Page 28 of Trigger Happy Ending

Here’s the thing about the Golden Claw. The average person can’t just go. You have to be a member. And to be a member, you have to be invited, and to be invited, you have to be either:

Super rich. (Wall Street leeches, crypto guys, trust fund babies)

Super famous. (Athletes, rappers, actors)

Super influential. (Politicians—not the honest kind)

Super dangerous. (Underworld kings, druglords)

And even then, your admission isn’t guaranteed. It’s so exclusive, the address is only revealed to its members. You need to pass several checkpoints, and then if you pass those, it’s a forty thousand dollar a year membership, which doesn’t give you anything except the privilege to enter and breathe the air inside.

And get this: you still have to pay for your drinks.

The Agency must have worked their dark magic on securing me a position as a cocktail waitress, because not only is the membership hard to come by, landing a job at the Golden Claw is equally as difficult. Women are put through screenings, are required to sign NDAs, and of course, are judged by their appearance, because, hello, this is a man’s world.

Or so we let them think.

I mean, you don’t see women paying forty thousand dollars for a membership that doesn’t even get you one free drink, do you?

It’s a lucrative gig for those who are successful in getting a job here. The types of men that frequent the Golden Claw have egos the size of a football field, so they tip very generously … Even if it is just to have a dick-measuring competition with the egomaniac at the next booth over.

Courtesy of Smyth’s talents at hacking the living fuck out of any system, I’ve already memorized the floor plan of the club. Spanning across two levels, I know every exit, private room, dressing room, storage, and all entrances and exits.

I’m as prepared as I can be.

I grab my duffel bag and step out of the bedroom and straight into Soren’s gaze, which is burning like wildfire. He’s sprawled across the lounge, hat backwards (!!) which drives me fucking wild. (Real hot-man shit, you know?) His legs wide, white tee stretched across his chest, tattoos wrapping his biceps. One arm hooks lazily over the backrest, the remote dangles from his fingers. When his eyes finally meet mine, I almost burst into flames.

He swallows hard, that disciplined military mind slipping straight down to his dick. I like that he likes what he sees, and I hate that I like it back.

There’s something undeniable between us, even though all of our conversations are ice-cold and mean. We don’t like each other. I could even go as far as to say we hate each other. I mean, Soren has at least four reasons to hate me.

I showered him in mud and gravel.

Shot him in the ribs.

Mind-fucked him on the plane.

Cut his heart into little pieces when I eviscerated him with my words yesterday.

Yeah. He has plenty of reasons to hate my guts.

I tip my hip and ask, “You gonna sit there and pant, or are you driving me to the club?”

His jaw flexes, but says nothing as he snatches the keys from the coffee table and stands without a word. He hasn’t spoken much since yesterday. He’s wary of me, rightly so after the diabolical bullshit I’ve pulled on him. Being in the military, I’m also assuming he’s not used to female company all that much. I know there are plenty of female soldiers, but the type of work he was doing? Black ops? Not as many females in that field.

Although, I’m sure he doesn’t go without women in general.

I mean, the flight attendant was practically begging to fuck him. I didn’t like it. Not one fucking bit. I didn’t like how the sight of the two of them made me feel unbalanced and dizzy. Sick even.

Which is why I did what I did.

But telling him he’s not special? That he’s just like every other man?

A total lie. He is definitely not like other men.

Which, ironically, makes him special.

***