profits by 2% before our next meeting.”
For someone who already had so much, Roland Lockwood was the greediest man Rafe had ever met. As the majority investor, he was entitled to a ridiculously large percentage of Switch’s profits and he was always angling for more. When they’d signed the contract, Rafe had insisted on maintaining full control of the club, but Roland still forced his will whenever and however he could—including his huge slice of the pie. The obscene amount was part of the reason Rafe had struggled to earn enough to pay off the debt he’d incurred since accepting the money for college.
“I’ll do my best.” If things went as planned, their ties would be severed within a couple of weeks and Rafe would never need to sit through one of these debasing lectures ever again.
Chapter Eleven
Rafe was watching.
Hop could feel the heat of his dark eyes throughout their entire routine on Thursday night and it pushed him harder. He hit the last pose—leg stretched out to the side and one hand reaching to his ankle, hair flicked over his shoulder and eyes on the audience.
At least they were supposed to be on the audience. Hop’s gaze kept straying.
The shadows called to him.
A dark figure high in the rafters, above the lights, above the crowd. Above everything.
If that wasn’t a metaphor for Rafe, he didn’t know what was. That intense focus was directed at Hop—he sensed it with every cell—and he’d be stupid to deny the thrill it sent whipping through his system. The strength of Rafe’s grip still warmed Hop’s palm. The scent of his cologne still tickled Hop’s nostrils. The sight of his hooded eyes still made his belly quiver.
Shame the guy was his worst enemy, wasn’t it?
Yeah, that was getting more and more difficult to believe. Something about the way Rafe had opened up, all vulnerable and desperate, hell, it had gotten under Hop’s skin. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as Hop had always thought, or at the very least, maybe he’d been that way for a good reason. And it wasn’t like Rafe had ever treated him poorly. Not like Roland.
Until that last time, he’d always come to Hop’s rescue.
That he’d needed rescuing in the first place was Hop’s own fault. Not Rafe’s. Perhaps it was time to let all that shit go.
Pulse thundering, Hop broke the pose and followed the Boyz off. To their credit, his friends hadn’t given him much shit when he’d arrived with the new contract. They’d tried to dig some information from him, but Hop had kept his secrets.
He’d had plenty of practice.
It hadn’t taken much persuasion for them to sign, which showed exactly how much they’d wanted to dance at Switch no matter how much they’d claimed otherwise. That they’d been prepared to walk away from their dream venue still got to him, so he didn’t think about it.
It was better for all of them if they let this entire dramatic situation fade and got on with the business of being fabulous.
“Fuck, that felt good,” Z said as he tugged off his long black gloves.
“I was totally feeding off that energy.” Ansel sat on one of the metal chairs and slipped off his platform heels. “I feel drunk and I’m stone-cold sober.”
“Hopefully the next one will be just as good.” Tam crossed to the mirror and leaned over the counter to check his makeup. The neutral shades he usually preferred were smoky and sensual tonight. His honey-blond hair was full and a little wild from all the whipping. No doubt Hop’s was in a similar state.
“Or better,” Jae said. His voice was so soft it barely reached Hop’s ears.
“Perfectionist.” He elbowed his friend.
Jae’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile Hop was becoming familiar with. “Guilty.”
Hop hadn’t been part of the group for long during their time at their former club, The Vibe, but he’d heard stories. The Sassy Boyz had relied more on tips from private dances after the show than they’d made from their single set each night.