Justin disconnected the call with a sharp exhale, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat. Adam was a lost cause. A fucking menace.
He gripped the wheel and floored the gas, the G-Wagon's deep growl vibrating through the cabin.
Vegas mornings were weird—a mix of joggers, early risers, and drunk rich assholes stumbling home like they survived a war. Neon signs still flickered, and traffic was light enough for Justin to weave through like he owned the roads.
By the time he pulled up to Sapphire's VVIP entrance, the place looked exactly like what you'd expect from the most exclusive strip club in Vegas—blacked-out windows, gold-accented doors, and security so stiff they could've been Secret Service rejects.
The parking lot was a fucking flex. Ferraris, Rolls-Royces, tricked-out Lambos—one obnoxiously pink Bentley that screamed 'some influencer bitch is inside.'
