Page 32 of My Craving

He has.

A new post sits at the top of his feed with a picture of a concert ticket and a caption that makes me roll my eyes.

Can’t believe this is on a Sunday. Tomorrow is going to suck. Worth it.

I snort. Like he has any idea what it feels like to be tired from work. The man has a made-up executive title at his father’s company and spends more time in clubs than he does in an office.

The concert is tonight.

I grab my laptop and search for the venue. Justin changing his routine creates a risk, but it also gives me something I didn’t have five minutes ago. He knows how to move through his usual clubs without leaving himself vulnerable. A last-minute concert is different. He won’t know the crowd, the exits, or who might be watching him.

Club Perfection is an upscale venue downtown. I’ve been there before, and once was more than enough. The place caters to trust fund babies, influencers, and people who think ordering bottle service is a personality trait. Exhausting, but perfect for Justin.

The concert is nearly sold out, so I buy one of the remaining tickets using a backup identity. I don’t use the aliases often because I’m under no illusion that they’d survive serious scrutiny. A determined cop could probably tear one apart in under an hour, but for buying a concert ticket without putting Nash Campbell’s name on it, it’ll do the job.

The confirmation hits the alias inbox a moment later. I close the laptop, already thinking about what I’ll wear and how close I might be able to get without Justin realizing I’m watching him.

So much for a wasted Sunday night.

Perfection is packed when I arrive. Bass vibrates through the floor beneath my feet while colored lights sweep across the crowd in dizzying flashes. The air smells like expensive perfume, spilled alcohol, and entirely too much money.

Finding Justin in this mess could take a while, but men like him want to be seen. I start at the bar, then work my way past the high-top tables near the stage without spotting him. The VIP section upstairs is another possibility, but Justin likes attention too much to spend the night tucked away where half the club can’t see him.

That leaves the bottle-service tables.

A group of men crowds around one of the larger booths, laughing far louder than anything being said could possibly deserve. Justin sits in the middle of them, holding court like he’s the most interesting man in the room while everyone around him hangs on every word.

There you are, you fucker.

I slip deeper into the crowd where I can watch without giving him a reason to notice me.

More than an hour passes before Justin finally gives me an opening. I stay near the edge of the crowd, watching him drink while the people around his table keep feeding his need to be the center of attention. Patience has never been my strongest virtue, but I’ve gotten a hell of a lot better at it over the years.

When Justin finally pushes to his feet, he has to catch himself on the table. He stands there for a few seconds as if waiting for the room to stop moving, then heads toward the restrooms alone.

My pulse picks up, but I stay where I am and give him a head start. Following too quickly would make me memorable, so I wait before working my way through the crowd at an easy pace. By the time I reach the hallway, Justin has already disappeared through the restroom door.

I stop outside and count off another minute while people move around me without paying any attention. Once enough time has passed, I reach into my hip bag and touch the ziplock inside. Justin is already drunk. I only need enough to disorient him, then I can become some helpful stranger getting a guy who had too much to drink out of the club.

My stomach tightens as I look at the restroom door. I’ve spent hours watching Justin from a distance and even longer digging through the lives he’s destroyed. Walking through that door changes things.

I take a step toward it.

“Nash Campbell.”

My name cuts through the music, and I freeze. I could pretend I didn’t hear it, but there’s no mistaking that voice.

“Fuck my life.”

I turn and face Declan Murphy. Of all the people who could have found me standing outside this restroom, it had to be Duncan’s son. I plaster on my fake-as-hell customer service smile, the one that says I’d be delighted to help you while secretly hoping you trip over your own shoelaces.

“Mr. Murphy. What a surprise to see you here.”

Declan raises an eyebrow. “Why would it be a surprise?”

Several answers come to mind, none of which I can give him. Before I come up with something harmless, he gestures around the crowded venue.

“My cousins and I own this place.”