JACOB
The low pulsing of dance music.
The bite of whiskey on my tongue.
The smell of s*x in the air.
All signs that it was going to be a good night at the club.
My club.
“Another pour, Mr. Nichols?”
I pulled my eyes away from the writhing masses on the dance floor and turned slowly in the direction of the voice. It belonged to Sean, one of my bartenders.
He held a bottle of Macallan in his hands, my drink of choice, and the expression on his face mirrored the rest of my staff ‒ that perfect blend of respect and fear.
I glanced down at my glass, noticing it was a little low.
“Yes, Sean. Another pour.”
He nodded, taking the glass, and poured a splash of booze inside. My bartenders always poured me a bit extra than standard. While I appreciated the sentiment, it was a bit early in
