Growing a conscience out of nothing wasn’t easy, especially not when it was finally starting to stick and me bailing felt a lot like guilt.
This was easily one of my only contributions to the Clave: my name and my illusion of being death—only ¼ of the apocalypse we all desperately needed to happen, even though we were here to keep that from happening.
I gave myself enough time to feel sorry for myself and spin into the anxiety that I could easily fix with two pills. If I took it now, I would peek at Sins and Forgiveness, instead of taking one pill and letting it fade there.
Sins and Forgiveness wasn’t for the faint of heart. It was an underground playground for the rich, some famous, and all-powerful to live out their fantasies.
Everyone couldn’t be the Clave. We didn’t invite the unstable, the crazy, the loudmouths, or the ones with no pedigree. Thoroughbreds only.
I didn’t care who the fuck this guy was, I was wearing what I always do: comfortable-ass clothes.
Popping the two bars of Xan into my mouth and drowning them down with a big gulp of water, I sat up, pressing the lid back down on the bottle with my thumb trying to mentally prepare myself to hold my tongue all night.
I chose black Champion joggers that weren’t too loose, with Gucci sneakers, because I liked how much they reminded me of bondage, and a shirt I was pretty sure wasn’t entirely clean. It had been in a ball on the floor, which was really a 50/50 shot at clean.
With a shrug, I pushed my arm through the armhole and tugged it down my abs that were covered in ink. My fingers combed through my messy hair, letting it fall to one side in loose curls. As long as it stayed out of my face, I was fine, even though I normally combed it back while it was wet, letting it dissolve into my fade. I looked at my watch, the single piece of material items that held some piece of Jason—my grandfather’s watch.
He died when I turned 18. It was like the world knew only so many Rothschild men could walk the earth at a time. Just one of us could do enough damage to last a lifetime.
I should be leaving, but I paid a great deal of money for my car that goes well above the speed limit, and if I didn’t ever test those limits, why get a car that can go 217 MPH in the first place?
Zeus wanted someone who reminded him of Hades. Pretty sure that he’s a guy after my own heart… and never on time.
Spraying some cologne over the anxiety-induced sweat, I sighed heavily. I wasn’t in the mood to be social, be fun, or be whatever the Clave asked for this time. It didn’t involve my gun or showering blood off me, so I didn’t know how to be this.
Grabbing my keys, I headed for the door. All I had to do was get through dinner, which shouldn’t be hard if their mouths were full and busy chewing.
LA was a different world from Manhattan Beach, where I stayed. There were no lights, no life outside the beach bums and mommies in yoga pants scoping out the one of a kind smoothie shops lining the beach.
This city screamed, “Fuck me! Tease me! Show me just how you like it…”
Every time I stepped foot in this city, I felt the monster inside me grinning and biding his time until I let him out.
Chow was another piece of Jason’s life that bled into mine. It was a Japanese restaurant I would go to more than any kid should, but when you’re left to fend for yourself in a giant house with a staff that hates you enough, you learn to find your own food. Chow’s was the only place that didn’t care when I was ten and took a cab there. Rothschild was probably louder.
Pulling up to the curb, I made a shitty attempt to spare my rims of curb rash. I got out of my car and tossed my keys to the valet kid with his jaw on the floor. He must be new by the still impressed attitude no one sported in LA.
Looking at my phone, I smirked at Abigail’s texts. I wasn’t dumb. I knew it wasn’t her period, although that was a great assumption, being a guy who knows not a whole lot beyond kinks and no two women being the same.
Blaming her period was easier than telling her she needed to get laid. Men can always tell when a woman needs to get laid.
It’s never as obvious as the last girl at the bar or the girl who hits on you with no nerves; it’s the girls who pick a fight with you that are truly asking for it.
They need to stop teaching kids when the guy picks on you in grade school that means he likes you. Wrong. It means we're assholes, but when a girl does it in adulthood, that means some shit: You fucked up somewhere, or they need to be piped down… literally.
I knew I was in the clear with doing anything wrong. I had the best get-out-of-jail-free card by being her boss. I could tell her to do pretty much anything, and I would still be in the clear.
I don’t make the rules. I just break them.
The hostess at the front knew me, and she smiled when she saw me. “Your party is waiting for you in the upstairs lounge.”
I didn’t acknowledge her, which was a dangerous game that forced me to remember her name, when all I could remember about her was the way she moaned. It was a deal breaker in ever fucking her again. Too high pitched and frequent, it made it seem fake as fuck, and I was already two feet in a world that prided themselves on keeping up appearances.
Upstairs was the private area not offered to the public. You had to know it existed in the first place. Each step creaked and strained under my quick steps. I could relate; the anxiety was still beating under the Xan, just a lot duller now.
Rounding the corner, I knew the room was only a few feet away. A few more steps and there was no escape.
A guy in a leather jacket sat there with his foot on the booth’s edge and an arm laying over his knee. Tattoos covered his knuckles and so did gold jewelry that screamed old money. He had a full white beard trimmed up nicely with matching white hair. Well, ain’t this a fucking surprise.
He looked nothing like the Clave’s standards. Hell, I knew from experience, from the harsh looks and disapproving talks happening around me, instead of to me.
I thought I had met the owner of the Clave before, but if I were in the same room as this guy, we would have been a magnet yanking a paperclip to its side, trying to find each other.
“There he is! The spitfire. Come! Sit! We ordered sake...” He motioned to the chair next to him, and I sat down, pulling it out further, giving us enough room to adjust to each other. I was still stunned and didn’t know how to conceal it. My brows were a question mark on my face.
The man sitting with him was giant. The kind of tall that seemed like sitting had to be uncomfortable.
His skin was shimmering against the dim lighting, and his eyebrows were thick but sparse at the ends. His eyes held something that caught your attention and didn’t let go. One eye looked so dark it seemed black, and the other was icy blue rimmed with a dark color, confirming how unusual it was. His eyes begged you to draw conclusions, and I found myself asking if he was blind in one eye, if it was an accident, if he was straddling good and evil the way his eyes seemed to be.
The one I assumed was Zeus, the badass I didn’t remember, spoke again, while reaching out to slap my thigh. “Relax, Grimm.”
The big guy who I didn’t know at all leaned forward, as the girl with the tray of sake entered the room, and he almost whispered, “Alba… A little accident. I can still see with two eyes. What an icebreaker, right?” His hearty laugh caught me off guard as Zeus pushed a shot glass into my hand.