—•TRISTAN•—
The bass from 049 Club pounds through the floor, a deep, relentless pulse that vibrates up my legs as I push open the door to the VIP section.
Inside, the air is thick with expensive champagne and too much cologne, while dim amber lights gleam off the rows of bottles lined across the tables like soldiers awaiting orders.
"Look at the man of the hour!" Jason's voice cuts through the music, loud and slurred.
I spot him immediately at the far end of the booth, sprawled across the leather seat in a dropped-shoulder charcoal tee and distressed black jeans, a magnum of champagne clutched in one hand like a trophy.
Sammie sits opposite him in an unbuttoned khaki utility shirt layered over a sleek black ribbed tank, paired with matching slim-fit cargo slacks, wedged between two wo
