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And the fact that you left her your number six days ago and she still hasn’t used it.
Quickly, I shake the thoughts from my mind and push a cocky smirk to my lips. The expression comes more naturally than anything else in my repertoire, and the enjoyment I get out of sparring with Maverick even makes it genuine.
“Don’t you think you should be focusing on picking out which G-string you’re wearing tonight, Mav?” I toss back. “Or what shade of sparkly body glitter will look best under the strobe lights? Instead of, you know, trying to get me to do your job for you?”
Truthfully, Maverick never sports G-strings or body glitter when he’s dancing, but shit-talking doesn’t always have to be rooted in truth. As long as you sound confident that it could be accurate, it strikes the nerves just as deep.
He guffaws. “Nice deflection, Jude.”
“Oh, I’m not deflecting. But are you deflecting?” I clap back with a smug quirk of my brow. “Because if all the stress is getting to you or you’re having an insecure moment, that’s all you need to say, bud. I have no qualms about being your Kris Jenner and telling you that you’re doing great. Because you are, sweetie. You’re doing great.”
“Sometimes, it’s scary how naturally bullshit comes to you.” He snorts and lifts his duffel bag higher onto his shoulder.
“What can I say? Combine raw talent with four siblings and you’ve got a recipe for smack-talking greatness.” I hold out both hands and grin. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to head back inside the club and make sure shit is running smooth. See you out there?”
“Yeah, you bastard,” he comments and heads toward the staff dressing room. “I’ll be the one with the women fawning all over me!”
“I believe in you, sweetie!” I yell with my hands cupped around my mouth. “And I’m sure whatever G-string you pick, the ladies are going to love it!”
Knowing he can’t out-banter the master, he just shakes his head on a chuckle and steps through the dressing room door. And I head back in the direction of the club.
A quick glance at my watch confirms that it’s already half past ten. In another thirty minutes or so, Club Craze will be at maximum capacity and hopping.
I know this because I planned it that way. Before this Friday night even kicked off, I gave the bouncers explicit instructions on how to fill the club tonight, and after the initial burst of people at opening, the name of the game is slow and steady and a two-to-one female-to-male ratio.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Women are always more fun at a club. They’ll laugh. They’ll dance. They’ll have cocktails. And they’ll undoubtedly bring all the boys to the yard.
The pounding beats of house music start to echo off the walls as I get closer to the side entrance that leads into the bar area, but before I can step inside, I feel my cell vibrate a few times in my jacket pocket. Promptly, my chest expands with an inflated level of curiosity, but when I pull it out and check the screen, I find notifications from the group chat with my brothers and one message from Bianca.
Still no word from Sophie Sage.
I let out an annoyed breath and open up the text inbox to see if there’s anything urgent.
Bianca: What are you doing tonight, handsome?
I’m pretty sure it’s been a month since I last spoke with her, and normally, I’d try to meet up with her after I finish at the club, but…I don’t know… I’m just not feeling it tonight. Not really feeling it at all, if I’m being honest.
Me: Sorry, B. Working all weekend.
She responds with another message, but I’m already inside the group chat with my brothers and reading through the various texts I’ve missed.
Ty: Any one of you fucks getting into anything fun tonight?
Flynn: Not in town.
Ty: What? Where are you?
Flynn: Montana.
Ty: What the fuck are you doing there?
More messages pop onto the screen, and I keep reading.
Flynn: I was here for a client, but I ended up joining a motorcycle club. Probably gonna move out here permanently.
I laugh. Flynn is the quietest Winslow brother out of the four of us, but man, whenever he does say shit, it’s always laced with the best fucking sarcasm and dry humor.
Remy: LOL.
Ty: Just because you’re Mr. Cool on your Harley, doesn’t mean a motorcycle club would actually accept your pansy ass.
Remy: Don’t act like you haven’t been on the losing end of a brawl with Flynn before, Ty. We all have. He’d be a fucking asset to any group of roughnecks. I’m two years older than him, and he can still kick my ass—barely.
Flynn: You wanna join the MC too, Rem?
Remy: Sure, why not. I’m down. But only if Ty can’t.
