Clubs

CLUBS SUIT SERIES BOOK 2 KYLE IRENE KYRA CONTENTS Content Warning Playlist 1. Mikhail 2. Mikhail 3. Sloane 4. Sloane 5. Mikhail 6. Sloane 7. Mikhail 8. Sloane 9. Sloane 10. Mikhail 11. Sloane 12. Mikhail 13. Sloane 14. Mikhail 15. Sloane 16. Sloane 17. Mikhail 18. Sloane 19. Sloane 20. Mikhail 21. Sloane 22. Sloane 23. Mikhail 24. Sloane 25. Mikhail 26. Sloane 27. Mikhail 28. Sloane 29. Mikhail 30. Sloane 31. Sloane 32. Mikhail 33. Mikhail 34. Sloane 35. Mikhail 36. Mikhail Acknowledgments Want to keep in touch? Clubs Copyright © 2023 by Kyra Irene All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or certain other noncommercial use permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical and current events, all names, characters, and events are product of the author’s imagination. Book Cover Design and Formatting by Books and Moods Editing by Bryony Leah For Ana, may your nightly visions come true. CONTENT WARNING Your mental health is very important to me. If you find any of the following to be triggering, please put yourself first. Sexual assault, loss of a parent and sibling, death, murder, violence, and trauma. PLAYLIST “Mockingbird” — Eminem “Dreams” — The Cranberries “Me and Your Mama” — Childish Gambino “Everything I Wanted” — Billie Eilish “Superstar” — Sonic Youth “It’s All in Vein” — Wet “Fly Me to the Moon” — Frank Sinatra “Elastic Heart” — Sia “Oblivion” — Labrinth “Reflections” — The Neighbourhood “Let You Scream” — St. Loreto “Home” — Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros “Feeling Good” — Michael Bublé “West Coast” — Lana Del Rey “Sway” — Michael Bublé “Leadlight” — Julia Jacklin CHAPTER 1 MIKHAIL Fifteen years ago . . . I watch the way his hands curl around the sweating glass of vodka. He sits at the bar like he owns it. He could. By the way his suit clings to his body, it looks as if it was tailored to fit his every curve perfectly. Everything about him screams money. I look down at myself. I look nothing like him. My clothes are ripped to shreds and my shoes are on their last life. The rubber is falling off, the seams frayed beyond repair. “Mikhail.” Kirill mutters my name. “You need to do it this time.” His pale skin is far more bruised than mine. “Okay.” His gaze his cold, though I’m not surprised. It has been for a long time. There was once life in those spotted amber eyes of his. It doesn’t matter how long you stare into them—there is nothing left. They’re dark. Deadly. Just as I’m about to take a step toward the bar, he wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling me back to him. “You need to be strong if you want to eat.” “Okay,” I tell him again. Sometimes this way of life is illegal, but no one cares to acknowledge that. Money is paper, and yet people go feral over it—myself included. But here’s the thing about money: it doesn’t matter how much someone makes, they will always live paycheck to paycheck. The more buck they make, the more their standards for living increase. I could have a very high-paying job, but would I pocket anything? No. Because once I get to that point, I’d want a house with ten bedrooms I’d never use and a six-car garage for the cars I’d never drive. Money is the most fucked-up thing mankind relies on, yet here I am stealing it. I know how wrong stealing is, but it’s our way of life. Going back home isn’t an option for us anymore. “Home” isn’t the right word for that place. It’s a hole-in-the-wall filled with my father’s things. Empty bottles cover the table. Every passing hour he adds three more. The couch is stained with his urine. Maggots crawl over the half-finished meals he spends all our money on. The house never sees the light of day. The TV’s on for hours on end while my father sits on the couch with his mouth gaping open attracting flies. His teeth are rotting, and he never does anything to fix them. He eats like a king while Kirill and I only get an uncooked box of noodles for dinner every night. My body screams for nutrition, but I’m not able to get any. Every time I come home to see him shoving mounds of food into his mouth, I cling to the hope that one day . . . one day I will be able to eat like him. There is a thing about hope that no one cares to acknowledge: it only answers the people who already have everything in life. People who have money don’t have the worries I have. Their vision isn’t clouded by the foul play life constantly throws in my face. I hate the life I have. While I am thankful to have a roof over my head, I can’t help but wonder how grand my life could have been if I had a parent who actually cared about me. No child my age should have to worry about when their next meal will be or if they will even get it. Is a warm meal really that much to ask for? The kids at school have it. Most of their parents even write notes in their lunchboxes wishing them a good day. My mouth salivates when I see their lunches. If their midday meals are that good, I can’t even begin to imagine what their dinners look like. Their parents probably tuck them in at night and wish all the bad dreams away before they shut their eyes. I will never have that. All my life I’ve been called “responsible for my age”