Chapter 20
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last twenty-four hours, it’s that there are actually worse things than watching Allie dance for me on a stage in front of a room full of men.
I did not think that was possible.
Then I watch her get ready for a date with a man who isn’t me, and suddenly amateur night doesn’t even make the top three.
Ambrosia is busy enough tonight to keep me moving, which should help and absolutely doesn’t.
The club always runs hotter on weekends.
More men. More money. More bullshit. The music rolls through the floor in a steady pulse, lights throwing gold and red across the stage and tables, the bartenders are three deep, and every waitress on the floor is balancing trays, attitude, and the kind of practiced patience it takes not to slap half the customers in the mouth.
Allie is in her office.
Her office.
I keep reminding myself of that because it matters.
Because every time she moves through Ambrosia in manager mode, clipped voice, clipboard in hand, making decisions, fixing problems before they become bigger ones.
I’m reminded all over again that she’s not some sheltered little club girl orbiting this place.
She runs this place.
She knows the floor. The staff. The regulars. The troublemakers. The numbers. The difference between a man being annoying and a man becoming a problem.
That knowledge should make what I’m feeling tonight smaller.
It does not.
Because knowing she can handle herself doesn’t stop me from wanting to put my hands through a wall every time I think about her with Drew.
Drew.
I hate his name already, and I haven’t even met him yet.
Shadow catches me staring toward the office door for maybe the fifth time in ten minutes and huffs a laugh under his breath.
He’s posted near the far side of the main floor tonight, technically helping with security and actually enjoying himself way too much for a man who claims not to like crowds.
“You planning to blink at some point,” he asks, “or is that office door your mortal enemy now?”
“Mind your business.”
“That’s usually my line.”
“It’s available tonight.”
He grins, unbothered, and drags his gaze over toward where Cobra and Hammer are breaking up some loud argument between two drunk idiots near the back tables.
Cain is near the bar talking to one of the dancers about a customer who got handsy last week and clearly thinks the rule against being a piece of shit was somehow optional.
Landon is in the raised booth area checking numbers with one of the bartenders because apparently none of us are allowed to have one uncomplicated night anymore.
The whole brotherhood is moving around me like normal. Club business. Security. Watchful eyes. Quiet threats where needed.
Normal.
I’m the only one standing here feeling like my skin doesn’t fit right.
Blaze comes off the side hall and tosses me a look that’s way too observant. “You look worse than Carter did last week when Brooke cried over a diaper commercial.”
“Shut up.”
“That bad, huh?”
I don’t answer.
Because what am I supposed to say?
Yeah, I’m losing my whole damn mind because Allison Mitchell is going on a date with a local cop and I don’t have a single acceptable reason to be this furious about it?
No. Not happening.
Blaze leans against the wall beside me for a second, arms crossed over his chest. “You know, for a guy without a pregnant old lady making his life hell, you look real miserable.”
From the other side of the room, Dom catches that last bit and points in my direction with the hand not holding his phone. “That’s what I said. He’s got no excuse.”
I turn my head. “Didn’t ask.”
Dom grins. “Still true.”
Landon glances over from the booth, eyes narrowing just a little. Not enough to start anything. Enough to tell me he’s noticed I’ve been in a mood all damn day.
That’s the thing about growing up with these men. They know the difference between irritated and wrong.
Tonight I’m wrong.
I can feel it myself.
The side office door opens then, and every thought in my head cuts off at once.
Allie steps out. She’s not dressed over the top. That would almost be easier. It’s simpler when a woman looks too polished, too deliberate, too obviously put together for a date. You can call it a performance then. You can tell yourself you’re reacting to the presentation, not her.
But Allie doesn’t need much.
Dark jeans. Boots. A fitted black top that shows enough to make me grind my teeth. Hair down over her shoulders in soft waves. Simple makeup. Lip gloss.
She looks like herself. Just enough extra effort to make it obvious she gives a damn.
That somehow makes it worse.
I don’t realize I’ve gone completely still until Shadow mutters, “Ah. There it is.”
I ignore him and keep my eyes on her.
She’s got her phone in one hand and a stack of receipts in the other, moving toward the bar with purpose, talking to Destiny as she goes. Manager. Professional. Focused.
Then her gaze flicks up. Catches on me.
Stops.
Only for a second. But that second is enough to put a fresh twist in the knife.
Because there’s awareness there. And distance. And something cautious that wasn’t there before all the office shit.
She looks away first and keeps moving.
Good. Fine. Whatever.
It should not bother me but it does.
The front door opens a minute later, and I know immediately that it’s him. Some men just announce themselves wrong.
This one doesn’t swagger. He doesn’t peacock. He doesn’t walk in looking for a fight or trying to swing his dick around the room the way some of the local idiots do when they think a strip club is somewhere they’re allowed to perform manhood badly in public.
No.
Drew walks in like he already knows he’s better than half the room.
Clean dark jeans. Button-down with the sleeves rolled. Cop haircut. The kind of posture that screams academy training and a deeply unfortunate belief in his own judgment.
He pauses inside the door for half a second, taking in the room, and I can feel the assessment coming off him from here.
The lights. The dancers. The men. The cuts.
Us.
Cop energy. I know it before anybody tells me his name.
Blaze, standing off my right shoulder now, says quietly, “That him?”
“Looks like.”
“Bet that’ll be fun.”
I’m already moving before I answer. Not fast. Not obvious. Just enough to intercept him before he gets too far inside.
He spots me coming and doesn’t exactly flinch, which I’ll give him credit for. Most men with that kind of polished, holier-than-thou energy either overcompensate immediately or start looking for exits when they realize who they’re dealing with.
Drew just watches me approach with the kind of cool expression that says he thinks he can handle whatever this is.
That alone annoys me.
“You lost?” I ask when I stop in front of him.
His gaze moves over me once. The cut. The tattoos. The bar behind me. The room around us.
Then back to my face. “No.” Flat. Calm. A little clipped.
Great.
“You know where you are?”
One corner of his mouth shifts like he thinks I’m doing a routine and he’s already bored by it. “I can read the sign.”
I nod slowly. “Then you know how to act.”
“That supposed to be a warning?”
“That depends. You need one?”
His expression doesn’t change much, but there’s enough in the eyes now for me to see it clearly.
Judgment. Not fear. Not even nerves.
Just that quiet little layer of disdain men like him get when they think putting on a badge somehow made them morally superior to every other bastard with fists and bad habits.
“I’m here to pick someone up,” he says.
No shit.
My jaw tightens anyway. “Then pick her up and go.”
There’s the flicker of irritation. Small. Fast. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”
“You don’t.”
“Then we’re done here.” He starts to step around me.
I shift just enough to block it.
Not aggressive. Not chest-to-chest. Nothing that would make sense to anybody watching except maybe Blaze, who’s leaned one shoulder against the wall and is almost definitely enjoying this more than he should.
Drew stops. Looks at me again. This time, the judgment’s not subtle at all. “Look,” he says, voice lower now, “I’m not here for trouble.”
“Then you came to the wrong place.”
That gets me a sharper look. Not because it was particularly threatening. Because he thinks I’m proving his internal monologue right.
Biker. Security. Club guy. Probably violent. Definitely beneath him.
I know the type.
I’ve seen that look from cops and clean-cut town boys and every other man who thinks danger only counts when it doesn’t come in the sanctioned, state-issued version he prefers.
“Is there a reason this is your concern?” he asks.
A hundred possible answers line up in my head. None of them safe.
She manages the place. This is club property. I don’t like your face. You’re standing in my line of sight and that was your first mistake.
Instead I settle for, “I’m security tonight.”
That’s true. Not the whole truth. Close enough.
His gaze flicks around me toward the room again. “Right.”
The one word is unimpressive as hell and somehow insulting anyway. That annoys me more than it should. But before I can decide whether to make this more unpleasant for both of us, Allie appears from the side hall.
She slows the second she sees us. Her eyes move from me to Drew and back again, and I can practically see the exact moment she realizes whatever conversation we’re having hasn’t been friendly.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
Drew steps back half a foot automatically, the posture shift so smooth it would almost be impressive if I didn’t know exactly what it was.
Respectability. The clean version of himself. The version a woman like Allie is supposed to trust more.
“Fine,” he says, and there’s no trace of edge in his voice now. “We were just introducing ourselves.”
We were not.
Allie looks at me.
I say, “just making sure he knows his place.”