Page 47 of Mr. Wilde

“A lot of the seventies was illegal,” Brier mutters, already scowling at the stylist hovering near her. I’m not sure this posh princess is a fan of big hair.

The makeup artist gets called away for some kind of emergency with one of the third-floor girls, and Brier immediately rolls her eyes at their entitlement as Lala steps in without missing a beat, brushing highlighter across my cheekbones. She pauses when she notices the scar along my jawline.

“What happened here?” she asks softly.

My brain freezes. “Bike accident,” I splutter. “When I was a kid.” It’s a lie. And not a smooth one.

Lala nods, but her eyes linger on me for half a second too long. She knows. I’m almost certain she knows. I can’t imagine Gianni shared my past with her, but I can’t help the feeling she’s all too aware of my history.

But she doesn’t say anything more. Doesn’t call me out on my lie. Which somehow feels worse.

A few hours later, we make our way down to the main floor. The Devil’s Playground is almost unrecognizable. Lala really outdid herself with the décor. Every corner of the club has been transformed. There are disco balls, colorful lights, and chandeliers dripping crystal above swirling projections of stars and flowers. The entire space feels as if it’s been dipped in glitter and nostalgia. And that giant, crescent moon Brier and Lala discussed illuminates from the ceiling above the dance floor alongside an animated spoon.

So after a little online snooping, it turns out these Studio 54 symbols were not at all what I was expecting. Not that I had any idea what I’d find. I assumed there was some tie-in to the decadence of that club and era. It turns out cocaine went hand in hand with the nightlife of that time. Okay, who am I kidding? There’s no doubt it’s still happening. The mechanical spoon would swing up to the moon’s nose and deliver a line of sparkling white bulbs. This would cause the moon’s face to light up. Patrons of the Studio 54 VIP lounge reportedly did just that.

Lala’s décor is a bit different. It’s nostalgic without embracing the cocaine reference directly. Different modern day smiling emojis flash on the inside of the spoon instead. I’m not stupid. I’m certain there are members here who dabble in ecstasy, cocaine, and the like. But from all I know of Gianni, they try to keep that controlled here. For all intents and purposes, he provides enough pleasure-seeking opportunities with the women of DPG, the atmosphere, and the plush members-only environment that any drug use is kept on the down low.

After researching Studio 54, I can’t help but wonder if Gianni knew enough of its history to model the Devil’s Playground after it in some ways. The club had a large balcony overlooking the main events below, but unlike the more sophisticated atmosphere of DPG’s second floor, where many business deals take place, it was commonplace for people to engage in sex acts out in the open there. I’m glad Gianni managed to class this place up. Not sure how I’d feel serving drinks while someone was getting their freak on along the railing next to me.

My gaze bounces around the main floor, trying to take it all in. I’ve been working here long enough to learn many of the regulars, but most have a new girl on their arm each time I see them.

All of a sudden, I spot Frank and feel a zing of electricity shoot through my limbs. It’s not that jerseyboy that does it for me. Yet whenever I spot him, that means his best friend is usually nearby. The continued thrill of excitement at seeing Max causes my knees to shake. Thank goodness I’m wearing these shiny white platform boots. It’s easier to stay upright when my senses are tested than the stilettos they usually want us in.

So far there’s no sign of Max, but Frank looks committed to the night’s theme. His shirt is unbuttoned almost to his stomach, dark chest hair and a gold chain proudly on display. His pants are skin-tight trousers that flare at the ankle, which I’m fairly sure were never meant to exist into the eighties.

Max comes into view, and my heart skips a beat. Jeez, what the heck is happening to me? He stands beside Frank in something far more understated, but still fitting the part. He’s wearing a dark jacket with a white dress shirt beneath, the collar open. He blends in effortlessly without trying too hard. Frank? Not so much.

I move through the crowd with trays of appetizers, everyone laughing, dancing, and shouting over the music. Then the familiar opening beat hits. I can’t help but smile as KC and the Sunshine Band start singing to shake, shake, shake…

Out of the blue, someone grabs my hand and pulls me onto the floor. This time the Billionaire Boys Club are still corralled within their permanent VIP section. Lala grabs my arms, swaying to the music with an infectious grin upon her face. This must be a girls’ only dance party. The lights are spinning, the bass vibrating through my chest. I lift my arms without thinking, letting myself get lost in the upbeat tempo. I enjoy the freedom of pure joy for about thirty seconds before I feel it. That familiar current tugging at my awareness.

Spinning on my heel, my arms still swinging above my head as I shake my groove thing, my eyes land on Max. He’s watching me over the rim of his glass. He’s so damn beautiful it makes me consider things I shouldn’t.

Yet his gaze is different now. His eyes aren’t bright blue. Even from this distance, I can tell they’re dark. Intense. That powerful alpha energy exuding from his every pore. Like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t want, but wanting it anyway.

Or is that simply wishful thinking?

The music pulses through me. The crowd surrounding me seems to disappear. But I don’t look away. That spark of arousal is back, as strong and clear as when I awoke to that fevered dream this morning. The recurrent one with Max exiting my shower in a towel like Derek Morgan’s character in Criminal Minds. I can feel it all the way down between my legs.

I swallow and keep dancing. Get these riotous thoughts out of your head. You’re on the clock. Party or not, you have a job to do. And I’m pretty sure ogling Max isn’t part of your job description.

Max

The air in the club is thick with the scent of expensive cologne, aerosol hairspray, and the underlying hum of a party in high gear. I’m currently on my third whiskey, or maybe it’s my fourth. The world is starting to take on a blurry edge.

The club has been transformed into Studio 54 2.0 with velvet ropes, gold accents, and over the top décor cascading from the ceiling. Gianni pulled out all the stops for this one.

And in the middle of it—her. Dancing center stage like a fucking goddess. Hypnotizing me with the seductive sway of her hips, the hem of her shimmering dress exposing a little more thigh with each rock of her pelvis. Hell, each time she lifts her arms overhead I can’t help wondering if I’ll get a look at her panties. Are they pink too?

Frank nudges my knee under the table. “You good, man? You’ve been staring at that girl like she’s a high-level security breach you’re trying to patch.”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. I attempt to pull my one-track mind away from the dance floor and onto my friends. Our Billionaire Boys Club is out in full force, a collection of egos and bank accounts that dominates any room they’re in. With our schedules, it’s rare we’re ever all here at the same time. Party atmosphere or not, that alone is reason to celebrate.

Across from me, Devon Sly has already abandoned the formalities, lounging in his seat in gray tailored slacks and a half-undone bow tie like he’s auditioning for a vintage cologne ad. He’s already locked in on his next victim, a stunning brunette standing by the bar.

Becket Ryan is leaning back in his chair, wearing Tom Ford, looking like he’s posing for GQ magazine. He’s fixated on a redhead across the room, staring her down like it’s mating season.

Then there’s Derek Hart. He’s “here,” but not really. His eyes are again fixed on his phone.