Mess You Made

32.

Malibu.

I watch from besides him as Roman hands his keys to the valet. I cast another glance to the place. It's as luxurious as it was the last time me and Sierra had tried to sneak in here. Though it feels like ages ago now, the daylight accentuates the quiet luxury surrounding it all. Quieter during the day.

Tentatively, I follow his lead through the entrance. Don't have to lie to get in because everyone seems to just move out of his way or acknowledge him as Mr Beckett, which feels insane because I feel like his wealth makes people forget he's miles younger than all of them. Somehow, he supersedes youth. He doesn't bat it all an eye as he walks through the Amory club, passing the occasional nod back.

The barstaff flick their gazes to him as if starstruck.

I feel out of place even being beside Miguel with all the gazes, all the money sometimes. Imagine that but fucking tenfold. I don't like the feeling, but I endure it because I don't want to seem weak either. Passing the booths that I saw Miguel on that night but it's a lot emptier since it's daytime. The grandiose bar. Big lights. Down a hallway and towards a back office, and before Roman has to knock— the door opens for him.

"Mr Beckett." A man shakes his hand, swallowing but seems collected and formal, "It's a pleasure of ours."

Roman nods back, tilts his body enough so that the man can see me, "Malibu. I'll be showing her around."

"Yes— if it's the speakeasy role, just the elevator will take you down. Would you like to be shown?"

Roman gives a shake of his head, "We'll be fine."

The man nods to me, "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

I stare back at him, bewildered. Ma'am?

"Yes." Roman fights a smile, turning away, "She's pleased to meet you too."

I blink, look at him walking away.

"Follow me." Roman says, sauntering away again.

I shake my head, increasingly confused but like a puppet, I follow him back into the main area of the bar and towards the elevator that's gold-plated. Bit pretentious. Once it opens for us, Roman steps inside but I don't follow, standing on the precipice of the elevator.

"Tell me what's going on." I say.

He's all lazy as he leans a shoulder against the mirrored wall, "So demanding, too, you're both a match made in heaven."

I stare at him. I deserve an explanation. Miguel may well have just upended my entire life, and I've been quiet in the car, I let Roman Beckett drive me here despite being well within my right to get pissed. It's like some twisted fever dream.

His lips tip up, "The Amory's own this club. Grayson takes lead on this one, though you'll rarely see him around so don't fret. You made an inquiry about a job here a while ago."

I shake my head, "They never got back to me."

I knew they wouldn't. It was a shot in the dark.

He nods his chin then, casual as ever, "You start next week."

My face falls. I blink back at him for a few moments, unable to register. I don't know if he's joking. His face doesn't exactly look like he's joking but this boy's impossible to read.

"What?" I narrow my gaze.

"It'll be an easier job than your last." Roman keeps going, "Much better pay, a lighter atmosphere. Drunks are drunks but you'll find them pretentious, not exactly violent."