A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

ii. a collection of strangers (a series of secrets)

You return to the club the next day, determined to actually work this time.

The doors open easily-unlocked again-and you beeline for your cleaning cart, not giving yourself the chance to look at anything else around you.

You make it five steps toward the stage when-

"There you are!"

You look around in search of the sudden voice and spot Kyle-or does he prefer Gaz-sitting on one of the barstools, facing the stage. Mohawk stands next to him, leaning with his elbows on the bar top and drumming his fingers against the polished quartz. Bartender busies himself, wiping down glasses with his back to the other two.

Kyle waves you over, saying something to the other two with a laugh. You glance back at your cart, then down at your watch.

You've got a few minutes to spare.

You make your way up the small set of stairs and lean back against the railing with your arms loosely folded across your chest. They're dressed similarly again-varying versions of an all-black, form-fitting uniform-though this time, you have a better, up-close view of Mohawk and Bartender.

You've yet to see an unattractive employee.

Maybe that's a qualifier to work here?

What does that say about you?

"Have you met Soap and Alex yet?" Kyle nods to Mohawk and Bartender, respectively. They give small nods, smiling politely, eyes quickly darting over your form. You smile back, returning their nods to seem polite, but your mind swirls with a single thought-

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

You look them over, cataloging them as much as they are you.

If you had to guess, you'd have thought Alex was Mr. Price's son before Kyle. They look so similar-same blue eyes, same nose, and frighteningly similar facial hair. His hair is a few shades lighter than Mr. Price's, and his mouth is thinner, but the resemblance is uncanny.

Whereas Alex has a suave confidence, Soap carries himself with a boyish charm. His mohawk is shaggy, a deep brown that's too long to stand up, so it curls and falls back onto his head. His blue eyes are wide and friendly, watching you with equal amounts of curiosity and suspicion. There's not much of a beard on his face-more like long stubble that stretches down his neck to where a black choker sits tight around his skin.

"I couldn't find you yesterday," Kyle says, settling back against the bar top.

"Yeah, I...I got sent home," you admit, trying to laugh it off. Bartender and Mohawk share a look, smirking at each other while Kyle raises a brow.

"When?" Kyle asks. "I was here first thing." He looks over his shoulder to Bartender, the man setting down a glass of what you assume is water and sliding it to Kyle.

"I thought I'd give myself a tour of the building, and...your dad caught me in his office." Their attention snaps to you, concerned and curious.

"Doin' what?" Soap asks, the Scottish brogue taking you by surprise. He turns to face you with his mouth pulled into a devilish half-smirk.

"Reading a book," you answer. Kyle chuckles to himself as he sips from his glass, but Alex leans his elbows against the bar to get closer to Soap.

"Is that a euphemism for something?" Alex mumbles.

"Why would I know that?" Soap counters softly.