The bass wasn't just music; it was a physical assault. It was a rhythmic, violent thumping that vibrated in my teeth and rattled the expensive ice in my crystal glass. For three nights straight, I had been the version of Cole St. James that the world-and my own ego-expected. I was the centerpiece of the VIP booths at The Obsidian and The Vault, the guy who bought rounds for the entire floor without looking at the tab, the "Hollow King" who never slept and never looked back.
Jax and Theo were in their element. They flanked me like a Praetorian Guard, their faces flushed with the heat of the club and the high of the status. They were constantly introducing me to new faces, new girls, new distractions. They were trying to "redeem" me, to wash the scent of jasmine and the sound of Maya's rej
