Broken Boy

Chapter 2

I splash cold water on my face, savoring the cool liquid as it washes the sticky sweetness of champagne away. My sales rack suit is no doubt ruined—I should probably thank Ten for helping me trash that ill-fitting jacket. I shrug out of it and let it drop to the floor. Not much I can do about the white button-up stuck to my chest.

Something bubbles up from my gut and I chuckle to myself. I am a sorry sight. The man staring back at me from the mirror over the sink thinks I'm an ass, too. His hazel eyes judge me from the reflection as I run wet hands through my unruly dark brown waves. Who am I fooling? The last thing I am is a gentleman. I can hang out with guys who drop enough cash in one night that could pay my rent and drive Maseratis to their Monday morning Econ classes, but in the end, every guy in this club could call me out. My edges are rough as hell.

I grip the porcelain sink, water dripping onto the floor from my fingertips. Even this damn bathroom is ridiculously rich—all ceiling to floor black and gray marble, huge black vases filled with exotic red flowers, more chandeliers, and red velvet couches, like anyone is actually going to sit on them in here. I scrub my hand against the overgrown stubble covering my chin, more water pooling at my feet.

"Sir, perhaps a towel would be useful," a voice says to my right. A man in another penguin suit stands with his arm extended, pristine white towel in his hand.

Of course, a place like this would have a bathroom attendant as if I need someone to watch me talk myself down from a vulnerable state or hold my junk while I take a piss.

"Perhaps it would," I say, grabbing the square cloth from his hand. I dab it across my face and towel off my frustrations. It's not his fault I'm in a foul mood. Before he can take it back, I wad it into a ball and shoot it into a black basket full of used hand towels for the goal. That three-point-shot earns me a frown from the penguin suit—Billionaire Club: 2 and A.J.: 3. Then I stuff a couple of bills into the pocket holding his handkerchief and add, "Thanks, man."

I walk out of the bathroom and catch "sir, your jacket" before the door closes behind me, welcoming me back into the arms of pulsating club music. The amount of bodies on the dance floor have doubled, more fine tailored suits grinding against perfectly sculpted thighs and breasts. Hedonism is thick in the air, the scent of lust and pleasure infiltrating my nose and burrowing into my pores, beckoning me to taste it. And I could have it—any woman in this room is mine for the taking, but I don't want it. I don't need the distraction.

Out of the maelstrom of gyrating bodies, Jackson appears, not a single blond strand out of place on his perfectly coiffed head of hair, despite the rising humidity from skin on skin in the room. When he reaches me, he grins and slaps a hand onto my shoulder. "The night is just about to get better my friend."

"I can't even imagine what could be better than a champagne bath."

Jackson smirks. "Don't worry about her. Mr. Drake, one of the club investors, set us up with a special apology."