Chapter 189
Summer's POV
I didn't think. I just moved.
The Crimson Lounge was tucked into the top floor of an old brick building downtown, the kind of place you only knew about if someone told you, if you moved in circles that whispered about where to go when you wanted to be seen doing something you shouldn't. The elevator doors opened onto a wall of sound—pulsing electronic music with a bassline that vibrated through the floor, laughter that was too loud and too sharp, the clink of glasses and the murmur of voices that rose and fell like waves. The lighting was low and red-tinged, casting everything in shades of shadow and heat, making the whole space feel like the inside of something illicit.
"Miss, you need to be 21—" the bouncer started, stepping forward to block my path. He was a thick-necked man in his forties, wearing all black, with the kind of build that said he could physically remove me without breaking a sweat.
I didn't let him finish. "I'm looking for someone," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, and I met his gaze without flinching. "The guy in the photo that's going around. Dark hair, gray uniform with the—" I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "With the shoulder holster straps."
The bouncer's expression didn't change, but his eyes flickered—recognition, maybe, or calculation. "Can't help you with that."
"My name is Summer Hayes." I said it quietly, but with enough weight that he'd understand. "My mother is Victoria Hayes. She sits on the city council's business development committee, and she knows the owner of this building." It wasn't quite a threat, not quite a bribe, just a statement of fact delivered with the kind of calm certainty that came from growing up in a world where names opened doors. "I just need five minutes. I'm not here to cause trouble."
The bouncer studied me for a long moment—taking in my hoodie, the desperation I couldn't quite hide, the way my hands were clenched into fists at my sides—and something shifted in his expression. Not sympathy exactly, but maybe the recognition that turning away a Hayes girl at the door could cause him more trouble than letting one slip through, especially if she was here for personal reasons and not to make a scene.
"VIP section," he said finally, jerking his head toward the back. "But if anyone asks, you're looking for your brother." His tone made it clear this was the only lie he'd cover for me, the only grace period I'd get.
"Thank you," I whispered, and pushed past him before he could change his mind, before my nerve could fail, before I could think too hard about what I was walking into.
---
The VIP area was roped off, filled with leather booths and low tables crowded with bottles whose labels I recognized from Mom's charity galas—Cristal, Dom Pérignon, Château Margaux. And there, in the corner, was Kieran.
He was kneeling on one knee in front of a woman in a Chanel suit and a Harry Winston necklace that probably cost more than his entire year's tuition, a tray of champagne balanced on his palm. The gray uniform shirt clung to his shoulders, and across his chest ran those goddamn leather straps—decorative gun holster rigging that served no purpose except to turn him into a prop, a fantasy, something for these people to look at and touch and possess for the price of a tip. The leather gleamed under the red lights, crossing over his heart in an X that made him look like he was wearing a harness, and her fingers were trailing over one of the straps now, her lips close to his ear as she murmured something that made her friends laugh.
His face was pale. Bloodless. His jaw was locked so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, and his fingers were white-knuckled around the edge of the tray like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. The holster straps bit into his shoulders with every breath, a visible reminder of exactly what they'd dressed him up to be.
"Kieran!" I didn't shout, but my voice cut through the noise somehow, sharp and clear as breaking glass.
His head snapped up. For a second, all I saw was shock—his eyes going wide, his lips parting on an exhale that looked like it hurt. Then fear crashed over his features like a wave, drowning everything else.
The woman turned too, her gaze sliding over me with the kind of lazy contempt that came from a lifetime of looking down at people. "Oh, sweetheart," she drawled, her voice honeyed and vicious. "This is an adult establishment. You should go home and finish your homework."
Something inside me snapped.
I crossed the space between us in three strides and grabbed Kieran's wrist, yanking him away from her with enough force that the champagne bottles rattled on the tray. "Get away from him."
"Excuse me?" She raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her tone dripping with mockery as she leaned back in her seat like she was watching dinner theater. "Do you know how much I tip him per night? $500. Can you give him that?"
"I don't care if you tip him $5,000," I shot back, and the rage in my voice surprised even me, burning hot and clean through the fear and the hurt. "He's not for sale."