Page 7 of Mr. Wilde

Slick Willy: You married types. I go to The Devil’s Playground TO STAR IN THE STEAMY SCENES. Any wonder why I’m never getting married?

Dr. Love: Damn straight. Is Ben in town?

Slick Willy: I’m pretty sure he’s busy in Florida with a new project. How about you, Max?

Slick Willy: Anyone heard from Max?

Gianni: Talk about saving the world. He’s probably too busy to catch this. I’ll pester him later until he answers.

I smirk despite myself. The Billionaire Boys Club. An obnoxious name Frank gave the seven of us that somehow stuck. A fast collection of friends made at the exclusive, high security members only gentleman’s club. A mix of old and new money, all but one of us billionaires. Hence, the name.

I type back.

Max: Maybe. Depends how the day goes.

There’s no way I’m turning down a night surrounded by my closest friends. And, as predicted, the day goes to hell. By the time evening rolls around, I’ve defused a high-profile company’s PR nightmare, rejected two morally questionable private requests to locate individuals, and forcibly shut down my own dark compulsion to stay in and surf the underbelly of the web.

Hell, do I need a drink.

The familiar club is loud, dark, and styled to perfection. It’s the kind of place designed to make people forget consequences. Devon Sly, or Slick Willy as we refer to him, is already here, impeccably dressed and holding court. Becket Ryan is laughing at something on his phone. And Bedrock, Derek Hart, sits nursing a whiskey.

“Well, look who made it.” Slick Willy chuckles.

“Max,” the other two greet, extending their hands for a shake.

“You know it would take sheer Armageddon for me to miss a night with you guys. Where’s Gianni?”

“Apparently, he had a new hire he had to assist.” Becket, Dr. Love, Ryan answers, waggling his brows.

I snort and drop into a leather seat next to Derek, scanning the room out of habit when I do a double take.

A new server. At least not one I’ve seen before. And I’m here often enough. She’s average height with an athletic build, long blonde hair with a pink tint to it. She’s so far from my type, it’s not even funny. I’ve always gravitated toward tall, sophisticated brunettes.

So why does this girl who resembles a walking cupcake have me mesmerized?

She walks between tables, posture cautious, eyes always tracking her surroundings like she’s bracing for something. There’s a tension in her shoulders that doesn’t belong here, in a place built on excess and ease.

A twinge of paranoia twists in my chest. But it quickly vanishes when she gazes in our direction, and I catch a glimpse of her angelic face and big blue eyes. Hell, I can’t look away.

Who is that?

2

CASSIDY

The first thing I do when I wake up is listen. Not to the birds outside my window or the hum of normal morning activity down the hall. Those sounds are secondary. They’re merely background noise.

What I listen for is movement that doesn’t belong. Anything out of the ordinary. Unexpected footsteps that slow in the hallway outside my door. The creak of a floorboard. Breathing that isn’t my own. This thought causes a shiver to crawl up my spine. I lie still until I’ve cataloged every sound and found nothing alarming. Only then do I open my eyes.

Morning light filters through the blinds, striping the ceiling. I count the slats as if on autopilot. Twenty-three. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before that. While it might seem compulsive, I’ve found routine keeps the panic manageable.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed carefully, still unsure how I feel about this arrangement. But I have to regain some sense of normalcy.

Baby steps, right?

The mirror in the bathroom tends to push my buttons. Not just this mirror. All of them. I brace myself before I look. The woman staring back at me appears older than twenty-six. Not sure that anyone else would notice, but I do. The carefree girl of yesterday is gone. The one who wore an expression of eager anticipation at all her future held. The promise of a job she was excited about. A new relationship that seemed promising.

Now it’s been replaced with a mask of apprehension. There’s tension around my eyes that never quite goes away. As if I’m perpetually squinting against something abrasive.