The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(95)

I weave in and out of a small crowd that’s gathered outside to freeze their balls off waiting to get into the new “hot spot” restaurant, WigWam, and pull my jacket a little tighter. Even though I’m moving, the frost in this bitch tonight could just about nip the nose off Jack himself.

Fuck, it’s cold.

Realizing I’m still holding my phone in my bare hand in the freezing air like an idiot, I slide both back inside my pocket and shove them into the depths of warmth, just above the HotHands I slipped inside before I left my apartment. The phone vibrates again, but I’m completely prepared to ignore it—until it goes off again and again and again.

I sigh, pull my hand back out of my pocket, and look at the screen. Five message notifications from the group chat with my siblings sit front and center. Too curious not to check, I open up my inbox and start reading as I continue carefully making my way down the busy sidewalk.

Winnie: Uncle Brad’s birthday is coming up, and I am not letting all of the party and gift responsibilities fall on my shoulders again. You bastards are helping this time.

Ty: But, Winnie, you’re so good at all of it.

Winnie: Ty, I swear on everything, I will end you.

Ty: Can you at least make sure you end me AFTER you plan Uncle Brad’s party and figure out what we should get him?

Remy: LOL.

I laugh out loud too. I could join in on the amusement—I mean, I am the funniest and funnest sibling of all—but the entrance doors of Club Craze are so close, and indoor warmth sounds like my current idea of a good time. Instead, I slip my phone back into my jacket pocket and focus on the priority task at hand—work.

I push open the large black glass door and step inside, and instantly, the pounding beats of a popular hip-hop song fill my ears. I can’t not move my head to the bass as I walk through the cavernous space and toward the back hallway where the offices and dancer dressing rooms are located.

Ah, yes, I fucking love the New York nightlife.

“Jude!” Ki-Ki, the in-house DJ, shouts from her booth, removing one headphone to offer a wave as she continues to bop around to the catchy music. With a quick swipe of her hand, the song morphs into “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys. Which she then brilliantly mixes with old-school Beastie Boys.

“Hell yeah!” I raise my hands in the air. “That’s sick, Keeks!”

The pink-haired music pixie grins back at me, gives a thumbs-up, and then adjusts her headphones, getting back to prepping music for a busy Saturday night.

Since it’s only a little after seven, she still has some time to get things prepared before we open the doors, but once nine hits, Ki-Ki’s got to be ready to move and groove. Thankfully, she knows it and takes it seriously, or we would never be able to draw in the numbers we need to.

And bringing in the big crowds is my job.

Club Craze is brand-new, but J. Winslow Promotion is notorious for working with the hottest clubs for a reason. I need this place to bring wall-to-wall people and an even bigger personality. It has the potential to be one of my favorite hot spots in Manhattan, and if everything is done right for the launch, the owner says he’d be willing to sign a contract with my company for nightclub promotion for the next four years.

My job is to create the party, help people let loose, and make damn sure they want to come back and do it over and over again.

For a guy like me, I can’t think of a better fit.

Once I’m past Ki-Ki’s booth, I take a swift right and head down the “employees only” hallway. Another few feet and I spot Maverick, a relatively new friend of mine—one I made pretty easily upon finalizing the staff for this club. He walks in through the back door that leads in from the small parking lot off the alleyway on the side of the building. A gray duffel is over his shoulder, and a beanie covers his blondish-brown hair.

Maverick is hilarious, a real fucking good time, and a dancer for Club Craze. Picture Channing Tatum from Magic Mike doing “Pony” with a grinder, and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what kind of dancing he does.

“What up, Winslow?” he shouts when we make eye contact. “What are you doing back here?”

“Actually, I was looking for you.” I wasn’t. “See, I remembered you still owe me money from that play-off game last month, and figured it was high-time I reminded you.” I smirk, shrug, and stop to lean against the wall just outside the dancers’ dressing rooms where I know he’s headed.

“Of course, you cheap bastard.” He throws his head back on a laugh.

“Cheap bastard?” I question and put a hand to my chest. “Are you talking about me? The guy who told you the Mavericks were going to win that play-off game, and you definitely shouldn’t take that fucking bet?”

This isn’t the first time the two of us have bet on something. Surely it won’t be the last either. Maverick is addicted to trying to beat me, and I’m addicted to wagers and challenges.

He laughs and rolls his eyes, coming to a stop across from me. “Yeah, but the only reason you probably knew is because your sister is married to fucking Wes Lancaster. It’s like goddamn insider trading.”

“Don’t be bitter, dude. I told you not to bet against them. Hell, the team has your damn name, for fuck’s sake.”

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes at that. “What do I owe you again?”