Broken Boy

Chapter 1

My friends are dicks.

Some of the most brilliant, young minds of our generation—intelligence, prestige, and a legacy behind their names, but dicks, nonetheless. Maybe everyone except Charlie. He stands off to the side with his hands stuffed in his pockets while Jackson and Bryce slip the club bouncer a couple of Benjamins to skip the line. It's blocked off with a black velvet rope and stretches further than I can see beneath the overpass.

With the fall semester in full swing I could use a break, even if it requires a weekend of debauchery in New York City with two self-entitled pricks. We haven't ventured into the meatpacking district until now, but standing in a wet alley to get into a club in the middle of the night is the last thing I want to do. The muscle head dressed in black waves us forward, plucks two girls from the front of the line, and hands them over to Jackson and Bryce like they're some prize with admission.

Damn, these guys got clout—tonight should be interesting. Welcome to the Big City.

The girls are all stilettos, painted on dresses, and cleavage. They giggle in front of me every time Bryce or Jackson whispers something in their ears or cups their asses. Not my style, but who am I to judge—my past isn't squeaky clean. Besides these guys are connected. I'm going to need all the help I can get when I graduate from Harvard.

"Come on, A.J.," Bryce calls to me. "You haven't experienced New York until you've been to Elev8."

The ten on his arm glances over her shoulder and rakes her charcoal-lined gray eyes over me. The flirtiness she showered Bryce with seconds ago slips from her expression. It's an act—anything to skip the cover charge and get free bottle service all night. I'm all too familiar with girls like her, they're a dime a dozen in Vegas. I practically grew up in the nightlife there, working the front doors and kicking out drunks while getting paid under the table before I was even out of high school.

Bryce tugs the ten towards the door, her starburst gaze never leaving mine. She flips her brown hair over shoulder, no doubt something that would lure any other guy in, and licks her lips. There's hunger in her eyes. Shit. I'm not scared of Bryce, but I'm not about to cross him over for an easy lay. Besides, she's got it wrong—what she wants, my wallet can't handle.

Ten steals one more glance at me before she slides her hand over Bryce's ass, and they disappear behind a black door. She's toying with me, and damn it, if I don't love a confident woman. I shake my head, but not tonight.

Jackson follows them with his newly acquired date as Charlie slips behind the black door after them.

"I.D." a voice grunts.

The bouncer pokes his meaty finger into my chest. I'm by no means short, over six feet, but this guy's half as broad as he is tall. I could take him, but it'd defeat the purpose of this weekend with Jackson and Bryce. I'm supposed to be a gentleman.

So I flex my chest and he drops his hand, his jaw working back and forth.

"Sure, man," I say, presenting him with my driver's license. The bouncer swipes it under a machine that enlarges the image. It's a fake—I'm under age—but it's a solid fake. You work the front door of enough Vegas clubs, you meet people.

"A.J. Come on, man, the guys went up already," Charlie calls, stepping back into the alley.

Satisfied with the quality, the meathead guarding the velvet ropes, slaps my I.D. onto my chest. "Watch yourself in there. I'll be watching you."

It's not the first time I've heard that, and it won't be the last. I smirk then smooth my suit jacket before joining Charlie behind the door. The darkened room I enter is small—it's more a shallow foyer than a room. In front of me are a set of elevator doors illuminated by a strip of lighting on the floor, and as far as I can discern, the walls are black.