“You’re drunk,” she said.
“I’m always drunk. Doesn’t change the offer.”
“Then you’re insane.”
“Also always. Still doesn’t change the offer.”
Owen let out a low whistle. “Thirty grand? Shit, Cross. You got it that bad? And while there’s a chick already on your arm?”
I looked at the blonde. Tapped her thigh and nodded for her to scram.
“Apparently,” Killian muttered, but he was watching her now, too. Curious.
“Yo, maybe we should just chill the fuck out for a sec,” Brett cut in. “Thanks, doll.”
“I think we’re pretty fucking chill, man,” I said, my eyes never straying.
“Just go,” Killian mouthed to Baby Doll.
But she didn’t move.
Her eyes were still on me. Not on Brett, not on Killian — on me, trying to decide if I was actually serious or if this was some kind of fucked-up game. Both things could be true at once, couldn’t they?
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “You think I’m joking?”
“I think you’re drunk and throwing money around to see what sticks.”
“Smart girl.” I grinned. “But I’m serious. Thirty grand. Cash. Tonight. You and me, one hour, and I promise I’ll make it worth every second of your time.”
“Dude—" Killian started.
“Shut up, Kill.”
Her jaw moved, working out the offer. She glanced back at the bar, thinking. Calculating, maybe. Memorizing escape routes. Sending a wicked mayday in some chick telepathic code.
I leaned back against the seat. “Fine. You’re a hard bargain. Thirty-five. You don’t even have to fake moan.”
She took a breath. A long one. It told me she was about to tell me to fuck off in the politest way possible. In three, two—
“I appreciate the offer,” she said, tipping her head to the side and smiling me the fakest smile anyone had ever smiled in the history of smiling. “Enjoy the whiskey.”
Then she turned on her heel and walked away.
I watched her go. Watched that little slip ride up higher with every step. Watched the way she kept her spine straight even though I could see her hands shaking around that tray.
“Well,” Brett said, slapping the table. “That was fucking brutal.”
Killian was looking at me like I’d just kicked a puppy. “The hell was that, man?”
I didn’t answer. I picked up my glass and drained it.
Brett shook his head. “Thirty-five grand for a stripper? Cross, come on.”
“She’s not a stripper. She’s a waitress.”
“Whatever the fuck she is, she just turned you down cold.” Owen was still grinning. “When’s the last time that happened?”
Never. That’s when.
