It wasn’t the most original or fancy club he owned, but it was his.
He moved to the wall of glass and peered down at the moving figures below. Beautiful women with glistening bodies barely covered by scraps of fabric swayed and sashayed to music he couldn’t hear in the soundproof confines of his haven. He could have any one of them, he thought. He wasn’t ignorant to his looks or the fact that he was one of the wealthiest men in the country. Women liked both and he had used both in the past to get what he wanted. But money hadn’t worked with Juliette. Nothing he did seemed to impress her and he wasn’t sure what that said about him or her.
Below, a red head in a slinky green dress grinded against a brunette. The two were drawing a lot of male admirers and Killian couldn’t blame any of them. The pair were beautiful, young and drunk. He was half tempted himself to join them. Tempted, but not exactly motivated to follow through. Not even when the redhead slipped her hand up the brunette’s skirt and had the brunette catching her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Who’s manning the floors?”
Frank checked his phone. “A new guy, Brock. Why?”
“Tell him to get the two porn stars off the dance floor before we have an orgy on our hands.”
He heard Frank heave himself off the sofa and walk up behind Killian’s shoulder. He found the two and shook his head. Without a word, he turned and left the room. Killian watched as his head of security hit the main level and cut a wide path through to where the girls stood, passionately lip locked and oblivious of everything until they were torn apart. They pouted. The men around them booed. But the two were still escorted off the floor towards the exit.
Killian shook his head.
As fun as it all was to watch, he didn’t run that type of business. Sure he knew it happened. He knew there would be discarded condom wrappers in the bathroom by the time the night was over, but it didn’t mean he turned a blind eye to it.
Show over, he turned his attention to the rest of the place. He watched the waitresses, the bartender, the DJ. He took note of the lighting and the way the customers moved around the glass tables. There was still plenty of work that needed to be done, but so far nothing that caught his immediate attention.
Distractedly, he pulled out his phone and checked the time. It was still fairly early, yet he had no desire to be there. After a sleepless night, part of him wanted to head home and attempt a few hours of shut eye, not that it would do him any good. He knew he would merely toss and turn until frustration propelled him up and pacing the estate. Occasionally, he got lucky and managed an hour or two. Those nights were rare and usually disturbed by visions of blood, screaming, and death. There were times he forced himself to stay awake just to not have to see that.
That night, he was exhausted. His head felt full of cotton and lead and he had no sense to concentrate like he knew he ought to.
Maybe he should go home, he decided vaguely while glancing at the eight new messages flashing across his screen. A few he knew he needed to respond to immediately while the rest could wait until morning. But it was the text message from an unknown number that gave him pause.
It was a series of seemingly random letters and numbers that were mashed together to form two paragraphs. Anyone not familiar with the secret language he and Maraveet had spent an entire summer inventing as children would automatically assume the sender’s phone had accidentally pocket texted him. But Killian knew exactly who the sender was and what the message said and it made him snort in response.
“I hate ducks,” it began in true Maraveet fashion. “Vicious, unlikable creatures. Why couldn’t they go extinct instead of the white tigers? Oh, that’s right, because they are useless. I bought new shoes from a little store in Paris and stopped at a café for some coffee and one of the little fuckers stole my box. Snatched it right up from under the table and took off. It was lucky I wasn’t carrying or I would be having duck for supper.
What is this I hear about your insane idea to open a nightclub in New York? Nothing ever lasts there, except questionable road conditions and those hotdog venders. I’m telling you, I’m not convinced they’re all beef. Still can’t believe you bought one that summer we went there to see The Statue of Liberty. I thought Mother was going to die right there on the street. Don’t be too much of a brat, hm?”
Maraveet was the closest thing he had to a sibling. They shared no blood, but their parents had been close friends and Maraveet was the only child of his parent’s business partners that he was allowed to play with. He had never minded. She’d been a pain most days, but she had also kept him company, which was a big deal when there was no one else.
But all that changed when her parents were killed and Maraveet was brought to live with them. They’d only been seven, but she had been devastated. For months, she’d wandered the estate, crying at the drop of a hat. He hadn’t understood it at the time, he’d had his own parents so her loss was something he couldn’t relate to. But when he lost his mom, then his dad in the span of a few short years, he understood it too well. That was the year Maraveet considered them cursed and told him to stay away from her. That as long as they kept apart, they wouldn’t be used as pawns against the other.
“If it looks like we have no one, we won’t have to go to another funeral.” That had been her logic.
Killian had let her go. He couldn’t keep her even though he’d tried. She’d already made up her mind and on the night of her seventeenth birthday, she’d packed her bags and left for Paris to take over her family’s obtaining business. She was good at it and it made her happy. Occasionally, she would send him an encrypted text message with clues to her newest adventure, but he hadn’t liad eyes on her in years.
“Maybe the duck smelled that revolting perfume you’re so fond of and thought you were its mate,” he wrote back, grinning to himself. “And there is nothing wrong with New York. That hot dog tasted delicious, even if it might not have been beef. Also, I can be a brat all I want. It’s not like you’re here to stop me.”
Hitting send, Killian pocketed the phone and glanced at the glass again. He knew Maraveet wouldn’t answer again. Not for several months, maybe even years. But at least she wrote. It eased his mind that one of the criminals she was always hanging around with hadn’t killed her. It really was a matter of time, especially when she spent her time smuggling hot goods from country to country and encountering drug cartels and murderers. And telling her to quit was out of the question; she had a criminal nose like her father and refused to acknowledge the possibility of being double crossed. She was too good at what she did, and there was the fact that she knew dirt on just about everyone. Her connections were limitless and kept her well protected, which gave him some peace of mind.
The phone buzzed in his pocket, momentarily surprising him. He knew it wouldn’t be Maraveet even before he fished it out, but a part of him hoped it was. It was ridiculous and pitiful, but he hadn’t had anyone to talk to in years. Sure, he talked plenty of business with many people, but he hadn’t had a normal conversation with a normal person in so long, he couldn’t even remember it. Maybe it was with Maraveet before she left. Maybe it was with his dad before he died. Both had faded into the double digits. No one really understood just how lonely an island of one really was.
As quickly as the thought penetrated, he shoved it aside. The serrated fingers of weakness and doubt cut into flesh before it was forced back into the deep recesses of his mind. He focused instead on the new message and the many more waiting for his attention.
It was on the forefront of his mind to spend the remainder of the night going over correspondences when a flutter of white caught the corner of his eye. Flashes of color in a club full of people and lights wasn’t so uncommon, yet it was compelling enough to catch his attention and coax his gaze down to the dance floor.