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“Just zip it for a minute, Dillon, okay?” I instruct him, looking up, begging him with my eyes to let me handle this my way.
He shrugs, sniffing through his nose and popping his neck.
I can tell he’s already sized up everyone in the bar and would be more than okay with taking them all on right now.
Truth is, he probably could and would be the last man standing.
That’s what worries me right now.
“What’s going on?” Marco says in a calming, genial tone. Smiling broadly at the members even when he lowers his voice close to my ear.
“I said, what the fuck is going on here, Becky?” he snaps coldly.
Dillon can’t hear, thankfully, but at a glance, Marco is about a foot shorter and narrower than Dillon, so I don’t think he’s itching for a fight somehow.
“Just first day jitters,” I say fake cheerfully. “I’ll take care of it. I promise,” I tell him. Mirroring back the smile he’s managed to hold onto for the sake of our precious members.
“Well, you’d better fix it. I don’t wanna have to tell Mr. Sawyer about this,” he threatens, but he doesn’t have to.
I know none of us wants Charlie Sawyer to hear about this, except maybe Dillon who doesn’t seem bothered by any of it.
I think that’s the end of it, but within minutes, Charlie sawyer himself comes into the front bar and lounge.
Fuming.
Barbie and Marco flank him, and with a jut of his double chins, he signals them to take our places.
“You two, with me,” he says addressing us both, turning on his heel and heading back to his office.
Called to his office twice in one day.
This is only going to end one way. Badly.
Chapter Eight
Dillon
I deliberately let Becky ascend the stairs to Sawyer’s office, only so I can watch her ass move an inch from my face.
Itching to bury my face in it while a hand takes care of her front.
But this is work, and I get the feeling I’ve done more than tread on some toes on my first day on the job.
Sawyer heaves himself into his seat behind his desk, his short fingers reunited with the cigar he’s left smoldering.
A bank of CCTV screens on the wall beside him explains a lot.
I never noticed them earlier, but it looks like they’re in some sort of cabinet that closes when not in use.
But it also explains why Sawyer never leaves his office. He never fucking has to.
If he wants a drink, it’s brought up, same with food.
He can see every angle of the whole place, even the gaming tables we are not supposed to talk about.
At a glance I can see there are some other entrances too, direct to the other gaming rooms.
Shit, the guy’s running a fucking casino here.
Gentleman’s club is just a front.
I underestimated him.
Damn.
Blowing a face full of blue-gray smoke in my direction, he scans my body again.
He ignores Becky.
“Why shouldn’t I just fire you right now, Dillon?” he asks himself instead of addressing me like a normal person might.
I open my mouth to speak but he holds a stubby, impatient finger up. Daring me with his eyes to say one word.
“I know what you think of me, what everyone thinks of me,” he confides to the pair of us suddenly after taking another thoughtful puff.
“You think I’m a fat stupid drunk who couldn’t run a bath let alone something like this…” he says softly, waving the same finger to the wall of screens.
“But I do, and I wanna keep it that way,” he says, his eyes narrowing, growing colder with a look I’ve only seen a couple of times.
The look of someone who’s not afraid to do the dirtiest work required all by themselves but leaves the cleaning up to a professional.
“Mr. Sawyer, I can—” Becky starts to say hurriedly, but a single glance from him stops her.
I can hear my knuckles pop. We all do.
Sawyer’s eyes shift languidly to mine and he gives a little shake of his head.
The ‘don’t even bother’ look. But he can’t hold my gaze for long.
I can do killer eyes all day and all night if I want, and if it wasn’t for Becky this man would already be begging me not to drop him as I hung him out to dry.
“I’ll spell it out for you, Dillon,” he continues, eyeing Becky briefly and only to illustrate his point.
“…Because nobody else will or can. I’m the only one you’ll ever hear this from. The gaming lounges operate from overflow from the front bar and lounge. Once members are tipsy enough, they’re offered an additional membership to the real club. Understand?” he coos like he’s talking to a child.
“So?” I ask him, shrugging. “You want a doorman or not?” Because I know I can walk right now, and he doesn’t know it yet, and neither does she but I’d be taking Becky with me too.
