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Flynn: Ty surviving in an MC? That’s hilarious.
Ty: Fuck you guys. And what is up with Jude tonight? Someone must have taped all his fingers together to keep him this quiet during a session of shitting on me.
Knowing that’s my cue, I quickly type out a response.
Jude: Working. Club Craze. Don’t worry, though. I’m saving up some insults for the next time I see you.
Ty: Yeah, whatever. What about next weekend? Are you working then too?
For good measure, I add one more message into the mix before shifting back to work.
Jude: Probably heading to Montana to join Flynn’s MC.
Ty: FUCK YOU GUYS.
I laugh to myself as I slip my phone back into my pocket and step through the side entrance. The bar area is active with bartenders making drinks and clubgoers on the other side clamoring to get their orders taken.
And when I look out toward the center of the dance area, I’m met with way more writhing bodies than I can count.
All in all, everything is going as planned. Club Craze is packed, the music is popping, and the drinks are flowing. It won’t be much longer until I feel confident enough in the staff and the way things are running that I won’t have to dedicate so much of my weekend time here and can start focusing on my next big promotional project.
In the early days, after I first left Cruz Nightlife, I really had to pace myself. J. Winslow Promotion didn’t turn a profit as quick as I wanted, and regret for stepping out on my own was a constant threat. But I knew if I stuck with the mind-set that quality outweighs quantity and stayed focused, I’d eventually be able to ask for bigger numbers with each gig, thus rendering the necessity for overcommitting myself unnecessary. And the six-figure paychecks the owners of this joint are currently paying me to make sure their nightclub is all the rage prove that my methods were spot-on.
It’s been thirteen years in the making, but finally, at thirty-six years old, I’m not only considered one of the best in New York, but I also have Vegas, Miami, and LA investors looking to hire my firm for consulting and promotional advice.
Instantly, thoughts of Sophie Sage and her event planning business come to mind. I haven’t talked to her about it all that much, but with what we have talked about, I’ve gotten the sense that her work ethic is reminiscent of my own in my late twenties. Hustle hard, and don’t take no for an answer. But that doesn’t answer the most prying question of the moment—why am I even thinking of her right now?
Because you want to have more fun with her.
I’m not going to deny that. Sophie Sage is one of the hottest women I’ve ever been with, hands down. So, it makes sense that I wouldn’t be spent after two quick rounds of play. But the ball is officially in her court, just like I prefer it to be, and all I can do is wait and see if she decides to take the shot. Pursuit turns women into romantics, and Jude Winslow has no fucking interest in chasing anyone’s dreams but his own. Life’s a hell of a lot happier without the complication.
In the meantime, though, I have a club to run.
After a quick check-in with the bartenders and the cocktail waitresses, I stride out of the bar area and in the direction of my VIPs.
Through the center of the dance area and toward the red velvet ropes of the upper floor, I smile and shake hands with familiar faces, check in with more staff members, and give a thumbs-up to my favorite pixie-haired DJ.
But once I make it through the crowd and my vision adjusts to the change in lighting—from bouncing strobe lights to softly lit ambiance—I’m pulled in the direction of one of the velvet couches lining the walls around the dance floor.
One couch where a brunette beauty with an all-too-familiar and downright unforgettable face sits.
Sophie Sage.
Hot damn. She’s fucking here. At my club. It’s almost like I willed her here, for shit’s sake.
A pair of sexy stilettos are clasped to her feet, and her crossed legs look a mile long beneath the sexy green dress that hugs the curves of her body. Her hair hangs across her shoulders, and her blood-red painted lips curve up and into a smile.
But it’s not at me. It’s at some dude in a pair of jeans and a collared shirt sitting beside her on the couch.
What the fuck? Is she here with that guy?
I shake my head. It wouldn’t be the first time one of my hookups tried to play petty bullshit games of jealousy in the interest of gaining more of my attention, but Sophie really hasn’t seemed like the type.
