3. Wyatt
WYATT
Most people think head of security means standing around flexing your arms until someone with a neck tattoo picks a fight.
Maybe you get to yell at a few drunk assholes, walkie your code reds, and then collect a big sweaty hug from the owner at the end of the night.
That’s what it looked like when I worked the casino in Vegas. That’s what it looked like on tour.
But here at The Sterling Rope, head of security is a full-contact chess match.
Every angle, every person, every goddamn bottle left unattended is a potential disaster waiting to crawl out from under a leather couch and bite you in the ass.
It’s only my third night and I already know the layout of the club better than my own brain.
Tonight is a new member welcome party, so the guests are all loaded or desperate to appear loaded.
The main lounge has the atmosphere of a midnight confession booth with low lights, and everything filtered through a warm, hush-hush dimness.
The air is perfumed with expensive cologne and the sharp ozone tang of disinfectant.
From my perch at the upstairs landing, I can see almost everything including the main bar, the black booths along the wall, the hallway to the private rooms, and the stage where tonight’s “special performance” is scheduled for midnight.
There’s a persistent low soundtrack, equal parts moaning and jazz.
At seven fifteen, the side door vestibule camera blinks letting me know the new waitress is coming in. Club policy says I watch her diligently for the first few days to make sure she understands and plans to follow the rules. The auto-door hisses and in walks a tall, curvy woman.
Then she steps into the light and the world tilts, hard.
Her hair is a dark, glittery auburn that spills in curls down her back, the bounce of each lock making the club’s subtle neon reflect off her skin.
Her eyes are blue, and not the boring cornflower blue of the Midwest, but a radioactive blue, like someone supercharged the sky just to fuck with my brain.
She wears the standard waitress uniform of a tight, short goddamn pencil skirt, tight ass too-small black top, and ugly ass flats.
On any other woman it would look like a Halloween costume bought at the last minute, but on her, it’s motherfucking stunning.
The skirt clings to her hips like it was sprayed on.
The blouse gapes just enough at the chest to suggest a mistake, but I can tell from the way she carries herself it’s one hundred percent intentional.
She moves with a purpose, not the shuffling half-assed lope of the veteran waitstaff, but a no-bullshit strut that says “I’m here, I’m working, don’t you dare fucking look away.”
I sit back in my mostly hidden alcove and try to refocus on the security feeds, but my mind is already running a background process dedicated to watching her.
An hour later, I catch myself doing a full, unblinking scan of the room, only to notice her again, now just twenty feet away and carrying a tray of stemless glasses. There are six other staffers on the floor, but none of them register as anything but background static.
She pivots around a booth, sidestepping a banker with too much aftershave, and flashes the hint of a smile at the bartender as she passes. The asshole actually drops the bottle opener, and I feel the sudden urge to deduct points for unprofessionalism, then I remind myself I’m not one to talk.
I’m still tracking her when I hear a voice at my left, low and amused.
“You have the look of someone who just saw his future walk in.”
Roman Sterling doesn’t sneak up on people, but he’s mastered the art of the perfectly-timed approach. He’s traded his suit for dark jeans and a navy polo, but still radiates the menace of someone who could bankrupt you over breakfast and then pay for your Uber so you can get home.
“You’re seeing things,” I say, leaning on the railing and pretending not to care.
Roman grins, shark white. “Uh-huh. You can’t fool me.
I’ve seen that look way too many times to count.
” He follows my gaze. “That’s Naomi Bardot.
Hometown girl. Supposed to be smart, tough.
Tried her hand at acting but didn’t make it far.
” He glances sideways, reading my face way the fuck too easily.
“You want a formal introduction, or are you planning to just stare until she notices?”
“I’m working,” I mutter. “I’ll introduce myself later.”
“Be careful.” Roman leans in, voice dropping.
“She’s young.” I didn’t really need his warning.
I can see Naomi is young. I’ve gotten pretty good at judging whether or not girls are legal after years of practice.
The gorgeous redhead is definitely legal but probably not by much.
She’s way the fuck too young for me but that doesn’t matter.
Something is drawing me to Naomi, and I don’t plan on resisting.
“Handle this shit the right way. Last time we had a staff romance it ended with a sex tape, a civil suit, and two ruined carpets.” This is a story I definitely need to hear sometime.
“Make sure it ends up with a marriage and babies this time.” His words send a longing cutting through me that shocks the fuck out of me.
I’ve never considered myself the settling down type but now it’s all I want.
I’m about to reply, but Naomi catches my eye from the bar.
For a split second, it’s just us, both of us locking in and holding for much longer than necessary.
All the blood in my body heads straight for my cock waking the motherfucker up.
As I struggle to keep my predicament hidden, she looks away, her face a perfect mask, but there’s a quick flutter in her lashes that says she’s not immune.
Roman claps my back. “See. It’s mutual. Don’t wait too long to make a move or someone else might get to her first.” Oh hell fucking no. No other man is going to make a move on my woman right in front of me. Fuck that.
He’s gone before I can answer, blending into the shadows like a smug, well-tailored ninja.
I force myself to do a full circuit of the club, walking the perimeter and checking the private rooms, but my radar keeps pinging back to Naomi.
She’s efficient, fast, and absolutely unfazed by the party’s slow slide toward debauchery.
One of the regulars, a guy who owns half the strip malls in town, grabs her arm.
She leans in, listening, then peels his hand away with the practiced grace of someone who knows every trick in the book. She doesn’t even break stride.
A few minutes later, she ducks into the staff hallway and I find myself following, just far enough back to avoid looking like a creep. She slips into the break room, and I linger outside, pretending to inspect the fire extinguisher.
Inside, she’s adjusting her skirt, staring at her phone, and mouthing the words to some song only she can hear.
For half a second, she looks up and our eyes meet through the smoked-glass window in the door.
Instead of the expected annoyance or embarrassment, she just raises one eyebrow and gives a little salute.
I nearly laugh.
Back on the main floor, I run a diagnostic on myself.
My hands are steady, my walk is fine, but I can’t shake the feeling that my entire system is lagging.
I’m making stupid goddamn mistakes. I can’t believe I missed a couple faces in the crowd, forgot to check the coat check at the turn of the hour, and nearly walked straight into a server carrying a loaded tray.
It’s not much, but for someone who used to time his bathroom breaks to the second, it’s a big motherfucking red flag.
At midnight, the performance starts. A small crowd gathers by the stage, but I stay at my post, watching the feeds and scanning for threats.
Except the only real threat is the woman now moving around the lounge, her every step mapped onto my frontal cortex like a topographic survey.
I run down the security checklist in my mind. All the exits, cameras, radios, everything is in perfect order.
Except for the new variable, Naomi Bardot.
My mouth is still dry. My heart is still outpacing the music.
And I know, with the kind of certainty that comes from years of seeing bad decisions in action, that she’s the best goddamn decision I could ever make.