She’s headed to the Lower East Side. What the fuck is she doing in that part of town at this hour? And who the fuck is she with?
My temper snaps free like a chain breaking. A current of rage fills me up, hot and violent.
I rush to one of the Escalades without a word, wrenching the driver’s side door open. Killian follows, sliding into the passenger seat without question.
Ever the righthand man.
I speed off, barreling down city streets, weaving through traffic like a madman. Horns blare. Someone screams at me through their window. I don’t give a fuck.
All I can think about is her. Out there. Without me. Without protection. What’s she doing? What the hell is she thinking?
Doesn’t she know she belongs to me now?
As I speed through the city streets with one eye on the tracking device app, it dawns on me where she’s headed.
She’s going to a party block on the Lower East Side, a strip where there’s plenty of clubs and bars.
My wife apparently thinks she can go for a night out without telling me.
I pull up with screeching wheels outside Club Axis. The club her blinking dot has gone into on the city map.
Heavy bass thumps even on the sidewalk, vibrating through the concrete. There’s a long line of people waiting, dressed in designer streetwear like crop tops and gold chains, and two muscly Black bouncers at the door.
Their arms are crossed as they let clubgoers in a few at a time while turning away others.
I storm toward the entrance, Killian at my side.
One of the bouncers steps in front of me, holding up a hand. “Whoa, hold up. Back of the line?—”
I grab the front of his shirt and slam him against the door so hard it rattles. My face is inches from his. “You know who you’re fucking with?”
The other bouncer, eyes wide, grabs his partner’s arm. “Curtis, he’s a Callahan. Let him in. We don’t want none of that. You know Q’s cool with ’em being here.”
The tension eases. Curtis nods, his jaw tight. I let go of him.
They step aside, and we walk in without another word.
The club’s an assault on the senses.
Dark except for flashing blue and silver lights that strobe across the packed dance floor. Heavy hip-hop beats thump through the room. The bass is so deep I feel it in my teeth. Bodies are everywhere, pressed together, moving in rhythm.
From the first foot inside the club, one thing is immediately obvious.
Me and Killian are the Whitest guys in the place.
We stick out like sore thumbs, earning a couple stares from people in the crowd.
But nobody dares step to me. They seem to recognize that Killian and I, with our hard faces and the way we move, might not be the kind of men to mess with.
I’m more concerned with finding my wife.
I scan the club, gaze sweeping the place wall-to-wall. The crowded bar where people shout orders over the music. The dance floor packed with gyrating bodies. The VIP section roped off with velvet cords.
Then I spot her.
Simone.
She’s in the VIP section with Chantal, both of them perched on a leather couch, drinks in hand. Fuck if the sight of her doesn’t make my blood run even hotter.