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Her returning smile was dripping in sin. “Can’t wait.”
As Charlea leaned in to take a sip of her mule, I eyed the camera and gave Leo a wink as well . . . for good measure.
“Fuck you, you fucking bastard!” The words boomed across the club from the far corner, near the DJ booth. I stood up on my tiptoes to try to get eyes on whatever was happening, but the crowd was so dense I couldn’t see anything except a wave of movement as people huddled around each other. Groaning, I turned to run toward Frank, but found him already flying into motion. So were Ethan, Drew, and Cedric—all swarming from their various positions around the club.
It never ceased to impress me, the way our security team descended upon a possible threat. Frank had used his old military training to prepare the entire team for moments like this, and it was incredible to watch as they circled their target like a pack of synchronized predators. Now that I knew they had it handled, I shifted my focus to the customers at the bar to distract them from the drama playing out behind them.
Just as I turned to face my side of the bar, I caught the blur of a black dress shirt and unruly chestnut hair striding out from the back with purpose. Leo had probably seen what was unfolding through the cameras and was coming out to help.
Or he was coming out to watch our in-house team in action to make notes for the new executive group he was bringing in next week.
Suddenly my skin felt tighter than the fishnet stockings wrapped around my legs. I may have already conceded that having an additional team here would be a good thing, but it still stung that Leo was making decisions like that at all. I watched his eyes shift to the bar, scanning down the line of people until they landed on me. We stared at each other with a mixture of heat and hostility—and then he was gone, disappearing into the sea of bodies as he headed right for whatever was looming within.
More shouting sounded from somewhere to the left, and a dart of unease flew through my chest as it always did when something like this happened. It was . . . triggering. I’d dealt with enough violence to last a lifetime, but I still couldn’t quite manage to face it without setting off a trauma response in my body as though the danger were imminent. My gaze flitted to Charlea, noting the concern set in her brow as she watched me. I couldn’t tell if it was concern for what was going on behind her or for what she could read in my expression. Either way, I wanted to ease her mind—so, I took a deep breath and fixed a wide smile on my face.
My eyes darted down the line of customers seated beyond her, knowing I needed to keep their attention anchored on me. Frank always said the best way to help when something was going down was to keep the area as clear as possible—fights could easily escalate when wild swings or shoves affected bystanders. “Who needs a drink?” I called out, keeping my expression light.
A group of frat boys from the nearby college campus all lifted their beers and cheered, as if I were signaling a party call. I turned to direct my smile toward them, but something else caught my attention, and I realized it was the man from two nights ago who’d skipped out on his tab.
He stood looking around the club, both hands shoved into his pockets. I marked his clothes, taking note of the oversized black polo shirt and gray jeans he wore so I could report it to Frank later, after whatever else was going on had been settled. It was only a three-dollar tab that he’d bailed on, but I didn’t like that he was here again and I worried he’d try to do the same to Sam.
“Excuse me?” a small voice sounded to my right, where a woman who couldn’t be older than twenty-five stood in a red dress. Her eyes were wide, her neck flushed. Something about the expression on her face snapped me into movement. I recognized the shroud of fear in her eyes, as if I were looking in the mirror at a younger version of myself.
My eyes scanned her up and down as I took in the sheen of sweat on her upper lip. Maybe she was a part of whatever scuffle had just occurred? “Can I help you?” I asked.
“I’d like to order a shot,” she said carefully. “A . . . a Black Panther, please.”
Panic clawed at my throat. A Black Panther shot was one of a handful of “drinks” on Larkspur’s secret menu, advertised in the women’s restrooms as a means to discreetly ask for help from our staff. Some were a little more low-stakes, like the Purple Cowboy, which prompted us to call a cab so that someone could quietly slip out and safely bail on a bad date. A Black Panther was our most severe—it was a full-scale distress signal when someone was scared of a potential assault. It triggered us to get our security team with them quickly so that they could assess and eliminate any threats to their safety.
It more than likely meant the police would be called.
Larkspur’s secret menu was a safety program Frank and I worked on shortly after I became bar manager. This was a popular nightclub in downtown Denver, and unfortunately places like ours were nefarious for trouble. I wanted every woman who walked into this club to feel like they were safe, like they could let loose and unwind without fear of anyone fucking with them. I wanted women to feel the freedom that every woman deserved to feel in any setting of their life. I wanted them to feel like they could have fun without the fear of being taken advantage of. Since we’d started the program, plenty of our safety drinks had been ordered, but no one had ever ordered the Black Panther.
I risked a quick visual sweep, looking for any obvious signs of who might be threatening her, but there was no one around her that I could see. “Okay.” I nodded sharply. “Of course, coming right up. Just give me a quick second, okay? I’ll be right back.”
I waited for her nod before I shifted my gaze toward the door to the stockroom, letting out a curse when I realized Frank was in the middle of dealing with whatever bar fight had broken out. I looked up at the camera, mouthing the word “help” in case Leo was watching, but even as I did I knew it was useless. Leo had just left the office to deal with the commotion—there was no way he was already done.
Shit! Okay, I was determined to handle this. I turned and found Sam pulling draft beer into a pint glass and marched toward him. “Sam,” I hurried out in a low voice. “There’s a woman in a red dress at the bar who just ordered a Black Panther. I need you to go find Frank and get help over here as quickly as possible. I don’t give a shit what else is going on, we need at least two bouncers here now. I’ll stay with her until then.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Okay—on it.” He set the half-full glass down and jogged down the bar line, ducking under the counter at the far end before disappearing into the crowd.
I turned back to face the woman, deciding I would bring her into the office until we figured out what was going on . . . but she was gone. Spinning on my heels, I looked all around the perimeter of the bar searching for any sign of her bright red dress. My heart pounded inside my chest as a new wave of adrenaline rolled in. I should have never taken my eyes off her. A flash of red danced in my periphery, and I twisted to find the woman cutting through the crowd away from the bar. I breathed a sigh of relief in spotting her—but that relief was short-lived when I realized that she was being pulled by a man in a dark polo shirt.
It was the same fucking asshole from two nights ago.
My feet hit the ground of their own accord, and I kept my eyes trained on the red dress as I worked not to lose sight of her again. Dread almost knocked me sideways—I knew better than to leave her alone. I left her right in the grasp of a potential predator.
She had been who he was looking for when I saw him only minutes ago . . . The realization made me sick.
I started to run, my combat boots thudding along the rubber mat on the floor behind the bar as I moved in the opposite direction that Sam had just gone. Without access to the under-bar crawl space on this end, I was going to have to jump over the bar top.
I didn’t even think twice.
“Look out!” I shouted, just as my hands gripped the edge of the wooden surface. I hoisted myself up between two customers who swiftly grabbed ahold of their drinks. “I’m so sorry,” I said as I swung my feet over and fell down the other side, still keeping an eye on the woman’s dress as the man pulled her down the dark hallway that led to the bathrooms. She turned back to look over her shoulder, fear written all over her face as she willed anyone to help her.
But it was no use. The focus was still on the bar fight occurring in the middle of the club—it was a perfect cover. The weight of responsibility settled into my shoulders as a lethal calm kicked in. My own fear began to dislodge from where it’d clung tightly against my spine, and I felt it fall away as control locked into place.
I had to help her. I would do whatever it took to get her away from him.
