Several hours later, at the penthouse bar of Six and Nine, the chic new nightclub in downtown Seattle, Zander ordered another Hangman’s Blood, a potent cocktail made with gin, whiskey, rum, port, champagne, brandy, and stout.
He and Kent sat in a quiet corner of the busy bar. Tonight, Zander wore a new Henley and straight leg jeans, his go-to attire. His only concession to the night had been to don his black bio-hand—the one with pure gold accents.
Outside the window, the Space Needle glittered with illumination against the pitch-dark sky. Tiny lights winked on the ferry as it made its way back and forth across the Puget Sound, heading toward Bainbridge Island.
Inside the bar, black leather chairs were centered around small round chrome tables with blue malachite chips along the edges.
“You might want to ease up on the booze, mate,” Kent said, sipping his gin and tonic.
“Should I pop a couple of Celexa instead? How about a Clonazepam?” Zander flashed Kent a cold smile
“Fuck, King. I thought you stopped all that shit.” Kent lifted his gaze toward a buxom beauty sauntering past their table.
“Doesn’t mean I no longer have the vials. You never know when the alcohol will wear off.” A sense of numbness began to crawl through Zander’s limbs. Or, fuck with you. He nudged away his tumbler.
Kent waved his hand absentmindedly. His eyes stayed glued to the brunette. “No sense staggering toward a prospect.”
“What? I can still do a fine heel-toe walk, officer.” Zander stood and strode a few yards, placing his heels against his toes without faltering.
Kent scoffed. “That’s just your years of physical training kicking in.”
“No, it’s just my desire to be oblivious to this night kicking in. I said I’d go. I didn’t say I’d enjoy it.”
“Did you apologize to Mia?” Kent asked, out of the blue.
As he settled back in his seat, Zander blinked at the abrupt change in topic. “Yes, Dad. A big bouquet’s worth of apology. It’s so big she can’t see over her desk to glare at me when I walk past,” Zander said, picking up his cocktail glass. He took a big gulp of his drink. He thudded his glass against the table, letting out a heavy breath. “Ready.”
Kent rolled his eyes. “All right, let’s do this. Let’s go cast our lines, reel in some beauties, and have ourselves a fucking good time fucking until our balls fall off.” He chuckled. As he stood, a predatory glint flashed in his eyes.
Zander followed Kent through the bar, with all its muted voices, soft jazz, and pretentious glamour.
A few women lifted their gazes as he strode by, interest sparking in their eyes.
Zander’s heading-toward-drunk mood soured, congealing in his belly. It’s too dark to see my bio-hand. When they do, they’ll turn and run.
In the hall, he followed Kent toward the elevator.
Once in the lift, Kent produced a gold key from his pocket. He fit it into the key slot underneath the floor buttons.
The lift began to descend.
“Hey, what Crackerjack box did you find that in? I want one,” Zander whined.
“You have to be a member. You’re merely the guest of the member.” Kent flashed him an imperious gaze.
“Why thank you, my Lord. It’s my honor to have been invited.” Zander bowed.
“Asshole,” Kent said.
“Dick-face,” Zander said.
They both chuckled.
When the doors slid open, Zander found himself in a crowded space, surrounded by fake smiles, fake tits, and everyone feigning fake interest in one another. He pushed through the crowd, intending to head toward the bar.
A huge fucking tree with sparkling lights occupied the center of the room. Gold boxes hung off the lower branches from velvet ribbons. He figured those were some pricey bauble the not-chosen sugar babies would be given as a consolation gift. Some sort of “sorry you didn’t make the cut” concession prize—probably a diamond necklace.
At the top of the tree, just below the thirty-foot high ceiling, buxom beauties, clad in skimpy outfits, pushed themselves higher and higher on velvet-rope swings. Their costumes caught the lights trained in their direction, making them glitter and sparkle like human stars.
Zander grabbed Kent’s Cifonelli jacket sleeve. Underneath the four-thousand-dollar jacket, Kent wore a Maroon 5 “Girls Like You” t-shirt.
Zander, Trisha, Kent, and Kent’s date at the time, Koko, had gone to see Maroon 5 shortly before Zander’s accident. The night was epic: VIP everything, hanging with Adam Levine at his after-party, and then heading home to fuck at four am. The shirt served as a jab to happier times.
Zander scowled. “Okay, we’re done.”
Kent sighed. His immaculately groomed hair, with just the right amount of product, didn’t budge as his head fell backward. When he lifted it, he trained his Nordic-blue eyes on Zander’s face. “Just mingle for a minute.”
“You promised if I didn’t like it, we could leave,” Zander said.
“Give it fifteen minutes, okay?” Kent said in a voice heavy with forced patience.
“I’ll give you five,” Zander said.
“Ten,” Kent countered.
“Eight, and not a second more,” Zander said.
“Fine. Eight minutes.” Kent stared at his twenty-two thousand-dollar Patek Philippe Calatrava 5119G watch and gave Zander a thumbs up. “Okay. Go. Time is ticking.” He sauntered off, trailing after a hot blonde who had glanced his way.
Extreme discomfort noosed Zander’s limbs. He lunged for a bourbon from the silver tray of a waiter as she passed by. His bionic hand slapped against the other drinks on the tray, knocking one of them to the floor.
It shattered, sending bourbon and glass shards all over the waiter’s cheap slacks.
A few people turned to stare, disinterestedly, then got back to whatever they were doing.
“Forgive me,” the apple-cheeked young waiter said. “My fault.” His eyes landed on Zander’s high-tech hand. They widened slightly. Then, the waiter recovered his poise, no doubt having memorized the orders his boss had given him to “please the billionaires at whatever cost.”
Zander snagged a remaining bourbon from the tray and said, “Watch what you’re doing.”
“I shall, sir. Forgive me.” The waiter stooped to pick up the broken glass.
Zander glanced at his Jaeger LeCoultre watch. Six minutes left.
A curvy redhead sauntered in his direction. “Hi. I’m Callie.” She extended a bejeweled hand. “What’s your name?”
“Zander King.”
“Ooh,” she cooed. “That Zander King?”
“One and the same.” He waved his bourbon at her, making sure she got an eyeful of his bionic hand.
She stared at his hand and took a step backward. “Sugar, I need to go to the ladies’ room. Will you excuse me?”
“No problem.” He glanced at his watch again. Five minutes and counting. He stood near the wall, nursing his drink.
Across the room, Kent looked like he was about to score a sugar-baby prize. A young-looking strawberry-blonde had draped herself on him like a mink stole.
Zander shook his head. Stick to women your age, Kent, not recent graduates of high school. Eighteen-year-olds have barely figured out what their clothing style it, let alone how to please a man in bed. He made a mental note to give Kent shit in a few minutes when they left.
Two more women, both brunettes, stalked in Zander’s direction.
One glance at his hand and they took a sudden right turn and looked at their phone screens as if that was their secret signal to let this loser go.
Brunette One said to the other, probably thinking they were out of earshot, “Do you see his hand? That’s disturbing. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to let him touch me.”
“Right?” Brunette Two said.
“Let me touch you?” Zander said, making sure she heard him. “What makes you think I’d want to?”
Brunette One turned deep scarlet, grabbed her friend, and hustled away.
Zander took another look at his watch. Three minutes left. Just enough time to cross the room and fetch Kent. He stepped in Kent’s direction, then paused.
There, trying to make like wallpaper, stood the prettiest, geekiest young woman he’d ever seen. And one look at her told him that her eyes were far kinder than even Mia’s. And with that realization, the hook landed, tearing into his cheek like a hand-tied lure. A shiny fish might well be dangling on his line. Knowing how hard it had been to untangle from Trisha, this couldn’t be good.