Fated To The Lycan Brothers

Chapter 2: VIP Client

Atlas Wolfe

“You’re giving this letter to her and that’s final, Atlas.” Keith, my stepfather, said to me in that demanding and conclusive voice of his.

He only does that when he needs something to be done and no matter what we say or do, at the end of the day, what he wants is final. And though I was in no way willing to agree to his absurd demand, clearly I was given no other choice.

I let out a bored groan before taking the envelope from the table and mustering a fake smile. “Yes, father, I will give the letter, father.” I said sarcastically.

He was on the verge of saying something else when his phone started to ring and I didn’t think I’d be glad to hear it.

He lets out a frustrated sigh before raising his finger up to point at me. “The letter, Atlas, and I will know if you give it or not.” He says just before walking out of my room.

The second he was gone, I turned on my speaker and blasted loud music that filled every corner of my room.

I used this to distract me, to deafen the thoughts in my head, and to make me forget every f*****g tormenting s**t I have to live with everyday of my life.

“Suri Nightingale…” I read the name that was written on the back of the envelope.

A girl that Keith was so hellbent on finding. A girl that he had some kind of connection with. A girl that I was sure to despise.

I didn’t want some random stranger coming into our house and I sure as s**t don’t want her thinking she can rule over us just because Keith is easily manipulated because of his emotional ties with her.

I promised I would give her this letter, but what I didn’t promise is that I wasn’t going to threaten her not to follow whatever Keith wants from her, which is probably to come live with us.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him…” I said and the words died down, mixing with my loud music until there was nothing else left but the heavy metal.

Tomorrow. I’ll go to her shitty place and give it to her then. After that, this can all just be a thing of the past. My brothers and I can go back to our usual routine without a girl threatening to change all of it.

I closed my eyes and let sleep take me, but somewhere in the night, I could have sworn I dreamt of a girl with strange eyes that effortlessly pulled me closer to her.

—

The drive to the shitty town called Yorkville was about eight hours and I hated every minute of it. Keith wouldn’t even let me borrow the private jet, but that’s because my brothers would end up tagging along and then it’d just be a full shitshow.

I don’t have anything against the two, but if this plan was going to work, I couldn’t afford any distractions. One of them might feel bad for her when they see her and think of bringing her back home and no way in hell was I letting that happen.

It was a little over three in the afternoon when I arrived. Keith gave me all the details I needed to find her such as her place (sleazy apartment), her jobs (convenience store, clothing shop, club), and her school.

I figured school would be the better spot to confront her since it was just around this time that school would be finishing.

I knew I was right when the bell rang and students started coming out. My eyes scanned her like an eagle looking for its prey. I looked at the picture on my phone that Keith sent me just before I left this morning and analyzed the face.

Two different colored eyes. What the hell? It seemed oddly familiar from my dream last night…

I brushed it off as I focused on the matter at hand, taking in her features so I could find her in the sea of people.

Eventually, that’s when I spotted the light brown haired girl and started to follow her. She looked like a loner. Nobody talked to her and she passed people like she was invisible.

Wait a second, am I feeling bad for her? Hell no.

I stayed far enough as I waited for her to get to a more secluded area. I can’t just jump her in public and in broad daylight.

When she got to the bus stop, I made sure to wait until I knew nobody else was coming and then…

I came for the kill.

Well, I wasn’t killing anyone. Yet.

I just needed to threaten her a little.

Once she was in my hands, though, I thought I felt something electrifying when I touched her. I had to internally slap myself back to the present, but even then, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of being so close to her.

And f u c k me, did she smell nice.

There was a musky floral scent based on lilac and a posy of other flowers mixed with vanilla that had my mouth almost watering. I was so f*****g glad I wore a mask over my mouth for this so then she wouldn’t notice.

Once I was done with what I had to do–which took a lot more effort than I had expected–I went back to the trees behind the bus stop and waited to make sure she had stepped inside the bus.

I don’t know why I did that and I don’t know why I felt strangely connected to her when I touched her, but whatever it is, it’s done now. I never have to see her again. Never have to feel that weird magnetic thing between us.

But as I drove back home and got further and further away from her, I couldn’t help but shake off the feeling that maybe…

Maybe that wasn’t the last time I was going to see her…

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out if I hated that thought… or liked it.

Suri Nightingale

“Good afternoon,” a kind smile is directed towards me as I enter the bus going to my after school shift at a dodgy club in an even dodgier place.

“Afternoon,” I mutter back before finding a seat at the end.

The bus lady–I think her name is Cynthia–is probably the only person who’s ever been kind to me since I arrived here. She’s one of the few people who has ever directed a friendly smile or a few words towards me without any malice or judgment.

But I would still not trust her.

“Have a good night, sweetie.” Cynthia waves me goodbye as I was stepping off from the bus.

“You, too.” I say before she turns the bus around and just like that, I’m all alone again.

Bloods Point Street is just as creepy as its name entails. It’s like the red light district of the city and frankly, I would never go anywhere near this place if I didn’t have to, but with a fake ID and a determination to make a living, this is the highest paying job anyone like me can ever find.

“Evening, Red Mama.” I greet the woman dressed in red from head to toe–likely including her lingerie–and her red-stained lips smile at me.

Red Mama is what we call our ‘handler’. She’s pretty much the veteran in this whole club so she knows every single thing there is to know about this place and this job. That’s why she ‘handles’ us, the girls who work here.

“Hey, Sugar. How was school?” She asks and I look around the changing room to see if anyone else was there because she’s the only one who knows that I’m still a minor.

“Don’t worry, nobody else is here yet. Did you really think I would ask if there was?” She gave me an ‘I thought you knew me better than that’ look.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Same old. Counting down the days I am far away from those snotty bitches.”

She lets out a chuckle before pulling her cigarette close to her lips and taking a long inhale before letting it all out.

Red Mama was–is–a beautiful woman. She has long curly blonde hair and gorgeous blue eyes. She kind of reminds me of Marilyn Monroe, but because of all the smoking, probably drugs too, and stress from working in a place like this, she wasn’t exactly in her prime.

Yet, all the girls here still looked up to her and the bar owner could never find it in him to have anyone replace her.

“All those snotty bitches can never be like you, Sugar. You’re a superstar,” she says with that loving voice of hers and I can’t help but smile.

Her and Cynthia are the closest to a friend I have in this world. My definition of a friend is debatable, though.

After I changed into some tight leather clothes, I was putting on makeup by the vanity table next to her when she got up next to me and held on to my wrist with a shocked and worried face. “Oh, no. What in the world happened here? Who did this to you?”

She stared at the new bruise Justine and her posse had given me at school earlier today. Last Tuesday it was my finger banged up by the locker, this time it was my wrist when she ‘accidentally’ closed the drawer on my hand.

“It’s nothing. It’ll heal quickly.” I reassured her and she gave me a pout, but I smiled at her and she knew instantly that I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s one of the things I appreciate about her, too. She doesn’t press me about things.

A knock on the door brings both our attention to it, and Boris, a six foot four Russian man that could intimidate just about anyone, appeared. He’s one of the designated bodyguards indoors.

He looks around the room until his eyes land on me. “Sugar, are you ready?”

“Just need to put on lipstick and I’m good. What’s up?” I asked because normally, I wouldn’t be needed until a few minutes later which is at exactly five thirty when my shift as a bartender begins.

“VIP client. He personally requested for you.” Boris, a man of few words, shared.

My face contorted into a confused expression. “Um… me? Are you sure? He must have mistaken me for someone else, like maybe… Summer? Are you sure he said Sugar and not Summer?”

I was ninety nine percent sure that no VIP client would be looking for me. I was nobody here. A girl with a red and black masquerade mask manning the bar would not be reeling in VIPs.

Sure there were random men flirting with me, but nothing big. I wasn’t the main attraction. I wasn’t the girl doing the show on the poles and on the dance floor. I was just giving them the drinks to get them drunk enough and make bad decisions they would likely regret the day after.

“Yup, pretty certain it’s you. He picked you out of the club’s group picture and demanded to see you and only you.” He said and before I could ask anything else, he closed the door and I was left in my own confusion.

First of all, how in the hell did he end up choosing the bartender in a mask when there were ten other much more gorgeous girls with their faces shown standing right in front of me in that picture? Assuming I was thinking about the same one, but I do vaguely remember only having taken one picture since I arrived here.

Red Mama must have noticed the obvious look of uncertainty in my face because I suddenly felt a warm hand on my shoulder and when I turned, she was looking at me with a warm smile. “Go for First Class. It makes those special eyes of yours pop more.”

I say thank you to her, but deep down inside, I don’t really want them to pop. I want to be as basic and as invisible as I possibly can be.

She passed me the lipstick and I know I can’t decline now so after swiping the dark nude shade on my lips, I swallowed hard and stepped out of the dressing room.

“Make Red Mama proud!” I heard a shout before the door closed.

I sighed. “Here goes nothing.”

The music is so loud that the bass makes my whole body vibrate. I’ve been working here for about three months, every Friday to Sunday night, and I still haven’t gotten used to it. Maybe I never will. Just like the males staring at my every move as I walked up to the VIP rooms.

Pervs, but hey, as long as they paid good money because that’s how I get paid in return. No customers, no dollar bills. No dollar bills, no future for Suri.

As I was climbing up the stairs to where the exclusive lounge was, I started to feel uncomfortable, though I kept telling myself that I know Boris will be right outside the door. He always looks out for the girls when there is a VIP guest. We are an asset here; both entertainers and bartenders.

“Is he inside?” I asked Boris who was standing extremely ominously by the door with his hands crossed in front of his chest and his chin pushed up.

He gives me one minimal nod before stepping aside and all my nerves are suddenly activated.

Fuck. I’m so nervous. What the hell could this guy want from me? Well, first of all, who the hell is this guy?

My answer was given to me as soon as I stepped inside and was greeted by a face I wasn’t expecting (or was I?) to show up right in front of me. He is definitely a thousand miles away from where he’s supposed to be based on my extensive research on him a few days ago when I got the letter.

Keith Whitford. Dark brown hair with a few whites all around his head. Nonetheless, even at his age, he still looks much younger. Was it because of his absurd amount of money–botox and whatnot–or he won in the gene lottery making him age slower in the physical department.

I conclude that it’s the former, unless proven otherwise.

He lives somewhere in Orange County, but mostly everywhere since his job–literally being the CEO of a trillion dollar technological company–requires him to go all over the world. Obvs, he has his own private jet. Rich people things, and in which mother earth cries for as they pollute the air with their excessive emission of CO2.

Keith moves closer and I stiffen up. I have this sudden internal battle and my eyes glance towards the glass table where there are three types of bongs–for the guests–and other kinky s e x u a l stuff–again, for the guests.

I debated between making a run for one of them to use as a weapon, or just turning around and pulling the door open to make my great escape, though unlike most great escapes, I doubt mine would be. With my luck, I’d make a run for it and trip on my boot laces.

“Suri.”

My train of thought immediately takes a halt when he says my name.

Oh, god. Is this real life?