Chapter 1 #3
I only caught a glimpse of the other night before I had to duck out, but it was enough to leave a lasting impression.
Even from across the large space, even with people laughing, music playing, and everything else happening around the club, her presence overwhelmed everything else.
She took center stage without ever setting foot on it.
That’s how I know she isn’t here.
I don’t feel that magnetic draw that kept my focus squarely on her when it should have been literally anywhere else.
So instead of hopelessly searching, I force myself to watch the girl on the stage. She moves fluidly. Effortlessly. The beat of the music perfectly in sync with the way her body twists and bends.
The bartender sliding a beer over to me refocuses my attention. “Anything else?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
“You want me to leave your tab open?”
“Nah.”
If I need to leave quickly again, the last thing I want is to owe the club money, or to have my credit card sitting unclaimed. It’s better to fly under the radar as much as possible.
I grab a twenty out of my wallet and toss it onto the bar top. “Does that cover it?”
“More than. Let me get you your change.”
I shake my head. “Keep it.”
His eyes widen slightly. “That’s like, a ten-dollar tip…”
“Keep it.”
I know what it’s like to be young and struggling at a job like this where you’re really making all your money off tips. And he’s a decent bartender. Friendly, talkative but not intrusive, which means now that I have my drink, he’ll leave me alone unless I engage him in conversation.
Which is how I prefer it…
To be in control.
Allowing otherwise could be catastrophic.
Settling in, I absorb the vibe, scoping out everyone in the club—their locations, who they’re with, what they’re drinking, how many they’ve had, their demeanors and conversations.
I don’t even do it consciously anymore; it’s just become natural, so ingrained in me that I couldn’t stop myself from doing it even if I tried.
Some folks people watch for fun; I do it because not paying attention to those things can lead to dire consequences.
The doors on the elevator on the far side of the club glide open, and my heart climbs into my throat as she steps out.
With her long braids tied back in a bun high on her head and shoulders back, she takes strong, confident steps through the club.
Her sharp gaze sweeps across everyone, carefully surveying all the patrons, the girls, memorizing where each and every person is and every detail about them—exactly what I was just doing.
I can practically see the wheels turning in her head behind those stunning dark bourbon eyes. She’s taking stock of everyone, making calculations, considering where she would need to be and what she would need to do if there were a problem.
Wicked intelligent and calculating.
Only more reason to like the woman—and need to fly under the radar around her.
The corner of my lips curls up watching her work, and I force myself to take a drink of my beer and tear my gaze from her before she catches me staring. Drawing unwanted attention to myself—now or ever—wouldn’t be wise.
Not when coming to NOLA is complicated enough already for me.
I sip my beer, watching the woman on stage and the group of men congregated around it. Despite so badly wanting to check to see what she’s doing, I keep my focus anywhere else. But I feel the exact moment her eyes find me.
It would be impossible not to when the hair on the back of my neck rises and heat licks across my skin like a raging wildfire searing across dead treetops. It crackles and scorches through me, igniting something I haven’t ever felt before—yearning.
I shift uneasily on the stool and take another long gulp of the cool beer, but it doesn’t do anything to help my restlessness.
I’m not used to being assessed like this.
I’m the one who does the assessing…until I set foot in The Hawkeye Club.
Apparently, everything I thought I knew and understood about myself changed the moment I saw her. Decisions I made long before coming here now seem…undetermined. Plans long held…suddenly less certain. A future and end game laid out…now open for play.
The music thrums through the air, and I force myself to watch the dancer who moves in time with the beat rather than looking to see where she is and what she’s doing.
She’s careful, which means she won’t make it obvious she’s observing me, but the way my skin keeps sizzling, there’s no question that’s exactly what’s happening.
Why?
What caught your interest?
If anything, she should be concentrating on the men near the stage who have been getting more boisterous the longer I’ve been here. Two of them stumble over, leaving three of their buddies to throw money at the woman on the pole.
One of the men bumps into my left shoulder as he shoves his way up to the bar.
Asshole.
“Heey!” He yells for the bartender with a slight New England accent and a slur that suggests he’s a tourist who has likely spent most of the day on Bourbon Street before heading over here tonight. “I need shots.” He slams his fist on the bar top. “Tequila!”
My friendly bartender tenses the same way I do. We’ve clearly both had plenty of experience dealing with stupid drunks, and these two definitely seem to be somewhere on that scale. Maybe not at the top yet, but well above mid-level.
I slide my hands off the glass, resting them on the bar, and turn to more fully face them.
The bartender looks behind me at someone or something before he inclines his head at the two men, grabs the bottle and the shot glasses, and lines them up. He pours and motions toward the shots. “After this, you guys have had enough for the night.”
Good.
They certainly don’t need more from where I sit, and the man on the other side of the bar is good enough at his job to see it, too. These two—and their friends at the stage— will be trouble if they don’t sober up or make their way out of here—soon.
The bigger of the two of them, whose slicked-back jet-black hair shimmers under the lighting where he stands beside me, narrows his eyes at the bartender. “We’re fine.”
Disdain coats his pronouncement.
The bartender shakes his head. “We reserve the right to cut you off at any time.”
With a scoff, his friend who has the build of a wrestler and the sneer of someone used to getting his way glares across the bar. “Cut us off?”
They each grab a shot and take one, then slam them down.
The one with the black hair turns from the bar just as one of the girls walks by. He reaches out and snags her by the wrist, dragging her over to him with a lecherous grin that tightens my hand into a fist. “What about you, sweetheart? Do you think we should be cut off?”
Her eyes widen slightly and dart to the bartender, and I glance toward the security guard at the door as he starts to make his way over.
But I can already tell he’s going to be too late.
Shit.
The D-bag’s free hand travels toward the girl’s almost bare ass, but before he can grab her, I’m up from the stool, slamming my elbow into his face and knocking him back.
Blood splatters across his face and shirt, and his yelp of pain fills the air as I tug her away from him and his buddy.
My arm moves around her waist, and I pull her to me, putting myself firmly between her and the assholes. With her protected against the bar, they can’t get to her without coming through me.
And that sure as hell isn’t happening.
Before she can say anything or even react, my arm is pulled from around her waist and jerked behind my back as I’m shoved to the floor.
My chest hits the tile, all the air rushing from my lungs as someone pins me down with their knee between my shoulder blades, twisting my shoulder and wrenching my arm violently.
Fuck…
Warm breath flutters over my ear, and a light jasmine scent floats over me, stilling any reaction my body wants to take against the attack. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, touching one of the girls?”
Holy hell.
It isn’t the voice of the big burly guy who stood at the door that rings in my ears; it’s the voice of a fucking angel with an impressive submission hold.