Okay chapter one. Please keep in mind what I said below... the male character is NOT a nice man. Basically if you like him after this there's something wrong with you because he has more issues than vogue!! But that is what the readers come for, they want the heroine to get put through the ringer and see her come out the other side.
Also I tend to type as I think and worry about spelling and awkward sentences later, so it's by no means the final product.
Enjoy! Or slate me (it wouldn't be the first time 
)
Chapter One
Cillian
Asylum’s upstairs office door nearly swings off its hinges as my brother, Cole, swaggers into the room.
He’s not due in tonight, but he’s wearing a Canali suit as black as his hair. That could mean he intends on working, or it could be a sign of an imminent three day cocaine-fueled bender.
Only time will tell.
He holds the door open for Sarah, his newest conquest, and the GBX music from downstairs in the club is loud enough that I feel it in my throat.
I’ve tried to explain GBX a few times to people who don’t originate from Scotland, and never quite found the words. Imagine taking a popular song like Stand by Me, or The Gambler, speeding it up and adding a belter of a bass. It’s impossible to simply listen to GBX and think hmm, that’s nice. Nah, when you listen to GBX you’re a stone's throw away from spunking every penny you own on drugs and texting your boss on Monday morning telling him to shove up his job up his arse.
GBX is a drug-dealer’s dream, basically.
But as soon as the door swings closed behind him the sound of the music fades away to nothing.
And thank fuck for that.
I’m in no mood for it tonight. It’s only just gone midnight and every floor is full to bursting. It would be good for business, if this place was actually a legitimate business and not just an excuse to rinse money, but I try not to think about that. Or the fact Cole swore it would be easy. It would only piss me off, and my mood is currently shite enough without dwelling on that.
I’ve already been called downstairs twice.
Twice, and the doors haven’t been open two hours yet.
People can say what they want about men and our violent ways, but in the three years we’ve owned this place I’ve seen more catfights than fistfights. Tonight, it was a stiletto. A fucking stiletto. At least men generally have the decency to step outside with our shoes on when we have a problem.
All I want to do is read my paper catch up on the week’s football fixtures but Cole’s already switching on the TV and firing up the volume.
He puts the controls back on the desk where I’m sitting and I quickly turn the volume down a few notches. This has been standard procedure since we were sprogs and TV’s were as thick as they were wide. I used to think the cunt was deaf, but now I know he just needs noise. He doesn’t even care what noise, just as long as there’s something loud to listen to.
Maybe it drowns out the voices in his head, who knows.
Tonight, it’s the news he chooses to fill the silence with.
“Someone needs to fuck some sense into that woman,” Cole says, pointing his unlit cigarette at the flat-screen on the wall while he fishes in his pocket for a lighter.
Sarah, the girl who’s been following him around like a lost puppy for the past six weeks, covers her mouth to make her giggle look cuter.
“Is that you volunteering?” I ask Cole while looking at Sarah.
And just like I predicted, it wipes the smile clean off her face.
Good.
I have a complicated relationship with Sarah.
That’s code for: I wouldn’t piss on Sarah if Sarah was on fire.
And I have my reasons for that.
I close my paper and kick my feet up on the desk to hear what the daft bitch on TV is prattling on about.
It fills me with great pride to say the rest of the world will look towards us. We’ve always been the progressive nation.
Cole is shaking his head, and Sarah just looks bored.
Politics and Sarah clearly don’t mix.
A nation willing to do what others would so easily shy away from.
The woman on the TV is doing that thing all politicians do, where they make a fist with their hand and bash it down against an invisible desk every time they say an important word. It looks fucking stupid seeing a man doing it, but on a woman it is downright farcical.
Especially a woman like her. She’s lucky if she’s five foot with heels on. She wears glasses that make her eyes look small and beady, and her thick brown hair is cropped so short that from behind you’d mistake her for a man. All the female politicians seem to have those daft haircuts. Maybe they think it’ll make people take them more seriously. I don’t think they’re fooling anyone.
I glance over at my brother to gauge his reaction, one fist clenched and the other one squeezing that cigarette for dear life.
This is not a war on drugs. This is a chance for peace. A chance for hope. A chance for future generations to grow up in a world without that war taking place on their doorsteps.
“Fucking turn her off, Kill. I can’t be dealing with her anymore.”
I switch the channel up one, and some random nature documentary comes on.
As they mature, young males begin to explore the boundaries of the pride’s territory.
“Now there’s a man you can trust,” Cole says, pointing the end of his cigarette at the lion on the television. “That’s a man I could get behind. He knows the way of the world.”
I laugh at his quick change of mood.
“I’d vote for him instead of that stupid bitch,” he continues.
“You should have gone for the old TV gangster trope,” I suggest. “Crime-lord slash drug-baron turned politician. I can see it now. Cole Hendry for First Minister”
He laughs at that. “Aye. You couldn’t have suggested that before we started this shit-show?”
I shrug my shoulders. “It’s never too late to change your mind.”
“It’s too late,” he says, almost choking on a deep breath of smoke. “Meisie’s downstairs.”
I lean forward in my chair. “She’s what?”
Cole turns his head towards me. Sarah’s blonde head is moving back and forth between us like a little ping-pong, trying desperately to keep up.
“Can you get rid of her or something?” I point my head in Sarah’s direction.
Cole laughs. “She’s fine. She barely knows what planet she’s on. One too many lines, eh darlin’?”
Sarah blinks at him.
Still, I don’t like her knowing our business. It would be different if he ever actually settled down with one of them, but everyone except Sarah knows she’s unlikely to last another fortnight. Two months is about Cole’s limit.
“You said she was downstairs?”
He nods his head and stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray, blinking rapidly as the smoke burns his eyes. “Aye. Spotted her in the Violet room. Why do you think I’m here? I thought you’d want me to cover the shift for you.”
I rub my chin, turning my attention back to the flat screen. The narrator’s moved on to chronicling the demise of a pretty little impala that seems wholly unaware of the cheetah stalking it in the tall grass.
This is it.
The night we’ve been waiting for.
It’s taken three weeks of Catfishing Meisie on Bumble. And when I say Catfishing, I do mean Catfishing. I was me, with my own face, and the bitch swiped left. Swiped left! So I had to adjust my age and resort to using a photo of this skinny Justin Beiber look-alike from America, who I aptly named Justin.
She swiped right for Justin.
I’ve been asking her to go on a date with me for the last fortnight, and honestly the girl is impenetrable. Think Princess Fiona in a dragon guarded tower, surrounded by Takeshi’s fucking Castle with machine gun turrets and German Shephard’s patrolling the perimiter.
And in this story, Princess Fiona wears a chastity belt.
You can’t send dick pics to Princess Fionas, which is usually my fool-proof method. The smart ones run a mile but there are enough size-queens in the world for that not to matter. I had to woo her the good ol’ fashioned way, and that takes time and a lot more charm than I usually dish out.
So to hear she’s downstairs is surprising, to say the least.
She’s been led to believe that Justin aka my pretty-boy persona works the bar here on Friday nights. I'd hoped that one day curiosity would get the better of her. And it appears that day is today.
Now I just need to make a girl who came here looking for Justin Bieber want to go home with a six foot six, two-hundred and forty pound reprobate, who’s at least ten years older than her.
Aye, simple.
I stand up from my chair and crack my neck both ways before heading to the door.
“Behave yourself,” Cole says.
“Fuck yourself,” I shoot back.
He knows I’ve never been fully on board with this plan since he first thought it up on one of his acid induced higher-level-strategy meetings (not even shitting you). So he likes to take every opportunity he can to rub it in my face.
I wonder if he’d be as enthusiastic if he was the one actually having to do it, but that’s not the role each of us plays. Cole keeps his record clean and his nose straight, while I, quite literally, deal with all the dirty work. My nose is still physically decent looking though, touch wood.
The thump of GBX music pounds in my chest as I make my way along the dimly lit corridor and down the first flight of stairs. These stairs lead to the upper level, where you have a view on all four sides down to the main dancefloorthe Violet roombelow.
Third time tonight I’ve come down here, and it’s only gotten busier each time.
I can barely move through the throngs of sweaty bodies stumbling around and making a piss-poor attempt at dancing. Dancing. Debatable. Some of them are just blatantly fucking with clothes on.
Giving a nod to one of the bouncers, Derek, I continue around the upper level, my eyes scanning between both the floors. Sometimes my height comes in useful, but it’s as much of a curse as it is a blessing. I feel like the only adult in a room full of children, with the exception of Derek. And these children are hyper and full of sugar, and they’re messing up my house.
And because they’re mostly smaller, their faces are a good foot beneath mine, which makes hunting out a particular face a nightmare.
According to her profile she’s five foot one inch. And a Capricorn, whatever the fuck that means. She never drinks, she never smokes, and she’s never doing children. Makes me wonder what she does do, but I’m not actually that interested.
But, fuck, five foot one. She could be anywhere, including standing under one of the taller tables and using it as a playhouse. Would not surprise me, going by her age. She’s legal, but only just.
I lean my arms over the metal railing and scan the bar downstairs.
Bingo.
She’s surrounded by a bunch of boys. I’m going to say at least half of them haven’t yet sprouted ball hair. I make a mental note to kick every single one of the doormen’s arses later for not double-checking their ID. You can only let a seventeen year old in if they’re female, that’s the rules of nightclubs and everyone knows it. But her little posse is actually a good sign, because it means she’s not hung-up on Justin.
And if she’s not hung up on Justin, she might just be up for what an actual fully grown man can offer her.
Maybe.
For her sake, I hope so. Because the alternative is only going to get messy, and I’ve had enough of manhandling women tonight.