Chapter 17—Tommy #2
But a nagging voice in the back of my head warns that what I’m feeling isn’t going to go away. It will just increase. For better or worse.
“She wakes,” I muse, drawing her eye to me before she once again looks around.
“What is this place?”
“My office.”
“Your office?” She says the words slowly, as if it’s a language she doesn’t understand. And maybe it is. Few people know where I work. I’m not hiding it, but I’m definitely not advertising.
The space is large, and from her wide eyes, she’s taking in what I’m not saying. That this is where she’ll be performing. When I need someone distracted, it will be done here, with the window view into the club and her beside them, cuddling up to them while we talk business.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat at the image.
One I planted myself and thought would be a good idea.
But the more I think about it, especially after what happened a few hours ago, I’m not sure if I can handle seeing another’s hands on her.
I might have to install a stripper pole instead and teach her to dance on that, far away from wandering fingers.
Looking at her, I can deal with. I’ve dealt with it since I started. I see that she pulls a crowd, draws the eye. And while I might not be thrilled at all the eyes on her, I can curb my jealous nature so long as they’re only looking.
I might have to test myself before I put her in use, see if I can handle her with someone close.
I’d rather not kill a potential business associate in the club because the green rage monster came out.
Never really was the jealous type before, but something about Payton makes me think that might be a thing of the past. At least where it concerns her.
Ignoring her, I return to the books in front of me. I go over them nightly before sending them off to Bobby to have his team double- and triple-check shit. We’re still not bringing in as much as I expected. Either I really suck at this, or we still have a thief in our house.
And unfortunately, it’s not Carl. I have an entire team tailing him night and day.
Phones and laptops tapped, cameras on every inch of space I can find that he occupies.
And nothing. He either got scared the second I showed and dropped contact with the person helping him steal, or he hasn’t been contacted at all.
Which makes me think it’s another person in this club.
Someone else is stealing from me, and I can’t figure out how.
Which pisses me off. Well, me and Bobby.
He takes it personally when money goes missing.
All of it is his responsibility, like Danny with security.
If money isn’t where it should be, it means he’s failing. His words, not mine.
We Leones are all like that. Strongheaded assholes who might lead as a family but take it personally when shit goes bad.
Which is why we’re so awesome. No one blames the others because we all blame ourselves enough.
No one is a worse critic than yourself. And while we all know we can lean on the others to help, we try to figure shit out on our own first. To work out the obvious and not just give up and pull resources from another department. Or brother.
“What are you looking at?”
I don’t flinch at her nearness. I wasn’t planning on tracking her, but the moment she rose, I knew where she was out of the side of my eye while I reran the numbers.
She went to the window first, checking out the club below.
My bet is we’re at half capacity both because of the late hour and because she, the starring attraction, is done for the night.
She didn’t sleep the night through, just an hour or two.
Long enough for me to review shit and for the crowds to die down a bit.
Her feet then took her around the room softly, as if on ballet slippers instead of the heels she usually wears when at the club.
I make a mental note to add carpet to my office. Having her barefoot is much more appealing for me than clunky shoes that probably hurt.
When she comes close, it’s harder than I expect to keep looking down. And now that she’s asked a question, I find it even more difficult. So I give up the pretense that I’m going to magically solve the issue that’s plagued this club for months and take her in as I answer her.
“Net profit.”
It’s a vague phrase, but she nods anyway as if it makes all the sense in the world. The motion forces a part of her hair—which I had released from its confines, along with the mask she had tied to her head—to slip past her ear and fall into her face.
Without hesitation, I rise and come around the desk.
Her movements still, and I revel in the fact that she doesn’t back away as I raise my hand and slide that one piece of hair back to where it belongs, then cup her cheek.
Her lips part on an exhale, and I move my hand down till my thumb can trace her bottom lip.
The one she bites so frequently. It’s far too plump from how often she nibbles on it, even with the split in it.
I have half a thought to lean in and taste them, but then her stomach grumbles. I smirk at the subtle reminder that while she might owe me a debt, I’m the one responsible for keeping her from falling apart.
“Come on. Let’s get you fed.”