Brandon's POV
The neon sign above Harbor Lights pulsed weakly, throwing fractured blues and reds across the sidewalk. The light wasn't bright enough to call attention, but maybe that was the point. Jason had texted me earlier, to meet him there, said it was just a "quick hangout" to blow off steam before the Soundforge madness kicked into high gear.
I didn't buy it. Jason never wanted just a hangout. Not with me. Not unless there was a crowd, a party, or an angle. But I showed up anyway, my hands shoved deep into my pockets as the night air pressed cool against my skin.
Harbor Heights had always been a monster of an enterprise—hotel, resort, residential complex, golf course, even a damn yacht dock. Harbor Lights sat tucked inside, a restaurant-slash-bar that pretended to be humble but clearly wasn't. The faint smell of fried food and spilled beer greeted me the moment I pushed through the heavy wooden doors.
