Promiscuous Lies (Vengeful Lies #2)

7. Posie

CHAPTER 7

Posie

D utton hasn’t been at the club for the last two weeks, which I’m thankful for. But to say I haven’t been looking for him would be a lie. Because I’m certain he’s going to try and ruin my fucking night.

When I think of the boss of a gentlemen’s club, I think of an old, rich man who is a sleaze. But Dutton is definitely not that. Assuredly, he’s an undeniable asshole, but I’ve realized he barely interacts with any of the other dancers. The dancers, however, gossip behind his back as to how they all wish they were fucking him. If only they understood what they were asking for. Yes, the man’s beautiful, in the same way an ice sculpture is. He looks like he’s been built by God’s divine hand, but his personality could freeze over the Sahara Desert.

That’s most likely why I can’t bite my tongue around him. I’m positive that this man is used to everyone obeying him and throwing themselves at him, and I just can’t do it. I promised myself I’d never do that for a man again. I wonder if that’s why he’s so hard on me because he’s not used to someone telling him no.

Tonight, the club is closed to guests but open for the staff to celebrate three years of being open. Dutton supposedly puts on a celebration every year and hires caterers. In those three years, he’s allegedly also opened another eight gentlemen’s clubs internationally. And I heard that’s why he’s been gone the past two weeks; he’s in Italy to open another one. That’s what one of the girls said, but they gossip about everything, so who knows if that’s fact or if he’s off conducting other lucrative business. Or maybe he’s on a pleasure trip because, for sure, that man is up to no good in his spare time.

I only agreed to join the party for a few hours tonight because, apparently, he’s never attended the celebration, and there are prizes to be won. One of the girls bragged about winning a twenty-carat diamond bracelet last year, so it’s fair to say I’m intrigued. Again, rumors are a wild thing here.

I considered taking the night off, but when Amy was readily available, I thought, why not? Apart from work, I don’t really do anything without my son, and that’s not exactly social. I just hope it’s worth it, so I don’t consider paying the babysitter tonight a waste of money.

So here I am, walking into the club—without lingerie on for a change—and finding mostly everyone already here. I know I’m late, and it’s not that I intentionally do it to piss people off, but I prefer to have dinner with my son before I leave.

I place my bag on the table in the back, then reapply my lip balm—the cold has been wreaking havoc on my lips—and I ease into the sound of everyone enjoying themselves out on the main floor.

“Late as usual,” someone says from behind me, and Dutton walks in.

My breath hitches because I forgot how intense his ocean-blue gaze and dangerous aura are. Two weeks without this man is not long enough to wipe away the fact that despite being beautiful, he’s an asshole.

I focus back on the mirror and pucker my lips. “Seems I’m right on time if the boss is only arriving now.” He briefly looks me up and down before coming to a stop behind me with his hands in his pants pockets. I’m sure it must be different for him to actually see me in clothes for once, and yet, somehow, I feel even more judged than when I have my body on display.

I’m dressed in jeans tight around my waist and ass, which flare at my ankles, a shirt that says something about riding a cowboy, and my hair is up in a bun.

Samantha bursts through the door, wearing a short pink dress. “Yay, you’re here!” She runs up to me and almost tackles me in a hug.

“How much have you had to drink?” I ask her. It’s only then that she realizes Dutton is in the room, and her demeanor changes, if only slightly, because the alcohol won’t let her act any other way. He’s taken two considerable steps back, however.

She wisely chooses to ignore him and place her full drink into my hand. “You have to catch up, come on.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the main floor.

I sniff the drink and am blinded by the toxicity of the vodka. “Jesus, Samantha, did you put a dash of orange juice in this just for kicks?”

“That’s what happens when the brats get into the liquor cabinet like dirty little raccoons,” Mike says as I’m dragged past him. “Want me to get you something drinkable?” he quietly whispers to me, and I nod silently.

A few of the other girls with whom I don’t work many shifts are dressed more presentably than we usually do. I’m sure this is a warm-up for a wild night out.

Paula steps in front of Samantha, cutting her off, and I’m so fucking grateful I could kiss her. “Help me,” I mouth.

Paula keeps her expression composed as she asks Samantha to give us a moment.

“Okay, but you better have finished that drink by the time I return! I’ll pour us another one!” Samantha says giddily. I don’t even know if she’ll make it out tonight.

She skips to the bar despite premade drinks being readily available by a hired bartender.

Mike walks over to Paula and me, and she says, “I didn’t think you would come.”

“Free food? How can I pass that up?” I say with a smile as I place the toxic concoction of Samantha’s drink on the high-top table beside me.

“Well, I was shocked you left your house,” Mike says, pulling me in for a side hug and placing a flute of bubbly liquid into my hand. “Here, have this, these taste great.”

“Thank you. I didn’t think I’d come, but here I am,” I say triumphantly as I notice Dutton speaking with one of the security guards; however, he’s staring at me. I take a sip of the drink and focus back on Mike as he complains.

“You never come out when I ask; it hurts my feelings,” he says, brushing my shoulder with his playfully.

I laugh. “You know I don’t go out. Ever. It’s too expensive, and I’d rather be in my PJs at home.”

He rolls his eyes. “You sound like a woman in her fifties, not a twenty-four-year-old.”

“Hey!” Paula interjects. “There’s nothing wrong with being in your fifties.”

Mike lays his hands over his heart dramatically. “But, madam, you don’t look a day over thirty. I never knew.”

“Smartass.” She smirks, and takes a mouthful of her drink. I follow her lead and sip from my own. It tastes festive and decadent but too sweet for my liking. However, the buzz it offers me isn’t all that bad.

Paula excuses herself from our conversation to start the games.

Mike cozies in as we watch Samantha drunkenly grind on the pole with two of the other girls. We’re laughing as one of them stumbles. They’re having the best time, and it’s moments like this that remind me I’m only in my mid-twenties. I imagine this is what a lot of women around my age are doing—going out and having fun. I can’t remember the last time I had fun. Well, at least like this.

“How come you don’t go out now and then? You’re hot as shit,” Mike says as he places his empty flute behind me. I swallow the rest of mine and set my glass next to his.

I shrug. “My money can go elsewhere. I don’t want to jeopardize my financial security. It just doesn’t seem worth it.”

Mike leans against the counter. “You never really told me much about your family. Do you not have any here?”

I don’t remove my gaze from the girls. I don’t like sharing much about myself. I overshared on the night I met Paula in the hospital, but it was to my benefit, I suppose, since she offered me a job. But that doesn’t mean anyone else needs to know more about me; keeping everyone at a distance is better.

“Nope, just me and Bentley,” I tell him.

“Bentley?” a voice cuts in, and Mike and I both jump. Dutton is standing behind us, holding two glasses of champagne. He offers me one and then holds the other out to Mike, who takes it with a nervous smile. “You don’t wear a ring, so I didn’t think you were married.”

“I’m not,” I reply flatly as I raise the glass to my lips and turn my back to him to watch the girls again. He stands beside me, unfazed by my obvious want to shut the conversation down. I don’t like people prying into my personal life.

“So, who is Bentley?” he pushes.

“How about you tell me about the last woman you fucked, and then I can decide if I want to share that information with you.”

Mike chokes, half his mouthful dribbling back into the glass. “Don’t mind me,” he wheezes.

“I don’t usually share that information, but since you asked so nicely…” Dutton turns to Mike. “Care to give us a minute?”

Mike nods hastily, as if appreciative of being excused, then walks off, still coughing. I internally sigh. I’d much rather spend my evening with Mike than with Frosty the Snowman over here. Yet, I’d be lying if I said there isn’t a small part of me that’s curious. What kind of woman is my cold-hearted boss into?

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to shake off the cold intensity of this man when his undivided attention is on me. It’s unnerving.

“Why do you look like you want to run?” he asks.

“I Googled you,” I tell him, gripping my glass. He raises a brow. All sorts of wild speculation came up in my search. Him being involved with the mafia. Associates he’s had that have simply vanished—the type of wealthy family with parents who’ve been able to provide him with absolutely everything.

I know his type.

Dangerous.

Cunning.

Often with a God complex.

And that matches the description of this asshole, without a doubt.

“You did?” he purrs, and for some reason he sounds satisfied.

“Yes.”

“And what did you find?” His voice is like honey, coaxing in a way that probably makes many people fall for his charm. I’m not that type, though.

“That you come from money. And you opened this place yourself to escape your father’s businesses. There’s speculation you’re attached to the Italian mafia as well. Killed anyone lately?” I ask rhetorically.

He smirks. “Are you asking for my body count? And who can trust those gossip blogs? Nasty little things, they are.”

“Okay, so tell me the truth.” I don’t expect this man to give me a lick of truth because why should he?

“The truth, huh? Okay. Your first question was who I last fucked. Last month, I met a girl named Tamina. We attended the same function, and I took her out the back door of the event, fucked her in the alley, and went about my night. Since then, no one. I’ve been too busy.”

“A man too busy for sex? That’s a first,” I mumble into my glass as I take another sip.

“I’m constantly surrounded by sex,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Yes. I suppose you are.” I take another sip, unsettled by how he stares at me even when I watch the others. “Do you fuck your employees?” I ask, and finally look up at him.

“No, I do not.”

A relieved sigh escapes me, and I glance away, hoping he didn’t notice. But he did.

“That appeases you. Tell me, Posie, did you think I wanted to fuck you?”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t say no either. And I’m certain ‘no’ is your favorite word.”

“I just thought how sad it’d be if the turnover rate of the dancers were high because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”

He chuckles then, and I’m so surprised that I stare at him in bewilderment. “Oh my God. He understands humor, after all. Frosty the Snowman can actually laugh.”

“You don’t seem to be able to refrain from speaking your unfiltered thoughts to your boss, do you?” I look away, uncomfortable with the mesmerized state I was in simply because he chuckled. Jesus, maybe these drinks are more potent than I think.

“Now, since we’re getting to know each other, why don’t you tell me when was the last time you had sex.”

I consider lying. I don’t like that he’s asking personal questions, but I have to take it if I can throw it his way.

“About six years ago.” I don’t usually share that with anyone. It’s the truth, but I also want to rattle him with the information. I’m curious about his reaction, and it disappoints me, to say the least. I expected him to express a bit of surprise, but I got nothing.

“You hate men?” he asks curiously.

“Who said I don’t like men?”

“True. So you hate women?”

I go to take another sip and realize I drank it all. He waves over a waitress, who provides me with another glass and takes the empty one. Damn, is this asshole trying to get me drunk?

But then I glance over at Samantha, who is wearing a bucket on her head, and decide I’m nowhere near drunk.

“I don’t hate women either. I have a lot going on, and my last relationship didn’t really leave me with high hopes.”

“Was it with a man or woman?” I can’t help but smirk at his question. He’s very inquisitive.

“With a man.” I pause, considering the women in front of me. “Though women are beautiful, so I may be in the wrong lane.”

“You aren’t,” is all he says before the security guard near the door waves him down. He excuses himself and walks off. I feel relieved the moment he’s gone, and I don’t entirely understand why he puts me on edge.