"What?" I snap.
"Hey. I was going to take care of them." He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Just letting you know, that group from last week? The douche patrol? They booked the VIP room again. Tonight."
I grit my teeth, trying to drag my focus back to the work. "Fine. You tell those fucks if they lay one hand on one of my girls again, I'll dismantle them one testicle at a time. They live in my backyard, think their shit don't stink, they can take that Guido bullshit back under eight mile."
"Fine by me." Allister's eyes are questioning, but he knows me well enough to back off. "I'll deliver the message."
I grab his wrist before he leaves. "And if anyone hears any more blowback about whatever the fuck went down last week — something about someone's wife getting offed — I want to fucking know. Could be balls and liquor talking. Could be real. I don't care how expensive their suits are."
"Clear."
Allister wanders off, snapping at a couple waitresses chatting it up with Henry instead of tending the restaurant tables.
But this girl isn't what usually walks in here. From the way she's dressed, she's from the right side of the tracks. The kooky way she's put it all together has me chuckling. Her sweater is cashmere, and she's clutching a two-thousand-dollar Burberry coat.
The other two girls slip out the front door, and the little doe looks like she's about to jackrabbit right behind them. But I'm on her in two long strides.
"Er, hi." She looks up and greets me with an impish smile.
"Hi. Follow me," I grumble. I can't have her standing out here where anyone can look at her. I fight off the urge to take her out to my car and drive her home. To my home.
Home.
What the fuck? I want her home, and what I mean by home is in my bed, under my roof, with my cum dripping out of her.
Something is either very wrong with me or very right. Or else there’s a very real possibility someone slipped me something, because my ears are hot, and my skin is prickling.
"Where are we going?" she asks without moving, and her voice hits somewhere deep, somewhere I haven't felt in years. "That other giant, bald man said we would do our tryouts out here."
She lifts a hand from where she's clutching her coat and points at the back wall. Her voice catches, and I turn to look at her face.
Her gray eyes are rimmed with black, and they shine wet. She brings her loose hand up to push her hair behind her ear, and I want to bury myself into her neck and mark her right here, so every other motherfucker around knows to stay away.
She's also starting to look scared as fuck.
"I'm the owner here." I take a breath, steady my voice. "Decker Lawrence. You can call me Deck. And you are?"
I don't dare shake her hand because I may never let go. So I shove my hands into my pockets, discreetly shifting my hard-on behind my zipper so it's less visible from Mars.
"I'm Maribelle, but everyone calls me May." She's fighting a smile, trying to be so serious, but her smile is what I want. I want to be the one to put it there. She clicks her heels together, and my eyes dart down to the crazy pinkish-purple glittered shoes.
They're perfect for her. I’m going to buy her a thousand more pairs. Or a million. I’ll buy every pair they can make.
"Well, Pink." Shit. I stammer. "I mean, May..."
I can barely form a fucking clear thought.
She's looking up at me with those wide eyes, lashes batting, and I damn near come undone. I clear my throat, then knuckle down and get my shit together.
"You're looking for work, right?"
"Yes." She straightens up and puts on her serious face, which is sexy as hell just because I know she's trying to impress me. "I have been reading about your club in the paper. I saw that you are hiring dancers who can work night hours. That schedule works for me, so I'd like the job, please. I can start tonight." She bites the inside of her cheek and looks me right in the eye.
I stifle the urge to laugh. She’s serious as hell. This girl has my balls already in her hand. And I wish that wasn't just metaphorical.
"Okay." I swallow hard.
"But I want to make one thing clear, Mr. Lawre…Deck." She licks her lips and pulls her shoulders back, and my eyes lock on the fullness of her sweater. There’s a heartbeat before she speaks again. "Excuse me! I'm talking to you."
