He hands it back.
Travis stares at the gun, then at Beau. “I’m sorry. I’m not a psycho. I’ve never killed anyone.”
Beau shrugs. “Good. Try to keep it that way.”
The club sits at the edge of the lot, lit up in red. The parking area is packed with SUVs and luxury sedans.
Men gather near the entrance in fitted jackets, cigarettes glowing between their fingers.
Black Ridge.
A place built to swallow guilt and spit out profit. Money moves fast inside those walls. Flesh moves faster.
Beau pulls into a spot under a flickering security light.
“Here we go,” he kills the engine.
Travis stares up at the building like it might bite him. “So… I’m staying here, right?”
Beau claps him on the shoulder. “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said in two days.”
“You sure you don’t need backup?”
“If we do,” I say, “it’s already too late.”
I check my gun, then step into the night. The air smells like oil, cologne, and cigarette ash. Music from inside thuds like a heartbeat.
The bouncer spots me the second I step into range. His eyes pause, recognition settling in without surprise. He glances at Beau, then back at me. No greeting follows. No questions. No hands come up to search us.
He opens the door and steps aside.
Heat rushes out to meet us, layered with perfume, sweat, liquor, and something sour underneath it all. The room is packed wall to wall, bodiespressed together. Strobe lights tear through the dark, bouncing off mirrored walls and catching fragments of movement that never fully settle.
Men in tailored suits lounge in red velvet booths, watches flashing at their wrists as they lift crystal tumblers. Women move through the space around them, skin glittering under the lights. Heels tower. Smiles stay fixed. Their eyes look empty, trained to look past everything happening to them.
I keep walking.
Beau veers toward a booth tucked back in the shadows, partially walled off, ropes marking a line that doesn’t need enforcing. We slide in. From here, I have a clear view of the stage, the bar, the entrance, and the staircase that leads to the second floor. Dante’s office will be up there.
Beau looks like he belongs. Relaxed posture. Lazy smile. He tosses hundred-dollar bills onto the stage like confetti, each one fluttering to the floor beneath gyrating legs and flashing lights.
A server in fishnets and smudged lipstick drifts over. Beau orders a whiskey. I don’t care what mine is. I take one sip and set it down.
My focus stays up.
I don't look at the stage. I can’t. I have been too close to what places like this actually are to pretend it is entertainment. Every flash of skin feels like a warning. Every smile feels like a threat.
“Beau,” I mutter. “Focus.”
“I am,” he replies, eyes still forward. “I multitask.”
He pulls a pen from his pocket, uncaps it, and writes something on a crisp bill before sliding it across the edge of the stage. It stops at the feet of a girl in red heels and fishnets. Her makeup is flawless. Her eyes are not. Bruises shadow the inside of her thighs. She bends, reads the bill, and freezes.
Beau doesn't look away. “Go to the back. Call the number. Tell him Beau sent you.”
She hesitates. Swallows. Then nods once and disappears into the crowd like smoke.
“That your number?” I ask.
