37. Riley
Riley
H e pulls Mila into a hug, but his gaze sticks to me. I may as well be hand-dipped in chocolate with a sign that reads: Free Dessert.
Jesus.
From everything she’s told me, Mila’s taste in men remains terminally fucked. Honestly, she should’ve stuck with the biker—give me leather jackets, ink-covered muscles, and brooding glares over frat-boy entitlement any day.
“You came!” she gushes, practically glowing. “How’d you get here so fast?”
He shrugs, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I, uh, was in the area.”
Which should set off every goddamn red flag, considering the only things remotely worth being “in the area” for are the sleazy X-rated bookstore and the sketchy vape shop selling everything from Special K to airtight alibis.
He slides a hand onto her ass, and the way Mila’s spine instantly stiffens tells me she wasn’t expecting it. Or remotely appreciating it.
I’m half a breath from stepping in when Mila eases him back, flashing me a sharp, don’t-you-dare look.
“Riley, this is Decker.”
He winks, flashing a smile that belongs on a wanted poster. “Decker Callihan. Of the New England Callihans.”
I blink, completely deadpan. “Who?”
Mila giggles—nails-on-a-chalkboard nervous. “She’s such a kidder.” She turns back to him, voice pure syrup. “You did promise we’d skip the line.”
The weasel shrugs, pulling her tighter by the waist. “For a price.”
He leans in and claims her mouth.
And it’s just— eww.
Like he’s trying to wet-vac every calorie of her last meal straight from her teeth. It’s about as romantic as watching someone deep-clean a fish tank. With their tongue.
Well, with that, I’m thoroughly annoyed, hangry, and entirely not in the mood for Decker.
Or, as I’ve now permanently branded him in my head, Dick-curd.
He finally detaches his jaw from hers and struts toward the front of the line, dragging Mila along—who latches onto my arm like I’m her newfound emotional support animal.
I exhale a slow, aggravated breath.
Yes, I need a night out—I won’t deny it.
But what I absolutely do not need is to play the deflated third wheel in one of Mila’s infamous, inevitably catastrophic romances.
And that’s exactly what this is.
Take Dick-curd, add tequila, shake vigorously. His face will be buried in someone else’s cleavage before you can finish saying, “Another round of shots.”
He ushers us up front, sliding a card to the bouncer.
“You owe me,” he murmurs to Mila. And to me.
“I was perfectly happy waiting in line,” I lie, smiling with enough artificial sweetness to stock a gas station pastry aisle.
“You’d have waited a long fucking time, sweetheart,” Decker drawls, arrogance oozing from every polished syllable, perfectly paired with his American Psycho vibes. “This place requires a membership, and tonight’s VIP only. Been meaning to check it out.”
He winks.
I gag.
This. Right here. This is exactly why guys like him push me to thermonuclear levels of irritation.
The place requires a membership, yet he claims he’s never been. Tonight’s VIP-only, yet he can magically waltz us right in.
So which is it, Decker? Never been here, or a member? VIP, or just full of shit?
But before I can open my mouth and unleash my outside voice, two women dressed to kill slink right in front of us.
Their satin, braless tops gleam under the streetlights, baiting every hungry gaze on the block.
Especially Decker’s. Shocker .
One of them tilts her head, lips curving into a sultry, shy-but-definitely-not smile. “We’re dancers,” she purrs, voice dripping honey—a faux apology for cutting the line.
Decker diligently frisks them for concealed weapons. With his eyes.
“See you inside,” he murmurs, blatantly eye-fucking them from head to ass as they glide past.
The enormous bouncer doesn’t even blink. He calmly checks their names and faces against a photo roster, then lifts the velvet rope and lets them through.
And Decker—fucking Decker —has the audacity to skim his hand along one dancer’s bare back as she sashays by.
My eyeballs nearly pop straight out of my skull.
I yank Mila aside, my voice low and lethally sharp. “You are the queen of interrogation. So why, for the love of God, aren’t you crawling straight up this guy’s ass and calling his lies bullshit?”
She leans in, whispering urgently, “First of all—eww. And second, we, queens of the circus monkeys, deserve an amazing night out. He’s our golden ticket.” Her eyes widen dramatically, hands clasped beneath her chin. “Please?”
My glare begins to soften. Just a fraction.
My gaze catches on a scar etched into Decker’s hand—deep, jagged, painfully intricate. I lean in slightly, curious, because it almost looks deliberate, like a design, when?—
He squeezes Mila’s ass.
My irritation flares like herpes at a Vegas bachelor party.
I’m about to unleash holy hell on him when?—
“You’re not on the list, sir,” the bouncer says flatly, his massive six-foot-nine frame looming ominously above us.
Decker flashes his black card.
Of course he fucking does.
King Kong remains thoroughly unimpressed. He shifts his tone from barely polite to absolutely zero-fucks-given. “I don’t need your card, sir. I need your invitation.”
“Right.” Decker pulls out his phone, swipes to something, then flashes the screen at the bouncer.
And now I’m curious—what could possibly be on that screen?
Oh, right. Probably the membership card belonging to Mr. Innocent Church-Boy who’s supposedly never stepped foot inside this place.
He also volunteers with the Chicago fire department, bottle-feeds orphaned puppies, and is a card-carrying ‘V’, saving himself for “the one.”
The bouncer barely glances at Decker’s phone before his entire demeanor flips.
Those massive shoulders loosen. His intimidating posture deflates.
He shrinks. Visibly fucking shrinks.
That threatening, don’t-make-me-snap-you-in-half-and-eat-you-like-a-KitKat energy? Gone.
His voice slips into something almost… respectful.
“Yes, sir. Right this way, Mr. Keenan,” he says, unclipping the velvet rope with a deferential nod.
Wait.
Hold the fuck up.
What name did he just say?
Because I’m pretty sure Dick-curd introduced himself as a Callihan.
You know—of the New England Callihans.
Didn’t he?