Chapter 2

I stumble through the front doors of the apartment into the cool evening fog, gulping in air. I can't seem to inhale enough to rid the taste of Gen. Everything inside me twists and constricts, squeezing my core. My mind spins, my stomach churns. I wrap an arm around my waist to somehow hold it all in. I think I'm going to be sick.

My Gen, making love to someone else. Another woman.

It wasn't just physical either. It was passionate. Intimate even.

I push against a brick wall, hoping it's strong enough to bear the weight of my feelings. Even the Chrysler Building isn't big enough.

I need a drink.

My feet blindly lead me through the streets, until I find myself staring up the stoop to Bar None. I passed several pubs on the way, but they all remind me of her. Genevieve hates Bar None, and even though they have a piece from my latest collection on display, she refused to go in. When I asked why, she said, "I've already seen all your paintings, and I can't stand the skanky uniforms they make the waitresses wear. Women need to leave a little to the imagination." A skill Genevieve perfected. She was more than arm candy — beautiful, intelligent, exuding class. Now she's gone, or at least that version of her is.

I pause before the brownstone building to regain my composure.

The cool air fills my lungs, but it doesn't dull the pain. I take the stairs two at a time. My limbs, my heart, my mind, numb to everything — I'm like a zombie, the walking dead.

I step through the double doors into a room peppered in white and black sofas, round and modular. They take up most of the space with the exception of a small dance floor and an area with tables and chairs. There's red accent pieces and some original pop art — my own painting, a young girls face, clustered with dark freckles, hangs over a darkened booth in the back corner.

I head to it, passing a long sleek bar where the bartender, a jersey meathead with slicked back hair and tattoos up his neck, gives a cool nod. Electronic music plays softly — another thing Gen would've hated.

The place is empty, except a handful of people clustered by the bar. I pass a real life Barbie, perched on stool next to a balding man, her dress a second skin and breasts practically on display. She winks at me.

Gen would've found her repulsive — or at least she would have told me she did.

I don't know what to think anymore. Who is Gen even? Is everything I know about her a lie? I sink into the corner booth. The waitress spots me and heads my way. Her hips rock in a hypnotic rhythm. A skill, I'm sure, that fills her pockets with tips. Looking around at the type of folk who trickle in this place, she wouldn't need anything other than her short skirt and plunging neckline.

"Hi, handsome," she says, tucking the tray under her arm. "What can I get you?"

"Whiskey sour," I tell her, ignoring the handsome part of her routine. "And a shot of Patron."

She grins and bats her lashes. "Comin' right up." When she turns, something catches her eye — a man in a fine suit strides through the door and across the room, looking like he owns the place. And by the way the waitress keeps her eyes glued on him, I bet he does. He takes a moment to look me over before slipping into the booth across from mine and holding two fingers in the air.

"Excuse me," she says.

I can't help it. I look as she walks away. I'm not taken anymore and the way she swings her hips is nothing short of impressive. Even still I feel guilty. I've been trained to keep my eyes down, or on Genevieve's. I rub my hands over my face and through my hair. Still Genevieve consumes my thoughts. I imagine her walking that way to me on our bed, calling my name, wanting me. It's only a dream now, a sick dream.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and scroll. I might as well tell Drew he was right. But then I spot Steph's thread and for some reason I pause, finger hovering over it. My heart drums loud and slow in my ears.

The waitress returns before I do anything stupid. My Whiskey and Patron are balanced on the tray next to a full bottle of Cognac, and a glass filled with ice.

"Here you are, handsome." She places the drinks on the table beside me and runs her hand down her throat, tracing a line to the space between her breasts, it's almost like she's giving me permission to look. I do, but only for a beat before downing the shot of Patron.

It burns, which I'm thankful for, because for that brief moment I forget the ache.

The waitress clears her throat with a little squeak.

I look up to find her staring at my lips. "I'm good here. Thanks."

Color blooms below her cheeks. "Yes," she says. She shakes her head, her ponytail flicking side to side. "Of course." Her steps are quick as she turns from me, and heads to the man in the booth, delivering his Cognac.

When she next walks by, her eyes are downcast.

I return to my Whiskey and take a long slow sip, savoring its heat on my tongue. Just as I swallow a deep voice says, "You gay?"

I choke. "Pardon?"

It's the guy from the booth. His relaxed posture stiffens, and he rises out of his seat. He grabs the bottle of Cognac and glass with one hand, his other smooths down his tie.

"Are you gay?" he repeats, walking toward me.

I glance around. "Does this look like a gay bar?"

"No," he says. "It's not."

Frankly, I don't care if he's gay, bi or straight, but I want to save him the trouble of hitting on me because it's the last thing I need after tonight. So I ask, "Are you gay?"

He laughs. "Hardly."

He's exceptionally well dressed. In a crisp tailored navy suit, something like the ones Gen tried to get me to wear. Gold cuff-links peek from his wrists and match the ring on his pinkie finger. He's wearing a white button up and a thin black tie.

I roll my eyes from his expensive shoes to his copper tipped flowy man-scapped hair, point my cup at him and ask, "Are you sure about that?"

He takes a seat across from me, places his bottle on the table, adjusts his jacket, then snaps his fingers.

Our waitress returns. "Yes, Mr. Drake?"

He pulls her close, his fingertips run up her exposed thigh and pause at the bottom of her skirt. His eyes explore her body with a predator's fluidity.

He rubs his thumb under her hem, her mouth parts and she lets out a small gasp.

"Hailey, my love, bring my new friend—" he pauses, cocks his head, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

"Finn," I offer.

"Bring my new friend Finn a glass of ice so I can share this Cognac, will you?" He removes his hand and her face drops with disappointment.

"Yes Sir, will that be all?"

"That's it, darling, thank you."

He smacks Hailey's ass as she walks away, she giggles, and bites her bottom lip.

Who is this guy?

I continue to drink.

He holds out his hand. "Holden Drake," he says, like he's read my mind.

We shake. "Finn Harlow."

Holden sips his cognac.

"Well Finn Harlow, forgive me for pointing out the painfully obvious. But when a girl like that—" he leans back and watches her walk away. "—Is interested." He stops talking and I pull my gaze from the bottom of my cup and look at him. He's staring right through me. "Why don't you give the sweet girl what she wants?" He taps his ring on the glass and swirls the ice.

"Hailey doesn't want me," I say. "She wants a big tip."

"A tip?" He chuckles, eyeing my disheveled attire and shaking his head. "That's certainly not it." He lowers his cup and leans close. "A man like you could have Hailey in the back room, and then again in the front, maybe behind the bar." He laughs. "Can't you taste the desperation? I bet she hasn't been properly fucked in a long while."

I cough on my drink, watching him twist the gold ring on his pinkie.

"No need for shock my friend, if she was being taken care of she wouldn't be so desperate."

Something about what he says makes my throat burn, my head pound.

He raises an eyebrow.

I clench my fist tighter around the glass. "Especially desperate, I'm not interested."

"Really?" Holden sits back and smiles over my shoulder. I turn to see Hailey returning with the second glass of ice. She leans into me and rubs her chest on my arm as she sets it down. Her chemical perfume hangs thick in the air.

"Really." I inhale the drags of my drink and slam the cup on the table.

Holden fills the iced glass and slides it in front of me. "What's her name?"

"What?"

"If you're not gay and you're not interested—" He pats me on the chest. "Broken heart? Betrayal maybe?" He holds up his drink, clinking his ring on the glass. It's like he wants the whole pub to stare. "To the women who break us. May you cold-hearted bitches find some warmth in the pits of hell."

The velvet box becomes an anchor in my pocket. Holden eyes me expectantly, glass in air. I cheers, bring the Cognac to my lips, wanting this all to be over. The sweet smell tickles my nose. I slam it back, far faster than intended. It's smooth and I welcome the heat it fills me with.

Holden watches me as he sets down his glass. "Finn," he says. "I've got to run, but I like you." He stands, reaches into his jacket pocket, and retrieves a thin gold case. His fingers caress the surface as he opens it and pulls out a business card. "You'll find me here most nights. Tell them you're on the list."

Tell who what?

He holds the card out but when I reach for it, he pulls back. "Oh, and Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"If you're smart, you'll enjoy the Cognac on me, and Hailey, perhaps, on you."

I can't help but chuckle. He grins, sets the card under my drink, and walks away.

I watch him leave, the confidence in each step, they way the girls stare after him. I wonder how long it will take for me to feel confident again.

Holden's card draws my attention. I pick it up, flicking it between my fingers, as I look it over. It's black with two golden C's scripted on one side and an address on the other. So informative.

Hailey returns to clear the counter. When she sees the card, she fumbles a glass, almost dropping it.

"He gave you that?" Her mouth is agape, her eyes glued to the square of black paper.

I flip it over, trying to find something that merits the reaction she's giving. "It's just an address."

"He must like you," she says, "and most men would kill for that address."

"They can have it. Here." I hold it to her, and she backs up.

"No." She glances around the room like she's worried someone's watching. Then she leans in and lowers her voice, "That's an invitation to an exclusive club, if you know what I mean."

"Ahh." I put the card back on the counter. Hailey doesn't take her eyes from it.

"I've been trying to get a job waitressing there for years," she continues. "They finally put me on the list. I'm posted here until there's an opening." She puts her hand on her hip. "Those don't come up often."

"You really want to work at a place like that?" I can only imagine the type of harassment a girl who looks like her would get.

She leans into the table, her arm resting on mine. "A friend of mine got a role in a movie because she worked there. Everyone who's anyone is a member."

I raise a brow. "Are they?" The words come out a little sharper than intended. Hailey takes another step back. In my defense it's been a hell of a night. Still I try to lighten the conversation. "What's it called? Captain Crunch, Cadbury Chocolate, Coca-Cola?"

She doesn't crack a smile. "Oh no," she says, taking her eyes off the black card and holding my gaze. "That's an invitation to the Cheaters Club."