Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
He walks me through the the entire security setup with four panic buttons, two in public, two hidden in the staff-only zones. There are biometric locks on all storage and access points and an alarm system that pings directly to a private response contractor before it even wakes up the local cops.
I can’t help myself. “Fuck. You’re ready for just about anything.”
“It pays to be prepared.” He moves us through a side door into a narrow passage. Every fifteen feet, another security camera blinks at us letting me know every angle is covered.
We emerge into a loading area where two staffers are unloading what I’m ninety-nine percent sure is a shipment of sex toys, judging by the box art. The woman in charge barks at the guy, who drops a crate and fumbles to pick it up, red-faced. Roman just watches, amused.
“Have you started missing tour life?” he asks, suddenly nostalgic. “The chaos, the bullshit, the noise?”
I shake my head flashing back in my mind to my last night with Steel Pulse. During the show, a fight broke out in the pit sending three people to the hospital, a group of women in matching bras climbed the lighting rig to flash the band, and the goddamn lead singer decided to crowd-surf naked. I had to leap offstage and catch him, midair, while dodging a hailstorm of joints and sweaty bralettes.
“Not really,” I say. “I hated living my life waiting for the train wreck you know is coming.”
He nods, as if he expected that answer.
Up another set of stairs, we hit the kitchen. Not the greasy spoon operation I’d expected, but a chef’s wet dream. I glance around at the gleaming steel appliances and racks of expensive wine bottles. There’s a guy in whites slicing up strawberries and I’m not sure if he notices us, or just doesn’t care.
“We cross train all our staff,” Roman says, gesturing around. “No single point of failure. Everyone can step in to help in an emergency. Even the chef knows the panic code.”
I nod, impressed despite myself. “Good.”
He must read my face, because he throws an arm around my shoulders and steers me into a smallish, black paneled office. There’s no sign, just a frosted window and a heavy door.
“This is your office,” he says. “Settle in and let me know if you have any questions.”
I lean against the desk. “I just have one question for you.” He stares at me with a raised eyebrow as I ask. “How do you keep all this under control?”
Roman sits on the edge of my desk. “Same way you did it with the rock band. Set the rules. Enforce the rules. Don’t play favorites.”
He leans forward, suddenly intense. “We don’t tolerate assholes or the kind of people who think they can buy their way out of consequences. Every staff member, every club member and every goddamn guest knows the rules and agrees to follow them. No second chances.”
He stands and moves to the file cabinet, withdrawing a slim folder. He tosses it on the desk.
“Everything you need to know is in here. Read it, memorize it. We don’t advertise for this position, Wyatt because I have to trust my Head of Security above all else.”
He watches me, waiting.
I sit behind the desk and pick up the folder. I thumb through a few pages seeing there’s an employment contract for me to sign, a list of emergency procedures and a sample member contract.
The usual. I flip it shut and stare back at him. “Seems pretty cut and dry.” And a whole lot better than dragging Nels Riche, the Steel Pulse lead singer, out of a club with vomit staining his torn shirt.
Roman strides over to the door with a deliberate pace, his commanding presence filling the small office. “There’s one more thing,” he pauses, turning to fix me with a cutting smirk. “Your welcome gift is a free membership to the club.”
The idea of joining the club hadn’t even crossed my mind, but now it hangs heavy in the air. I lean back, rubbing my bottom lip, weighing my options carefully. “I appreciate it, but I’m not interested right now.” I need to find my footing before I consider anything else.
His grin widens. “You say that now, but just wait until you’ve had a chance to dive into the scene. Then we’ll talk.”
As he exits, the door closes with a definitive click. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize this is going to be one hell of a gig.
CHAPTER 2
NAOMI
I tug at the hem of my skirt for the eleventh time in as many minutes. It is, technically, the only part of this work uniform that actually fits. The “approved” black top gapes over my cleavage like it’s trying to fall off and the flats they said were “absolutely mandatory for health and safety” feel like they’re manufactured from petrified wood. You could park a freaking Mini Cooper in my cleavage and nobody would even notice the car.