Lust Meter System: Conquering Beauties-Chapter 76: Big Money Move 3

They walked.

The two men led the way, moving down the sidewalk with the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing nobody would mess with them.

Their hands stayed in their pockets, their strides relaxed but purposeful.

People on the sidewalk moved out of their way without being asked, stepping aside with quick, nervous glances.

Liam followed a few steps behind, his eyes scanning the area as they moved.

Tasha walked beside him, quiet, her cap pulled low over her eyes.

Davies trailed at the back, his face pale, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. His shoulders were hunched, his steps hesitant.

They turned off Ashford Avenue onto a narrower side street. The change was immediate and jarring.

Liam noticed the buildings here were older, shorter, packed closer together.

The paint on the storefronts was faded, peeling in long strips.

The windows were smaller and dirtier, some covered with bars, others boarded up entirely. Fewer people walked these sidewalks.

A man in a stained coat sat against a wall, a bottle wrapped in a paper bag at his side.

His eyes were glazed, unfocused.

Two teenagers leaned against a chain-link fence, smoking and watching the group pass with wary eyes.

Liam also noticed pavement was cracked, weeds pushing up through the gaps.

Trash collected in the gutters—crumpled fast-food bags, empty soda cans, cigarette butts, a torn newspaper fluttering in the breeze.

The air smelled different here too. Stale. Like old garbage and exhaust fumes.

After two blocks, the taller man stopped in front of a low brick building with a flat roof.

The brick was dark, almost black in places from years of grime and pollution.

There were no windows on the ground floor, just solid brick and a single metal door painted dark green.

The paint was chipped, revealing rust underneath. No sign. No markings.

The shorter man pulled the door open and stepped inside without looking back.

Liam followed.

The interior was dim, lit by a few bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling on frayed cords.

The light they gave off was yellow, sickly.

The walls were bare concrete, unpainted, with stains running down in places where water had leaked.

The floor was scuffed linoleum, peeling at the edges and curling up near the walls, revealing the concrete underneath.

A hallway stretched back, narrow and claustrophobic, ending at another door about twenty feet away.

The group walked down the hallway, their footsteps echoing off the concrete. The air smelled stale—cigarette smoke, sweat, and something faintly metallic that Liam couldn’t quite place.

The shorter man pushed open the second door.

The room beyond was larger—maybe thirty feet across and twenty feet deep.

A few mismatched couches lined the walls, their cushions sagging and stained with God knows what.

One of them had duct tape holding a torn seam together.

A card table sat in the corner with a deck of cards scattered across its surface, some face-up, some face-down.

Poker chips were stacked in uneven piles—red, blue, white.

Three more men were inside.

Two sat on one of the couches, both wearing tank tops and jeans.

One had tattoos running up both arms—snakes, skulls, something that might’ve been a dragon, all rendered in black ink that had faded to blue-gray.

The other had a shaved head and a thick gold chain around his neck that glinted in the dim light.

The third man leaned against the wall near the card table, arms crossed, watching with half-lidded eyes.

He wore a black hoodie and track pants, his hands shoved into the hoodie’s front pocket.

All of them looked up when the door opened. Their conversations stopped mid-sentence.

At the back of the room, sitting in a worn leather armchair that looked like it had been scavenged from someone’s curb, was a man in his mid-thirties.

He was lean, wiry, with sharp features that made his face look angular even in the dim light. High cheekbones. A narrow nose. His hair was slicked back, black and shiny, reflecting the light from the bulbs overhead like oil. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and his dark eyes were sharp, calculating, the kind of eyes that missed nothing.

He wore a dark blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that were corded with muscle.

His slacks were black, pressed with a sharp crease down the front, and his shoes were polished—expensive-looking leather loafers that gleamed even in the poor light.

They seemed completely out of place in a room like this.

His fingers drummed slowly on the armrest of the chair, a steady rhythm, tap-tap-tap, as he watched the group enter. His expression was neutral, unreadable.

The taller man from before stepped forward, jerking his thumb toward Liam. "Boss, got someone here to see you."

The man in the chair didn’t move.

His eyes shifted to Davies first, and a slow smile spread across his face.

It was the kind of smile that didn’t carry any warmth—just amusement at someone else’s expense, like watching a dog chase its own tail.

"Davies," he said, his voice smooth and almost playful, like he was greeting an old friend at a party. "My favorite real estate agent. Back so soon?"

Davies forced a smile, though his jaw was tight enough that the muscles in his neck stood out.

"Hello, Shay."

Shay leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His smile widened, showing straight white teeth.

"You know, I’m starting to think you enjoy bringing people here just to watch them walk away. Is that it? You get some kind of sick thrill out of it? Like some kind of..." He waved his hand in the air, searching for the word. "...masochistic hobby?"

Davies didn’t answer. His hands stayed in his pockets, his fingers curled into fists.

Shay’s eyes moved away from Davies, sliding over to Liam, then to Tasha, then back to Liam.

He tilted his head slightly, like he was studying a painting in a gallery, trying to figure out what the artist was going for. "And who’s this?"

The taller man gestured toward Liam with a lazy flick of his hand. "New guy. Says he’s willing to pay."

Liam’s voice cut in immediately, sharp and clear. "I never said that."

The room went still.

All eyes turned to him.

The shorter man blinked, his scarred face twisting in confusion. "What?"

"I said," Liam repeated slowly, his voice calm and measured, "I never said I was willing to pay."

Shay’s smile faded.

The amusement in his eyes died, replaced by something colder, sharper.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers lacing together.

His eyes locked onto Liam’s, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

"You looking for a death wish, kid?"

’He’s not taking me seriously at all.’

Liam didn’t flinch. He held Shay’s gaze without blinking, his expression calm. "No. Just looking at the situation."

"And what situation is that?" Shay’s voice was quieter now, almost conversational, but there was an edge to it.

Liam glanced around the room, his eyes moving over the men on the couch, the man leaning against the wall, the two who’d brought him here.

Then his gaze returned to Shay. "Judging by the group of people here and the way you all look, I’m thinking you’re not the conversational type."

Shay’s expression didn’t change. His fingers stayed laced together, his eyes fixed on Liam.

"So instead of talking in circles and wasting everyone’s time," Liam continued, "I’m here to have a fight with the person making the rules. I win, I get what I want."

Shay raised an eyebrow.

He leaned back in the chair again, his fingers resuming their slow drumming on the armrest. Tap-tap-tap. "And what is it you want?"

’Nice—he’s interested. Time to see if he’ll agree. Now to make the stakes high enough that he’ll actually fight me.’

Liam paused, then smiled slightly—just a faint curve of his lips, barely visible. "At first, I just wanted the business. Open my shop, run it without interference. Simple."

He took a step forward.

"But the more I think about it, the more I realize that even after I get it, there’s still going to be problems. You’ll keep coming around. Keep making demands. Keep testing me to see how far you can push. And that’s not going to work for me."

He stopped a few feet from Shay’s chair.

"So I don’t just want the business. I want everything. I want you to bow down to me."

The room was silent.

Dead silent.

One of the men on the couch let out a low whistle, long and slow. The man against the wall shifted his weight, his arms uncrossing, his hands coming out of his hoodie pocket.

Shay stared at Liam for a long moment, his face completely unreadable. His fingers stopped drumming.

Then, slowly, he leaned back and laughed.

It started as a quiet chuckle, barely audible, then grew louder, echoing off the concrete walls.

He shook his head, wiping at the corner of his eye with one finger. "You’ve got balls, kid. I’ll give you that. Biggest pair I’ve seen walk through that door in a long time."

He stood, his polished shoes clicking against the linoleum as he walked closer.

He stopped a few feet from Liam, hands sliding into his pockets, his dark eyes studying the younger man’s face.

"Alright," Shay said, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. "Let’s say I entertain this crazy idea of yours. What’s in it for me if I win?"

Liam met his gaze without hesitation. "You win, I give you every dollar I have on me. And I bow down to you."

Shay’s smile returned, slow and sharp, like a knife being drawn from its sheath. "Every dollar?"

"Every dollar."

Shay nodded slowly, pulling one hand from his pocket. He extended it toward Liam. "Deal."

Liam took it.

The handshake was firm, brief, their eyes locked the entire time. Neither man blinked.

Shay stepped back, his smile widening into something almost predatory. His eyes gleamed in the dim light. "This is gonna be fun."