People say I attract trouble. They're wrong. Trouble chases me. The roar of my motorcycle echoed through downtown as I pulled up outside Black Velvet, the kind of luxury bar where rich people paid ridiculous prices to pretend they weren't miserable. I killed the engine, ran a hand through my dark hair, and slipped my helmet onto the handlebars. Friday night. That meant loud music, overpriced whiskey, and terrible decisions. Exactly what I was looking for. The second I stepped inside, the familiar rush hit me. Bass shook the floor beneath my boots, neon lights painted everyone's faces different colors, and the air smelled like expensive perfume mixed with liquor. Couples laughed too loudly. Businessmen loosened their ties. Some were celebrating. Others were hiding from something. Me? I was just here to have a good time. I slid onto a barstool and ordered a bourbon, drumming my fingers against the polished counter while I looked around. Most people bored me after five seconds. Then I saw him. He was sitting alone a few stools away in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my motorcycle. Broad shoulders. Dark hair with just enough gray to make him look distinguished instead of old. A wedding band caught the light as he swirled a glass of whiskey without taking a sip. Now that was interesting. He looked like he hated being here. I couldn't stop staring. There was something about him—like he'd spent his whole life following the rules and somehow ended up just as unhappy as everyone else. He noticed me looking. Our eyes met. Most people either smiled or looked away. He frowned. I grinned.