The Auction (Club Indulgence Duet, #1)(3)

Her bottom lip quivers, but she catches it and takes a deep breath. Her chest rises higher, and I give it a lewd glance, then pin my most challenging stare on her. She opens her mouth, tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

I tug her head farther back, leaning so dangerously close to her mouth her breath hits mine.

She whispers, "What kinds of things?"

I don't hesitate, taunting, "Things that would make your father despise me."

Her plump lips part again, but her mother's voice calls out, "Blakely!"

Goddamn it!

I release her and step back just as Madelyn turns the corner.

She beams. "There you are! We're about to cut the cake." Then she turns to me, bats her eyes, and puts her hand on my bicep. Vodka overpowers Blakely's sea salt and driftwood scent, and Madelyn coos, "Riggs. I didn't know you'd arrived."

I groan inside. Madelyn and Hugh are no saints. They both fuck whatever walks, and for years, she's made it clear she's into me. But I'd never do her for two reasons.

One, she's my partner's wife. I don't need that kind of drama in my life.

Two, I'm not interested. She's another product of Beverly Hills, overindulging in alcohol and prescription pills, and void of anything interesting. The only difference between her and the people I grew up with is she has money. She's as predictable as they come and might as well be a junkie on the corner.

All of it bores me.

I step out of her grasp and nod. "Madelyn. Good seeing you. Please give my regards to Hugh. Something's come up." I hightail it down the hallway, ignoring her questioning calls after me. I move to the front door, step outside, and get into my Porsche, racing out of the subdivision and driving directly to Club Indulgence in L.A.

Something has definitely come up.

Yet it's not anything the Gallows would expect.

As I pull into the club's secret parking garage, I already know I'll be here well into the night, trying to get Blakely out of my head. It won't be the first time I've dealt with my frustration here, but this time, I curse myself for stepping over the line that I know I can never cross.





1





Blakely Fox (Formerly Blakely Gallow)

Seven Years Later





"Into you," I belt out in a long, smooth note.

The few people in the dark lounge clap, but the lights Jarrod has positioned on the stage don't let me see any of their faces.

"Thank you. I'm Blakely Fox. Have a great night," I state. I smile, put the microphone on the stand, then get off the stage as the next act takes my place. I go behind the bar, grab the envelope Jarrod left with my name on it, then stuff it in my purse.

It takes thirty minutes with traffic to get to my next gig, which isn't as fun but pays the bills better than the Lizard Lounge. I pull into the parking lot, then slide the plastic keycard into the slot. All the girls who work at Cheeks have one. I still have to load it with money to park, but it's better than walking ten blocks at four in the morning. Traffic in L.A. is a nightmare no matter where you go, and parking is a luxury. Plus, it's not safe. Muggings happen a few blocks over too often to keep track of. There have even been a few murders over the years. So I make sure my parking card always has funds on it.

I step out of my car, make my way across the dimly lit lot, then nod to Troy, the bouncer who stays in the back alley.

He opens the door the strippers, bartenders, and servers use, then booms, "Blakely! You got any new notes?"

"Working on some," I reply.

"Hit me up when you're ready," he orders.

I give him a tiny salute, replying, "You know I will."

Over the last few years, Troy and I have gotten to know each other. He heard me singing when I was cleaning up tables one night after a shift, and one question led to another.

He has a friend in the music industry and said when I'm ready, he'll slip him my demo. The only problem is I'm far away from creating a demo. Shortly after my twenty-first birthday, I moved out of my parents' house. Living in L.A., even as frugally as I do, doesn't make saving money easy.

My father always told me my head was in the clouds. No daughter of his was going to live the seedy life of a singer. I didn't understand why he thought that, but then I realized I could have wanted to do anything, and he would have given me an excuse about why I shouldn't pursue it. It didn't matter that I graduated early from Berkley with honors in Arts & Humanities. My degree was strictly for his bragging rights and to show the world I could accomplish something. In my father's mind, I was to become a wife and follow in my mother's footsteps.

I'd rather die.

Her life of charity committees, day drinking with friends at the country club, and having too many affairs to count doesn't appeal to me. It's not that I don't like to support charities, but it baffles me how people rationalize spending way too much money on dinner and entertainment in the name of those less fortunate. It doesn't make any sense. If they really cared about the charity, why wouldn't they donate the money it takes to pay for all the amenities of their over-the-top events?

So not only don't I agree with luxury charity events, but I would die of boredom if I had to spend my life planning them. The housewives in Beverly Hills on those committees are as fake as they come. Plus, I want my life to mean something.