Chapter 4 4

The bass of the house music thumped against Harper's ribcage. She slammed the shot glass onto the marble bar. The burn of the tequila was the only thing that felt real.

"Easy, tiger!" Chloe grabbed Harper's wrist before she could signal the bartender again. "That shot was fifty dollars. Fifty. Dollars."

Harper slumped onto the bar, resting her chin on her folded arms. Her eyes were glassy. "Bradford said I was a negative asset, Chlo. A negative asset."

Chloe sighed, wrapping an arm around Harper's shoulders. "You have me. And you have your... you know. Your skills."

Harper waved a finger in the air. "Shh. Zero is offline. Tonight, it's just pathetic Harper."

She spun around on the barstool, leaning her back against the counter to survey the room. The Velvet Room was dark, sexy, and filled with people who looked like they were allergic to carbohydrates.

Her gaze drifted upward to the second floor. A glass-walled balcony overlooked the dance floor. The VIP area.

The lighting up there was dim, but she recognized the silhouette immediately. The wheelchair.

He was sitting alone in the corner of the box. There were people around-men in suits, women in dresses that defied physics-but he was isolated. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, staring out at the writhing crowd below with that same detached, cold expression he'd had in the car.

"Chloe," Harper slurred, pointing a finger upward. "Look at him."

Chloe squinted. "Whoa. That's the Owner's Box. You don't get in there unless you own a country."

"He looks..." Harper tilted her head. "Lonely."

"He looks rich," Chloe corrected.

"No," Harper insisted. The alcohol was making her sentimental. It was making her project her own broken heart onto the stranger. "He's like me. Discarded. Just watching everyone else live."

An idea formed in her tequila-soaked brain. It was a terrible idea.

She dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. She opened Venmo, then realized she didn't know his name. She shoved the phone back and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

"I'm going to buy him a drink," Harper announced. "Solidarity. Us broken toys need to stick together."

"Harper, no!" Chloe grabbed for her, but Harper was already moving.

She stumbled toward the stairs guarded by a man the size of a vending machine.

"Private area, Miss," the bouncer grunted, stepping in her path.

Harper blinked, her hacker brain suddenly firing through the fog of alcohol. She subtly tapped her phone against the edge of the bar's POS terminal, then looked at the bouncer's earpiece. "Your comms frequency is jamming," she said confidently, pointing to a spot behind him. "The captain on the left is trying to reach you. Sounds urgent."

The bouncer frowned, instinctively touching his ear as a burst of static hissed through it. He turned his head to check his colleague.

In that split second, Harper slipped past him like a ghost.

She wobbled up the stairs and pushed open the heavy glass door to the VIP box.

The sound of the music instantly dampened to a dull thrum. The air inside was cool. Every head in the room turned to look at her.

Jefferson looked up. He saw the girl from the car-disheveled, holding a twenty-dollar bill like a weapon. His brow furrowed.

Harper marched right up to him. She stood over his wheelchair, swaying slightly.

She slapped the wrinkled twenty dollars onto the small table beside his drink.

"Hey, handsome," she said, her words running together. "Don't be sad. Legs can be fixed. Hearts... hearts are harder."

A collective gasp went through the room. Two men in suits started to reach inside their jackets.

Jefferson raised a hand, stopping them. He looked at the bill, then up at Harper. His eyes glittered with something dangerous.

"Is this..." he said slowly, "a tip?"