38. Riley
Riley
C allihan?
Keenan?
A small alarm bell starts chiming in my head—faint but insistent.
Frat boys and fake names go together like beer pong and bad tattoos. Probably just another rich-boy alias, desperate to keep daddy’s precious rep squeaky-fucking-clean.
Or worse…the asshole is married.
While Mila giggles obliviously as Decker tongue-assaults her ear, I roll my eyes and reach for my phone to conduct an impromptu background check.
And stare, frustrated, at the blank, cracked screen.
Awesome. Just what I need.
I tap it.
Shake it.
Not even the faintest flicker of life.
By the time I glance back up, Mila and Decker are already vanishing through the doors.
I step forward to follow, but the bouncer snaps the velvet rope back in place.
“Invitation?”
Is he kidding me? I’ve been standing here the entire goddamn time. His voice is low, gritty—like he scraped it from the bottom of a whiskey barrel.
“I’m with them,” I say, waving toward the doors and pointing out the obvious.
The bouncer doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even fucking breathe.
Apparently, all that humility he practiced on Decker has vanished—evaporated faster than yesterday’s viral TikTok.
“Sure, you are,” he says, like he’s heard it a million times tonight.
Gritting my teeth, I yank out my phone. “I’ll just call them.”
Which I would—if it would actually turn on.
Ugh .
A wave of groans and muttered curses rises behind me, pressing into my spine like the muzzle of a loaded gun.
When the only thing standing between Chicago’s most exclusive sin-fest and an angry mob who’ve waited hours for their depravity fix is me, my odds of survival plummet straight to fuck-all.
With a sheepish sigh, I shove my paperweight of a phone back into my purse, exhale slowly, and plaster on a honey-dripping smile.
Then I bat my eyelashes for all they’re fucking worth.
“I swear, I’m with them,” I coo, charm dialed up to eleven.
The bouncer’s smirk spreads slow and deliberate. “You are?”
“Yup. Just ask Decker Callihan.”
His smirk deepens. He leans in, thumb and finger pinched tight, voice a cruel whisper. “Ooh, so close. But that’s not his name.”
Shit .
“Keegan. I meant Keegan.”
“You mean Keenan?”
Oh, goddamnit.
“You’re gonna need to move it along.” He waves me off.
I stay rooted to the spot.
Not out of bravery, but because Mila’s trapped inside with Creepy McCreeper, and I will not leave her.
Mistaking my fear of surviving the night for pure stubbornness, his voice dips lower. Quiet. Dangerous. “Don’t make me get rough with you, sweetheart.”
Rough with me? And… Sweetheart?
Is he fucking kidding me?
As if it’s not bad enough having Mount Kilimanjaro’s homicidal cousin looming over me, ready to erupt—now he’s patronizing me too?
Officially the second asshole tonight to call me sweetheart .
Somehow, I doubt losing my shit on him like a chihuahua snapping at a linebacker’s ankle will do much good.
Fine. If at first you don’t succeed…
I switch tactics, snatching the first excuse that crashes through my panicked brain.
“I’m a dancer,” I blurt out.
“A dancer?”
“I am.” Technically, not a lie.
The bouncer says nothing.
Just… snarls.
Look, I’m sure worse things exist than freezing my nipples off at the front of a hundred-person line, the Chicago wind chewing at my ass like a rabid pit bull while I stare down a bouncer built like a tank with the charm of fresh roadkill.
Like, say, getting booted from said line.
Call it delirium or good old-fashioned idiocy, but I jab his stupid iPad anyway. “Check. Your. List.”
He exhales deeply, the universal sign I’ve just secured a spot on his permanent shit list. I silently pray Dante didn’t delete my record.
A full minute ticks by before he finally thrusts out his massive hand.
“ID.”
Before he can reconsider, I slap my driver’s license into his palm.
He barely glances at it before flicking it back like a used stick of gum.
“You’re not getting in without a sponsor.”
“What?” My stomach sinks. “But the other dancers got in.”
“The other dancers were twenty-one.”
“And?”
“And tonight, nobody under twenty-one without a sponsor. Not even dancers.”
Instead of moving it along, I dig my heels in harder. “A sponsor? What—like I’m in AA?”
“No,” he drawls, impatient breath hissing through clenched teeth. “Like you need babysitting. From a club member.”
“A club member?” You mean like Dick-curd, whatever-the-hell-his-name-is? He was supposed to be my goddamn sponsor.
Not that it matters now.
The bouncer’s smirk widens, cruel amusement glittering in his eyes as he pats me on the head.
Pats. Me. On. The. Head.
“No sponsor, no entry. Run along, tesoro. ”
Tesoro?
Did this asshole just call me sweetheart— in Italian?
Screw this.
Yeah, I know better than to poke a pissed-off bear. But since when have I ever chosen self-preservation over Scottish defiance?
And since I’m me—stubborn, cold, and probably hobbling home on the bleeding stumps of my feet—I can’t let this bullshit slide.
I summon every scrap of Italian I picked up during my internship and bite out, “E io che pensavo che i fottuti Neanderthal fossero estinti.”
Translation: And here I thought fucking Neanderthals were extinct.
His smirk flatlines faster than a cell signal in an elevator.
Honestly, I should be cowering. Should be terrified I just insulted a guy who could flick me to the curb like a cigarette butt.
But fear left the fucking building five minutes ago. Rational thought went along for the ride. Before I can muzzle myself, I double down, blurting out the first reckless thing that leaps to mind.
“I demand to see the owner!”
The moment the words leave my lips, a spike of panic hits me like a freight train.
Shit. Please don’t let Dante actually be here.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Sadly, a taser comes to mind.
But then—it happens.
A voice punches through the simmering tension, low, rough, and carrying one absolute command.
“Let her in.”