CHAPTER ONE
Layla
Cool droplets drip from my hair thanks to the fall thunderstorm, and a twenty-minute wait before I reach the bouncer stationed at the club’s entrance.
Six feet tall, with an eagle tattoo on his neck, he looks me over slowly. A self-indulgent smirk twists his lips as eyes rove my legs longer than appropriate.
“Enjoy your night,” he says, pushing the door open.
I’m two years shy of legally entering a club, but my surname poses a much bigger issue than my underage status.
Harston.
TheHarston.
Daughter of Frank Harston, the man Chicago fears.
With a heavy sigh, I step inside the club, surprised that the bouncer didn’t check my ID. He should have. His mistake will probably cost him the job, if not his head.
A hostess stamps my wrist with a Greek letter, Delta, the club’s name, then points at a glass tunnel bathed in a red LED light hue. It leads to a room playing pop music, where sweet smoke hangs thickly above the crowd, the fragrant scent a mixture of summer berries and vanilla. Colorful strobe lights cut the air, bouncing off the walls, matching the rhythm of “Single Ladies”by Beyoncé, while hundreds of sweaty bodies dance to the beat.
POP room is nice enough but not quite what I’m after. I need a different kind of music tonight, louder and with more bass to drown out my tormented, screaming mind. Clutching my bag, I push through the crowd, searching for the next room. A red, backless dress and neon-yellow heels work wonders for my self-esteem. I’m not shy but not overly confident either. At least not usually.
Tonight, anger bubbles inside me, rushing to the surface like diet Coke when you throw a Mentos in the bottle. I cross the room as if I own the goddamn place. As if I’m ready to set it alight and watch it burn.
I might be...
I have two valid reasons why jittery fear courses through my veins and why anger boils my blood, masking my unease. My face must reflect my emotions because people step out of my way, awe tinged with respect shining in their eyes, but one guy blocks my path, rooted to the floor. He’s either blind or ignores me as I sail across the dance floor in a whirlwind of fiery annoyance, red fabric, and wet hair. I shove him aside, harder than intended... he trips over his legs, landing on his butt.
He glances at me with wide eyes before his head snaps to the beer in his hand. He holds the glass up like a trophy, grinning at his friends. “Yay!”
I keep walking. “Single Ladies”changes to “Umbrella”when I disappear behind another door. Heavy bass vibrations give the impression of the ground shaking beneath my feet. Fewer sweaty bodies crowd the dance floor here, but that’s not surprising. Ten o’clock hasn’t struck yet. People are only starting to arrive.
In need of a drink, I scan the room, searching for the least crowded bar. The one in the VIP section upstairs looks deserted compared to the two downstairs. Here, at least twenty people wait in line, impatiently stepping from one foot to another.
I make a pit stop in the ladies’ room to pat myself dry with hand towels, wiping away the two tiny mascara rivers off my cheeks. I do my best to tame my dark brown, dripping locks, wringing a bit of water out over the sink. Satisfied with the reflection staring back at me in the mirror, I leave for the bar. My two sidekicks tonight, anger and disappointment, follow suit.
Empty stools at the far end of the long wooden counter catch my eye as I pass a short line of men waiting to be served. I sit down by the wall, away from other people. Not that anyone’s looking to join my pity party. They grab their orders, rushing back downstairs, eager to spend the night dancing. I might be the only loser who arrived here alone.
I rest my elbows against the sticky counter and hide my face in my hands, willing my annoyance to ease up already.
When I closed the door behind Chase two hours ago, I ignored the compulsive need to lock myself in my bedroom with ice cream. It doesn’t help the heartbreak. Although, heartbreak might not be the correct word. I’m not mad at Chase, per se. I’m mad at my father. It’s his fault, his idea, and his sick execution. Chase was a tool in his hands, just like my two previous boyfriends.
You’d think I’d learn the lesson by now, that I’d expect the same old bullshit my daddy put me through twice before, but I believed him when he promised he wouldn’t do that again. Yeah, right!
Instead of moping or confronting my father, I slipped into the sexiest dress I found in my closet, snuck out of the house through the window in my bedroom, hailed a cab, and came straight to Delta.
Chase is the last guy who fooled me.
Again, not his fault, per se. Who wouldn’t fake-date me for fifty grand? Correction: who’d have the guts to saynotomy father? No one. Frankie Harston gets what he wants.
Always.
And so, for the third time in a row, my new relationship ended after exactly three months with the same line the previous two boyfriends used:Layla honey, I’m gay, sorry.
He can shove his sorry where the sun doesn’t shine.
Three men, three disappointments. No one but daddy to blame or thank for this mess. I wouldn’t mind it half as much if they weren’t theonlythree men I’ve ever dated, but they are. Why did Chase choose tonight to break the news? Couldn’t he have waited just two days? He told me his truth the day before my birthday.