The club was called “Neon Vice”—because of course it was. You could hear the bass from three blocks away, thumping so hard it rattled your ribcage and made you think about every questionable decision you’d ever made. It was the coolest nightspot in town—exclusive, expensive, and packed with people who cared way too much about being seen. Naturally, I had to get inside.

Bones? Not so much.

“Places like this are all noise, overpriced drinks, and people trying too hard,” he grumbled behind me as we approached the velvet rope. “I hate ‘em.”

“Lucky for you,” I shot back, strutting ahead with all the confidence of someone who belongs everywhere, “you’ve got me to get you in.”

The line stretched down the street, and the crowd outside was a mix of people who looked desperate to get in and people pretending they didn’t care. I didn’t even break my stride, heading straight for the bouncer—because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that confidence opens doors.

The doorman was built like a tank, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my bike. He looked me up and down with the kind of bored expression that said he’d seen it all.

“Name?” he asked, not even glancing at Bones, who’d hung back just far enough to look like an awkward chaperone.

I tilted my head just right so the neon lights caught my jawline—sharp outfit, sharper attitude. “Rebel Vale.”

For a second, the bouncer’s mask slipped. Recognition flickered in his eyes before he schooled it back to boredom. He nodded, pulling a sleek ticket from his pocket and handing it over.

“Here’s your ticket, miss.” Then his eyes shifted to Bones—who, let’s be honest, looked like someone’s disgruntled uncle in his striped jacket and perpetual scowl. “But sorry, no room for dad here.”

Bones stiffened beside me. I could practically hear his jaw creak as it tightened, and I knew, I knew, he was about to lose it.

So, naturally, I stepped in.

“Oh, he’s not my dad,” I said, voice light and dripping with mischief.

And before he could so much as blink, I grabbed Bones by the collar and kissed him.

Not just a kiss, mind you. A full-on, slow, deliberate, French kiss, the kind they write songs about—if the songs are meant to leave the audience completely stunned. I didn’t hold back either, because subtlety has never really been my thing.

Somewhere in the background, I heard a gasp, a muffled laugh, and someone shouted “Is this a movie trailer?!” The doorman’s stoic mask shattered into full-on fluster, and the people in line started murmuring like we’d just turned the velvet rope into a soap opera set.

When I finally pulled back—slowly, for maximum effect—I grinned, wiping my thumb across my bottom lip like I’d just finished dessert.

“There,” I said, turning back to the doorman. “Problem solved.”

Bones? Poor guy. He stood frozen, his face somewhere between beet red and blank as a chalkboard. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but I guess words hadn’t quite rebooted for him yet.

The doorman cleared his throat, suddenly flustered. “Uh… yeah. Go ahead. Both of you.”

I smiled sweetly and sauntered through the velvet rope like I’d just bought the place. Bones stumbled after me a second later, still silent. Once we were past the door and the pounding bass swallowed us, I leaned in close to him, voice low and teasing.

“You’re welcome.”

Bones finally managed a response, though it sounded like gravel dragged across concrete. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

I didn’t even look back, already striding into the pulsing lights and waves of music. “Only if the bass doesn’t do it first. Admit it, Bones. That’s the most action you’ve had in years.”

He muttered something unintelligible—probably a mix of swearing and regrets—but I didn’t care. I’d already melted into the crowd, leaving him to shake his head and follow me inside.

Neon Vice had no idea what it was in for.