4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
HARLOW
It’s Saturday night, baby. The club is packed, the booze flowing, and the air so thick with indiscretions I can practically taste it on my tongue.
Perched on a stool at the bar of The Devil’s Den, I stab at the ice in my drink with my straw as I scan the crowd of men in suits for a target, locating one seated alone at a two-person cocktail table.
When the simple gold band around his left ring finger winks beneath the strobe lights, irritation embeds itself beneath my ribs.
But I ignore it and remind myself that I’m not the one ruining his goddamn marriage. He is.
Plus … money, honey. He’s got it. And I want it.
Adjusting my posture, I keep a close eye on him while innocently fidgeting with my straw and flipping my hair over my shoulder as I wait for him to notice me.
And he will fucking notice me because I’ve really outdone myself tonight, all my naughty parts strategically stuffed into my finest two-piece outfit, the hot pink standing out in the sea of black and gray.
And if that doesn’t do it, my signature pink highlight around my face will, practically glowing beneath the black strobe lights.
Just as I’m about to stand and strut my stuff over to his table, a flash of white catches in my peripherals and I turn to find Sage, the club’s newest recruit, weaving through tables with a giant smile on her doll-like face.
Like every other girl in here, she’s beautiful, her exposed skin slicked in rainbow body glitter and her long naturally blonde hair styled in tight curls that fall to the middle of her back.
“Hey, Rebel,” she greets sweetly, sliding onto the stool beside me and waving Leo down.
He appears at the drop of a hat, wearing a classic double-breasted suit with the sleeves ripped off and his usual eyeliner caked on thick.
“Ladies,” he greets us with a dimple-popping smile. “You both look beautiful.” He raises his brows at me. “Rebel … I thought your shift didn’t start until nine.”
“Just couldn’t contain my excitement to be here,” I lie, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Oh come on. It’s not that bad.”
Suppressing an eyeroll, I wait patiently as Leo takes Sage’s order of something fruity before pointing to my empty glass for a refill of one of Leo’s special martinis.
No clue what he puts in them, but one thing’s for certain: The Billy Idol-looking mother effer sure knows how to mix a drink.
“Sure thing.” He shoots us a wink and busies himself behind the bar.
“Are you going to Dom’s Halloween party?” Sage asks from beside me, her curious gaze making me all sorts of itchy and uncomfortable.
“No,” I respond dryly, keeping my eyes fixed on my target in the mirror behind the bar.
“Why not?”
“Because costumes are for children.”
She looks me up and down. “You’re dressed up right now. How is that any different?”
A groan works its way up my throat as I prop my elbows on the bar and press my fingers to my temples.
“Because at least here, I’m making money.”
“Hmm. Well, for what it’s worth, Leo and I would love it if you came. Oooh, we could wear matching costumes!” she exclaims excitedly, clapping her hands.
I wonder briefly if the girl has a single brain cell in that pretty head of hers, then remember she must because apparently she’s in school to become some sort of fancy doctor. All while taking care of her sick mother and working late shifts in this hellhole just to make ends meet.
Maybe I’m being a bitch to her. But keeping people at arm’s length is what’s best. Safest. Not just for me but for them too.
Thankfully, my drink appears before me, and I slap a twenty down on the bar and slip off the stool.
“Catch ya on the flip side,” I tell Sage, then give her my back.
Adjusting my cleavage in my push-up bra, I snatch my glass up and prowl like a cat through the lounge toward my target.
Just as I’m approaching his table, an eerie feeling washes over me. It starts at the base of my skull, slithering all the way down my spine before dissipating out through my limbs. All the hair on my body rises to attention.
My heels come to a halt on the floor as I peer around the lounge, scanning faces in search of the source of my discomfort. When I find nothing out of the ordinary, I shake it off and return my attention to my target, taking a seat across from him and flashing him a smile.
“Hi, handsome,” I coo, running my middle finger over the rim of my martini glass.
He leans in, his steely eyes roaming all over my tits before his tongue darts out to wet his lips. It’s a sloppy gesture, one that leaves an unappealing layer of saliva slicked over his mouth. And when he smiles back at me, I don’t miss the way his face lights with something dark and sinister.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to reach across the table and jam my fingers into his eye sockets.
Remembering the endgame, I match his position and feign interest the way I do, making casual small talk and laughing at his shitty jokes.
He tells me his name is Calvin and that he’s in the city on business.
When he catches me glancing at his wedding ring, he covers his left hand with his right, his jaw ticking slightly.
All. The. Same.
But when he offers to buy me another drink, I accept and let him lead me to the bar because not only am I going to need more alcohol to get through the evening, but I’m also not dumb enough to let him fetch me a drink himself and bring it back to the table.
To his credit, he doesn’t protest, pulling out a stool and gesturing for me to take a seat.
When he tells Leo to mix me another martini, Leo’s eyes slide to mine and he cocks a brow.
He’s asking if I’m okay with it.
I nod discreetly and Leo gets to work on our drinks.
“So,” Calvin starts, leaning an elbow on the bar and caging my legs in with his own, “how old are ya, sweetheart?”
It’s the first question he’s asked me about myself. And for some reason, it rubs me in all the wrong ways.
Biting back a sarcastic retort about being young enough to be his daughter, I grate out, “Twenty-two.” It’s a lie, of course, but I’m not about to give him a shred of personal information.
When his hand finds my fishnet-clad thigh and squeezes, I stamp down the urge to punch him in the throat and instead imagine the sounds he’d make if I jammed my stiletto into his crotch.
He leans in, his breath rancid as he murmurs so low that only I can hear his comment. “I bet your pussy is as tight as a virgin’s.”
And there it is. The line that shatters the plan I had to steal his wallet, snap a photo of him getting handsy with another dancer, and mail it to whatever address is listed on his driver’s license.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
I swat his hand away and sneer, “You’ll never find out.”
His hand finds my thigh again. This time when he squeezes, my skin smarts beneath the pressure and I release a hiss.
“Whores like you are always playing hard to get. But I know better.”
A small whimper gets lodged in my throat because even though I pride myself in being tough as nails, it still hurts. I can still feel pain. And oh how I want to inflict some on this prick.
“Take your hands off me, you pig,” I snarl, my nails biting into his arm as I forcibly pry his grip from my thigh.
Shoving at his legs, I wiggle my way off the stool and take a step back to glare at him.
Hell. I’m so angry I could spit.
Physically retaliating against this guy would be so satisfying. But it would also get me fired. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need this job because nowhere else pays strictly cash off the books without collecting so much as a legal name for their records.
So I guess I’ll have to settle for tearing a strip off one side of him and down the other.
Just as I’m opening my mouth to do so, he glances up and over my shoulder, his expression falling slack and blood draining from his face as fabric bristles against the backs of my bare arms. I shudder and grit my teeth as warmth radiates into my backside, a solid wall of heat pressing into me.
Despite the sudden rise in my body temperature, goose bumps pepper my skin, the presence behind me overwhelming and potent with dominance and something else I’m afraid to put a label on.
“Who the hell are you?” Calvin asks whoever is towering over me from behind.
“No means no,” a deep voice booms, vibrating against my back. “Now how about you leave before I put a bullet in your head.”
And on that note, I spin around, coming face to chest with …
Oh god.
It’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly.
Again. For the third time in a week.
Coincidence?
I don’t believe in such a thing.
Craning my neck, I peer way up—seriously, he’s a skyscraper—at his navy eyes that appear almost black in this moment, a murderous glimmer in them as he glares daggers at Calvin.
Jesus. The guy is like a furnace.
A very large, angry furnace.
Like the stupid woman I am, I inhale.
Damn it. He smells good too. Fresh and clean. Like limes and cedarwood.
“You alright?” he asks, gazing down at me briefly before returning his attention to Calvin.
I swallow. Nod.
“I’m fine,” I squeak out.
It’s a lie. I’m far from fine. My stomach is roiling, the scar on my wrist is tingling, and I’m pretty sure I’ve conjured up at least forty different ways to unalive the repulsive douche behind me.
And on top of that, I recently slashed this man’s tire. Twice. Surely, he’s going to retaliate this time. Or at least ask for reimbursement. No doubt tires that size cost a small fortune.
So imagine my surprise when he gently moves me to the side and steps toward Calvin, who looks about three seconds from pissing himself.
Alright. So maybe he doesn’t recognize me beneath all the makeup. That’s good. I can work with that.
Calvin raises his palms in the air in surrender.
Smart move, asshole.
“Take it easy, man. We were just talking. No harm done.” His eyes slide to me one final time and slither over my body. “I’ll be seeing you around, Rebel,” he murmurs before turning and stalking away.