What is this place?
And what the hell is Scarlett doing here?
“Fuck this,” I grunt, throwing my half-smoked cigarette to the ground alongside the other butts left behind from my wait, and stomping it with my boot.
I won’t get any answers just standing here in the bushes. I get back into my truck with new resolve and drive up to the mysterious mansion, determined to find out what’s going on here. I park the truck without waiting for a valet and walk up the stairs. Loud music and laughter are coming from the house, but the large, double-hung windows are covered by dark-red curtains, keeping this little bash out of view. When I take the last step, I’m confronted with four mean-looking security guards, shielding the doors of the main entrance. If I want to get to the bottom of this, I have to get inside.
“Name,” one of the tuxedo-wearing bouncers asks without taking his eyes off the trusty tablet in his hand.
“Price.” I grin widely, while inside hating the fact I just dropped Dick’s last name to get me into this place.
He takes his sweet time checking the list and then shakes his head.
“You’re not on the guest list.”
“Check again,” I reply a little too arrogantly, figuring he must be used to such pretentious-like treatment. Anything less could set alarm bells ringing.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he explains with an even tone, not one bit intimidated by me. “Come back when your name is on the list, or don’t come back at all.”
Ain’t that a bitch.
This is the first time I intentionally use my stepdad’s name to get me somewhere, and this guy doesn’t even so much as flinch.
I look over at the heavy-built buddies at his side and start doing some math; even if I could take one or two down, taking all four seems rather unlikely. I decide to cut my losses. For tonight at least.
“You’ll be seeing me,” I counter with a dark grin and a wink before heading back down toward my truck.
However, my smile drops when a familiar midnight-blue Aston Martin drives up right as I begin to descend the stairs. I suck in my teeth as Tommyboy throws his keys over to the valet like the elitist prick that he is. The instance he spots me, he eats the small space between us with a smug, belittling smile to his lips.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Asheville’s precious bastard.”
I’d punch his pretty little face in just for that remark if I thought it wouldn’t harm my chances of getting into this place later on. Somehow, I don’t think hitting Senator Maxwell’s only son will win me any brownie points. I need to be smart about this, and falling for one of Tommyboy’s belligerent remarks is a stupidity I’m not going to indulge in.
“Figures you’d be here,” I reply with a bored mien, instead of giving in to his provocation.
“Of course, I would. The Brass Guild only lets in the best of the best. And if you’re standing out here, it means you didn’t make the cut. I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
Fucker.
But now I have a name. I wonder what else Tommyboy is stupid enough to tell me.
“What is this place anyway?”
“What does it look like? It’s a gentlemen’s club. For gentlemen of noble birth, not trash,” he mocks, clipping me on the shoulder before continuing up the stairs toward the guarded entrance.
“Your fiancé know that you frequent brothels?” I ask loudly enough for him to hear me.
Tommyboy turns around mid-step to face me again, his previous pompous expression wiped off his face.
“Kennedy knows what she needs to and nothing more. If you don’t want the whole world to know that you just got barred from the most elite club in all of Asheville, you’ll keep this to yourself, too.”
Asshole.
“Maxwell.” I hear him announce once he reaches the doorway, and he’s swiftly ushered through the doors by the bouncers as if that name holds magic powers or some shit.
I head to my truck and drive back to the spot in the bushes to wait for Scarlett, fuming with every second that passes by. It’s three hours of constant cursing, and when I finally see her car leave, I’m so angry that I can’t see straight. Of course, my visit to the twilight zone isn’t over yet. Scarlett takes a completely different route than the one we used to get here. Through back roads and places in Asheville I’ve never even been to, she takes twice as long to reach her little cottage. I’m left wondering, not only what the hell she was doing up at that clandestine club, but also why she took so many twists and turns to get back home. Why take an hour’s drive when she could have gotten home in half that time?
This whole night has been bizarre, to say the least. Even though I cast the bait out to Tommyboy to see if he would admit the place was some kind of brothel, he didn’t take it, leaving me still in the dark. If what he said was true—being some kind of club for the privileged—then what was Scarlett doing there, to begin with?
I know she doesn’t have two dimes to rub together. Pastor Davis’s job doesn’t exactly line his pockets with millions like the rest of the Northside population, so why was Scarlett there? Is she working there? I mean, she didn’t go through the front entrance like the other guests, so it’s only a fair assumption that she must be an employee. Just what type of job could she be doing for these rich pricks? And is that how she was able to afford her little secluded cottage?
Is she fucking them?
Is this the reason why The Society went after Scarlett? Because she knows who they are?
I’m slowly going insane with all the sordid explanations I’m coming up with to answer those questions. This girl has just become more nerve-racking than she used to be.
I need answers.
Now.
And if the Price name won’t get me through the door, I know exactly which name will.
Chapter 7
Easton
“Richfield,” Lincoln states assuredly, looking like the aristocratic royalty that he is.
I smirk at the bouncer from last night—who not so subtly told me to take a hike—as he comes face to face with Asheville’s favorite son. He doesn’t so much as look at his little tablet for confirmation of the Richfield name and just tilts his head over to his colleagues at the door to let us in.
“Told you I’d be back.” My shit-eating grin is on display, openly gloating the big guns that I brought tonight, and there isn’t one thing he can do about it.
His forced smile does wonders for my vengeful spirit.
“Welcome to The Brass Guild. It’s an honor to have you and your friends as our VIP guests, tonight,” he adds, staring at the large entourage Linc brought with him.
When I told Linc I needed his help—and more specifically, his last name—to get into this place, I thought it would only be me and him making the trip over. I should have known better than to assume Colt would pass up the opportunity to join us, along with Finn and Stone, who wouldn’t stop bitching and complaining until they could tag along as well. My friends are curious fuckers. It’s just how we roll.