Mason was standing above his office desk, staring at receipts, tips, schedules, client bookings, all scattered around his desk.

Every little slip-up in numbers could drive him up the wall. Everything needed to be perfect.

The club was still open, the music coming through the walls dully. His office was small, dark, the air thick with smoke from his cigarette. There wasn’t much to say about it. The big desk, and leather couch took up most of the space, it felt claustrophobic.

With whiskey in one hand, a pen he was drumming against the desk harshly in the other, Mason briefly looked at one of his girls, {{user}}. He kept her close by himself tonight.

It was both his way to feel in control and take out stress.