“Hey, sugar.” The bartender of an upscale retro club on the outskirts of Ravenshoe leans over the glistening countertop. Her stretch awards me an uninterrupted view of the only thing the owner is leveraging to get clientele into the place. “What can I get ya?”
I always stalk any establishment I’m considering acquiring before placing an official offer. Ledgers can be manipulated to make a club look like it’s earning more than it is. Even the swankiest-looking clubs can be run into the ground because their overhead outweighs their sales. Packed-to-the-brim nightclubs don’t generally mean they’re turning over a bigger profit.
Capacity nightclubs often reflect an owner undervaluing its potential, which in turn means it only attracts cheap patrons wanting to get drunk on a dime. Selling thousands of drinks per night means nothing if you only make a measly dollar per drink.
I’ve been eyeing this club for a few months. It draws acrowdeach weekend, but its weekday clientele is less than impressive. I believe that stems from their marketing dollars being focused on college-age students. With a proper campaign, an overhaul of its interior, and an increase in distinguished clientele, I’m confident this club could produce double the profits by the second quarter of operation.
It has me invested enough to consider making an offer, although the increase in my blood pressure isn’t close to the skyrocketing leap it does when my personal space is invaded by more than the barmaid’s cleavage.
Hugo suits an establishment like this. His face doesn’t screw up when the countertop’s stickiness glues his elbows to the warped material. He isn’t leaning in to get an unimpeded view of the bartender’s breasts that are on the verge of spilling out of her shirt. He’sensuring the swarm of women around us doesn’t impede my view of Isabelle on the dance floor.
I’ve only just arrived, but it’s clear Isabelle has been here for some time. Her nape is drenched with sweat, and her dress, which is red, fitted, and leaves absolutelynothingto the imagination, is clinging to her sticky body. Her unexpected arrival at a dirty, gritty club adds evidence to my claim that she’s a diamond in the rough. She’s slumming it with men well below her league, but her exterior had been so thoroughly polished, she shines more brightly than the fake crystal chandelier above her head.
“Hold up.” My jaw gains an involuntarily tick when Hugo’s hand darts out to stop me from tossing out a man who took his admiration of Isabelle one step too far. He didn’t just peruse her from afar like many other patrons of this establishment, he groped her ass, and if the expression on Isabelle’s face is anything to go by, she found it less than pleasant. “This isn’t your club, so you can’t kick drunk men to the curb.” I give Hugo a look as if to say I can do anything I want. “And Izzy has a handle on it.”
He alleviates my curiosity by nudging his head back to Isabelle. She’s no longer on the dance floor. She’s making her way to the bar, her trek veering her past a man withering on the floor.
If he thinks a knee to the balls is painful, he should count his lucky stars.
I had planned to do far worse.
I stalk Isabelle’s wobbly walk through the at-capacity nightclub. Even with it being obvious she’s well on her way to intoxicated, the number of admired watchers she gets isn’t lessened. She’s being eyeballed from all sides. However, she doesn’t pay the men any attention. Her eyes are on one man. Unfortunately, he isn’t me.
She chats with a blond man I’d guess to be mid-to-late twenties at the side of the bar while tackling to remove the lid of a bottle of sparkling water. My back molars crunch together when her removal of the cap is quickly chased by the man snatching the bottle out of her hand and replacing it with a much largeralcohol-infused cocktail.
It’s a beverage designed to be shared with friends, and no friend I know would encourage a woman of Isabelle’s size to down the drink in one go. Her ‘friend’ peer pressures her as if he’s noticed my gawk across the bar, and he wants me to know how much influence he has over Isabelle.
I’ll show him.
“Bring my car around.” I toss my car keys at Hugo. He’s most likely getting around in his ‘baby.’ It would make his tail less suspicious since it’s candy apple red and a favorite amongst car enthusiasts. “Isabelle and I will meet you out front in five minutes.”
Other than smirking at my presumption Isabelle is about to leave with me, Hugo downs my whiskey as if it was purchased for him, hits the dark-skinned barmaid with a frisky wink, then hightails it to the back entrance.
I’ve owned nightclubs for years. I purchased my very first one the week I left college. It was rundown and delipidated, and its books never left the red. Within months, I converted it into one of the top ten clubs in the state. My time in this industry means I’ve stumbled across many disgraceful men in my life. It not only has my suspicions high when men are overgenerous with the female clientele of my establishments, but it also means there’s no chance I’ll leave this club without Isabelle. Her stumble over her feet when she attempts to curtsey at the wolf-whistling crowd increases the likelihood the blond slipped something into her drink, and I refuse to ruminate over the idea of her waking up in a stranger’s bed with a blurry, unaware head.
Just the thought of her being hurt has me the angriest I’ve ever been, and my annoyance is poorly dispersed when I grip Isabelle’s arm more forcefully than intended. She doesn’t glance up at me when I seize her elbow in a firm grasp. The sharp breath she exhales advises me she knows who has her, much less the faintest garble of my name under her breath.
Needing to give Hugo time to gather my vehicle parked a couple of blocks down, I guide Isabelle into the paint-peeled corridor the bathrooms are located in. I had planned to use the accessible stall halfway down but alter my intention when I spot the manager’s office at the end of the hall.
The position of theoffice reveals why profits forthis establishment are in the toilet. If you don’t have value in yourself, how can you expect other people to?
A man with greasy hair and a pedophile grin raises his eyes to mine when I throw open his office door. He recognizes me in an instant. The knowledge does little to settle my annoyance. Isabelle is so drunk she’s not once fought against my hold the past two minutes.
That infuriates me.
“Get out.”
The fool bounces his eyes between mine for two whole seconds before he leaps to his feet and races for the door. When I crank my neck to watch his scurry, I spot an even more frustrating bother. The blond who encouraged Isabelle to drink a cocktail meant for four is at the end of the corridor, seeking Isabelle amongst the crowd.
The worry on his face reveals I have competition.It will once again see things ending badly for him.
I don’t enter a game I don’t plan to win.
Once the lock on the manager’s door is secure, I pivot back around to face Isabelle. As her eyes roam my face, the thud of the pulse in her neck twangs out a hearty tune. She’s concerned, but panic isn’t the sole expression she’s emitting. She is also turned on.
“Did you get my card?” Don’t ask me why I start our conversation with a reminder that I’m doing all the chasing. My days and nights are so filled with acquisitions, investments, and business opportunities, I haven’t dated in years, so a lack of skill can be easily excused.
Isabelle raises her chin high into the air before folding her arms in front of her chest. Her cleavage isn’t bursting out of her dress like the barmaids, but there’s enough skin showing to indicate the prize under her garment. “I’m not sleeping with you—”
