Chapter 16 #2
I don’t know whether I want to shake her or drag her out of here or lock every door in the building and make sure no other man gets eyes on her for the next decade. Probably all three.
The skirt falls.
The room erupts.
And something in me snaps so cleanly I feel it. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet, final fracture.
She’s in lace , with confidence and challenge and God help me, there is not one uncertain thing in her posture. She’s not shrinking. She’s not apologizing. She’s not asking. She’s taking up space.
And every man in this room is seeing what I’ve been trying not to see for years.
That she’s not a girl. That she’s not safe. That she’s not some harmless little fixture in the background of my life I can keep boxed up forever and still expect to sleep at night.
She’s a woman. And she’s standing under stage lights making me feel like my own skin is too tight while thirty men stare like they’ve been handed a gift they do not deserve.
The rage is instant. Hot enough to make my vision sharpen around the edges.
A guy near the stage actually gets to his feet, probably trying to get a better view, and I move before I think.
Just one step. Not enough to start something.
Enough that Blaze’s hand lands hard on my forearm. “Don’t,” he says low.
I look at him.
He sees something in my face that makes him tighten his grip for half a second before letting go slowly, like he’s trying not to escalate whatever’s already crawling under my skin. “You start swinging now,” he says, voice pitched just for me, “you’re gonna have to explain why.”
I don’t answer.
Because that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?
How the hell do I explain this?
How do I explain that I’m standing in a strip club I partly own wanting to cave in the skull of every man in the room for looking at a woman I have no right to feel this way about?
How do I explain that Landon’s sister is on stage and I’m reacting like a man who forgot his own name three songs ago?
How do I explain that every second she keeps her eyes on me feels less like a performance and more like a direct hit?
You don’t. You just survive it. Barely.
The song keeps moving.
Allie keeps moving with it. And every look she gives me is another nail in the coffin of whatever lie I’ve been telling myself all this time.
Off-limits.
Safe.
Manageable.
Bullshit.
All of it.
Because there is nothing manageable about the way I feel right now. There is nothing safe about the thoughts in my head. And there is definitely nothing off-limits about the way my body is reacting to the sight of her up there looking at me like she knows exactly what she’s done.
She does know. That’s what kills me. She knows. And she’s still doing it.
The song starts driving toward the end, the beat heavier now, the room louder and rougher around me, and all I can think is that I need this over before I lose what little control I’ve still got left.
She gives the crowd one last slow turn. Then she looks at me again.
Straight through the noise. Straight through the lights. Straight through the last pathetic scraps of denial I had left.
And in that one look, I know two things with absolute certainty.
First: she did this for me.
Second: it worked.
The song cuts.
The room erupts all over again. Cheering. Whistles. A low chorus of male approval that makes my vision go white for half a second.
Allie doesn’t even acknowledge most of it. She just keeps her eyes on me for one final beat. And there’s something in her expression that hits like a blade under the ribs.
Not triumph exactly. Not satisfaction. Recognition.
Like she can see it on my face. Like she knows I’ve come apart in ways I can’t fix now.
Then she turns and walks off stage.
That’s it. That’s the end of whatever thin leash I had on myself tonight.
I don’t think. I don’t weigh consequences.
I don’t remember that Landon’s somewhere in this room.
I don’t remember that I’m in public. I don’t remember a damn thing except that she’s walking away and I’m done standing still while she detonates my whole life and disappears backstage like nothing happened.
I shove the untouched beer into Blaze’s chest hard enough that he catches it on reflex and mutters, “Ah, hell.”
Then I go after her.
The hallway is too narrow for the way my head is spinning.
That’s the first thing I register when I push through the backstage curtain. Too narrow. Too quiet compared to the chaos I just left behind. Too empty of everything except her.
Allie is halfway down the hall, one hand braced against the wall like she’s catching her breath, the other still holding the edge of the curtain she just slipped through.
Her shoulders rise and fall once, twice, like she’s trying to steady herself after the lights, the noise, the adrenaline of being on that stage.
For half a second, I just stand there and look at her.
Because she’s different now. Not physically.
Not really. She’s still in the same lace and bare skin and heels that have been driving me out of my mind for the last three minutes.
Her hair is still loose, a little messy now from movement, her cheeks flushed from the lights and the effort and something else I can’t quite name without admitting too much.
But something shifted.
Something in the way she holds herself. In the way she breathes. In the way she just walked off that stage like she owned it.
Like she owned me.
That thought lands hard enough that I start moving before I can talk myself out of it. “Allie.”
She turns. And there’s no hesitation in her face. No surprise. Like she knew I’d come. Of course she did. “You shouldn’t be back here,” she says. Her voice is steady. Too steady for what just happened.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
There it is. Not hello. Not are you okay. Not anything remotely reasonable.
She lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Wow.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
We’re standing too close already.
I didn’t notice the distance closing, but it’s gone now. There’s maybe a foot between us, maybe less, and every inch of that space feels charged with something that’s been building for years and finally found a crack big enough to break through.
“You think that was a good idea?” I ask, my voice lower now whether I mean it to be or not.
“I think it was my idea,” she shoots back.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her eyes flash. “I don’t actually care what you asked.”
That hits.
Not because it’s new. Because it’s not.
She’s been pushing back lately. At Ambrosia before. At the clubhouse. At every weak excuse I’ve tried to throw between us and call it control.
But this is different. This is her standing in front of me with nothing left to soften the edges.
“You had every guy in that room—”
“I had you,” she cuts in.
The words land like a punch.
I stop.
She doesn’t. “I wasn’t looking at them,” she says, stepping closer, voice dropping just enough that it hits harder. “I was looking at you.”
Yeah, I noticed.
Christ, I noticed.
“That doesn’t make it better,” I say, but it comes out rougher than I mean it to.
“It makes it honest.”
We stare at each other.
Everything else fades. The noise from the club. The voices down the hall. The music starting up again as the next girl takes the stage.
None of it matters.
Because she’s right here. Because she’s still looking at me like that. Because every wall I’ve been holding up for years is cracking straight down the middle.
“You wanted me to see you,” I say.
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No apology.
Just yes.
Something in my chest tightens. “And now I have,” I add.
Her chin lifts. “Good.”
That should be the end of it. That should be where I walk away. Where I take the hit, accept whatever this is, and put distance back between us before it gets worse.
Instead, I reach for her.
I don’t even think about it.
My hand closes around her arm, not rough, but not gentle either, and I pull her with me down the hall toward the office before either of us can say another word.
“You don’t get to—”
“Allie, not here.”
I don’t give her time to argue. I push the office door open, pull her inside, and shut it behind us harder than necessary. The click of the lock is loud in the quiet.
And then we’re alone.
The room feels smaller than it should. Or maybe it’s just us. The air between us is too tight, too full, too loaded with everything that just happened and everything that didn’t happen for years before it.
She pulls her arm free. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shoot back.
Her laugh is sharp. “I’m not the one dragging people into their own office like I’ve lost my mind.”
“You haven’t noticed?” I step closer. “I’m way past that.”
That lands.
I see it in the way her breath catches. In the way her shoulders pull back just slightly, not retreating, just bracing. “You don’t get to do that,” she says.
“Do what?”
“Act like you get a say in what I do, then turn around and—”
“And what?” I cut in, because I can feel it slipping again, that last thin thread of control I’ve been hanging onto. “Stand there while you put yourself on display for a room full of men?”
“I wasn’t on display for them.”
“You were on a stage.”
“I was looking at you.”
“Exactly.” The word comes out harsher than I mean it to. Or maybe exactly as harsh as I do.
She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m being intentionally impossible or just naturally like this. “You don’t get to be mad about that,” she says.
“I’m not mad.”
“Then what are you?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t have a clean word for it.
Because angry doesn’t cover it. Because jealous sounds weak compared to what this actually feels like.
Because turned on is the last thing I’m willing to admit out loud when it’s tangled up in everything else running through me right now. Because what I am is too much.
And I know it.