Jax
The music pulses through my feet as I walk down the st eps at the back of the club. It’s a familiar,
reassuring rhythm, like a second heartbeat. My heels click over the floor as I pass Tyrel, our head of
security, and salute him. It’s been a busy night, the club floor heaving with dancers, and he’s already had
to kick three people out, and it’s not even midnight yet. Still, he’s quick to give me a smile as he salutes
me back.
I raise my eyebrows at him, an old routine meaning: ‘Everything ok?’
He rolls his eyes as he nods, and I continue along the hallway, heading down to the bar. My skirt is
riding up, and I tug at it, checking that my vest is buttoned correctly. The club dress code is all black,
which suits me, as it’s pretty much the only color I wear.
Pushing through the heavy door, the beat of the music hits me, and I scoop my long ponytail onto my
other shoulder.
Julia, Neil, and Vash are behind the bar, mixing drinks with the efficiency and skill I hired them for. I
stand silently at the edge of the room, unobserved, checking the lay of the land before I head into the main
space.
There’s a long line of people clamoring for drinks, but that’s nothing new. What surprises me is the
volume this early on. It’s Friday, so of course it’s going to be busy, but this is impressive for us and shows
how popular the club is becoming.
Flynn is gonna be thrilled.
I move away from the bar, giving a nod to Julia, who flicks her pink bangs out of her eyes as she
throws me a little wave.
I weave through some rowdy guests and head upstairs, ke eping an eye out for anything that might
need my attention—but everything’s running smoothly.
Jensons, our family-run nightclub, isn’t as big as some of the larger clubs in the city, but I like to think
that’s what ke eps people coming back. We pride ourselves on a more personal experience, and that still
seems to count for something.
As I reach the central atrium, I skim a hand over the rail, glancing down into the main club. The dance
floor below me is wide and spacious, with VIP spaces set at intervals along the edges. The DJ booth,
banked against the top wall, is perfectly wired for sound; huge plasma screens behind the decks are
pulsing to the beat thrown out by the speakers on either side.
Heading to the top floor, I nod to a few regulars on my way through.
Both the upper rooms are open tonight: The Green Room and The Blue. My brother Flynn isn’t into
overcomplicating things and named them after the color of the furniture in each one.
The Green Room is the largest and opens out onto a wrap-around terrace above the city, which is
usually frequented by vapers. I can see the clouds of white steam rising in the cold night air as I enter.
“Drinks flowing?” I ask Mitch, one of the security guards stationed on the left of the wide doorway.
He glances at me.
“You bet, boss.” I nod and move on, st epping up to the bar, catching the eye of both bartenders. Their
happy smiles tell me all I need to know. It’s busy here, but not as crazy as downstairs, and they’re on top
of things.
When I head into the blue room, however, I can tell immediately that something’s off.
The blue room is a chill space for groups to talk and wind down, deliberately k ept s eparate from the
heaving bodies on the main dance floor, with softer, more eclectic music. It’s become our most popular
area for women to sit with their friends and chat the night away over cocktails.
Alexa, one of our servers, catches my eye the second I walk in, and my hackles rise, knowing that
means trouble.
I remain outwardly relaxed, wandering the floor, ke eping an eye out for whoever she’s alerted me to.
Then I see them. It’s a group of guys at the table in the corner. One of them has kicked off his shoes;
leather Tom Ford’s left haphazardly beside the booth for anyone to trip over.
Another server, Marty, is beside the table with a tray of drinks. I can tell by her body language that
she’s uncomfortable, standing further back than she normally would. I remain still, watching as one of the
guys reaches out, stretching his long fingers toward her ass.
I wait. I’ve acted too fast before and paid for it dearly. I need a reason to go over there, even though
my gut is screaming at me to go and help.
Marty would usually get rid of a guy like this herself, but I can see that his friends are deliberately
distracting her. This feels like a routine these guys carry out often. The hand of Mr. No Shoes brushes her
thigh, and she st eps away. Marty glances at him, and I see her lips move—a short response, polite but
firm.
Then he does it again, and I advance. His fingers are moving toward her inner thigh when I grab his
wrist so hard my nails curl sharply against the vein.
“Fuck, get off me bitch,” he slurs, tugging at his arm as I stand motionlessly beside him. I nod my
head for Marty to return to the bar.
We exchange a resigned look, but she goes without protest. I know how capable she is, but she
shouldn’t have to deal with assholes like this.
I look down at him. He’s squirming, trying to get his arm free. “You made a mistake,” I say gently,
not even acknowledging his stupid friends in my periphery. I loosen my hold on his wrist and place his
hand gently onto the table. “You meant to catch my server's attention, but instead you almost grabbed her
ass.”
He snorts, his friends all smirking like it’s funny. “I apologize,” he says. “I was just getting tired of
the slow service.”
The music is softer here, but it’s still hard to hear him. The cocky ones are always the least impressive
when they’re challenged about their behavior.
“I understand,” I say, passing around the drinks from the tray Marty left on the table.
I don’t know what they’ve each ordered, but I make a guess, and I’m spot on. Bourbon, vodka, and an
Old Fashioned for this little dickhead.
“Here you go,” I say sweetly, placing the glass down in front of him. “I’m sorry if you think you’ve
been waiting too long. I want you to have a great night tonight, so if there are any more problems, ask for
Jax Jenson, and I’ll be right over.”
There’s a flicker of recognition from him as he realizes my last name is the same as the name of the
club. But it doesn’t instill respect. Oh no. Being r eprimanded by a woman is a challenge for a guy like
this.
Behind my back, I silently signal to the security guard, Lenny, at the edge of the room. I can predict
what’s about to happen without even trying.
“Thanks,” he says, running his eyes languidly over my body as he drinks half of his cocktail in one
swallow. “So are you the head waitress?”
“Manager,” I r eply. “You should take a load off and come join us,” the dickhead says and scoots a
little further along the booth, patting the space beside him like I’m a dog.
“Tragically, I have to work,” I say calmly. “Work? What do you even do? Waltz around in a mini
skirt, assaulting people?”
“Trust me, if I assault you, you’ll know it.” There’s a chorus of ‘oohs’ from the table, like they’re
fifteen-year- old high school boys. These guys are young and stupid, but the swagger has faded from them
a bit. The tense atmosphere cools as I consider moving on.
Maybe I was wrong, and he’s not as arrogant as I thought. Then I feel it. The edge of his finger is
sliding up the back of my thigh. I let him get an inch higher and then wrench him out of the booth, flip
him over, and jam his arm so hard against his back that I could dislocate his shoulder.
He screams in pain, and the hum of chatter around us stops. All I can hear is the guy’s labored
breathing and the thump, thump, thump of the music.
“You were warned, asshole,” I hiss into the guy’s ear as he struggles ineffectually to get up. “Len,” I
bark out, as the security
guard st eps up beside me, impassive and solid as a fucking rock. “Would you kindly show this man
and his friends where the door is?”
“Right away, Ms. Jenson,” he says cooly. The dickhead is still struggling beneath me, and I press my
full weight into his back.
“Clearly, you haven’t been to this club before. I have a zero- tolerance policy on little assholes like
you getting their kicks with my staff. You picked the wrong woman to put your hands on tonight.”
I pull him upright, shoving him at Lenny, who has him pinned in seconds as another member of my
security team arrives to escort his friends out. They’re a lot less vocal now as I eye their leader with
intense disdain.
“If you ever set foot in this place again, you’ll be leaving in cuffs with a bloody nose courtesy of the
manager.”