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Rent didn’t pay itself. It was fucking expensive living in New York, nothing like growing up in the middle of nowhere in northern Vermont. Hell, I could hardly afford my studio in Brooklyn right now but living here was either going to make me or break me. I wanted to make it big. I wanted it so badly that I could taste it, which meant that right now, I had to deal with the kind of nonsense like this fucking drunk asshole. Someday, I’d have my own security to haul him right the fuck out.
“Yeah. That’s right. Sway your hips for me, slut.”
I sighed.
This wasn’t my first rodeo and it wouldn’t be my last.
He slid into the second row, balancing three drinks in his hands. I watched as his beer sloshed over the sides, spilling onto his sleeve and onto the floor. His suit was probably soaked, and he would reek of whatever cheap booze he was buying himself and his buddies before the night was through. I cringed when I saw the beer practically pour onto several men as he passed by trying to rush to get back to his seat. What a fucking dick.
How the hell had he even gotten a seat in the second row? That shit was probably expensive, and it looked like he and his friends had bought their suits from the closest local thrift shop right before they came. One of them even had a tag hanging off the collar that they’d forgotten to cut off. Idiot. I wondered why the bouncers had even let them in the front door.
Shaking my head with aggravation, I ignored him for a while longer, waiting for him to take his seat. I continued the song, belting out every word a bit louder in order to cover up the sound of his plastered ass. He never sat down though.
He kept going. He never fucking shut up. I wanted to punch him right in the face.
Usually, the really smashed ones would give up pretty quickly in favor of more booze and especially if I ignored them, but not this one apparently. I’d have to deal with him myself.
With a certain measured calmness, I finished the song and cleared my throat, leveling my gaze on the drunken asshole once and for all. I smiled, feigning pleasure at his presence, and his face lit up at the fact that I had finally noticed him. Dumbass. He was in for a real treat.
“What’s your name, sir?” I began and for a second, he looked a bit shell-shocked that I was actually talking to him, so I brazenly continued. “Yes, you, sir, with your top-self Keystone or Nattie Light or maybe even PBR or whatever shit beer you’ve got there. Tell me your name.”
“Donnie D’Marco,” he answered cockily. “Like what you see, slut? I’m gonna take you backstage so I can show you what a real man looks like.”
I chuckled. As fucking if.
“Donnie, my dearest Donnie, you see, I have a name. It’s not slut or pretty tits or whatever incredibly fantastic bit of creativity you happen to come up with next. It’s Chloe Banks. So, why don’t you sit the fuck down, enjoy your shitty beer, and let everyone else that came out tonight enjoy the show?” I spat. I spoke right into the microphone, and my fury echoed throughout the room. The audience remained quiet as they watched it all go down. The men that Donnie had spilled his beer on smirked in amusement and I knew that they were as sick of this goon’s shit as I was.
Donnie leered back at me and I stared back in return, refusing to back down. He needed to know I was serious. I didn’t take shit from anyone, especially hecklers in the crowd that wanted to make a fool of me while I was singing my ass off for a paycheck up on the stage.
“Don’t be a cunt. Show us your tits or get the fuck out of here so we can replace your bitchy ass with someone even prettier,” he demanded as his words started to slur into one another. His friends laughed and shouted a number of insulting jeers in my direction, but I ignored them too. I bit the inside of my cheek in fury, weighing the option of fully losing it on the dickhead just because I wanted to.
I looked out into the ligh
ts and shook my head. What now? Do I keep fighting with this belligerent fool or do I just let the show go on with his fucking annoying ambience?
“Take a seat, Donnie,” I finally demanded. I wanted to err on the side of caution, just in case I was ever given the opportunity to perform here again.
He took his beer from his drink holder and slammed it down, chugging every last drop like his life depended on it.
Fucking fantastic.
I took a deep breath, waiting for security to haul this guy out, but no one came. It was deadly silent for a long moment. A single man in a finely pressed suit stood up in the first row and cleared his throat. There was a rush of tension that passed over the crowd and for some insane reason, I felt myself drawn to him even though he was a perfect stranger.
He felt dangerous and for a second, I was curious about who he might be, but as he stared back at me with a certain cold possessiveness, my interest turned to fear. I licked my lips and tried to tear my gaze away from his, but nothing in those dark hazel eyes wanted to release me from their captive embrace. Absentmindedly, I wondered what he would do to me if I invited him backstage after the show.
I swallowed anxiously, pushing my wayward thoughts far back to the recesses of my mind. I’d never done anything like that before and I wasn’t going to start now. I had a reputation to protect and I wasn’t going to ruin it for some stranger in the front row. I tried to take my eyes off of him and I failed.
His dark hair was slightly mussed, and I found myself wanting to run my fingers through it. A finely trimmed beard gave him a distinctive mysterious quality that left me feeling deeply unsettled while at the same time, a little warmer than I cared to admit. I wondered if it would feel rough to the touch and my legs trembled apprehensively. His jawline was strong and angular. His suit was perfectly tailored to his finely muscled form, a jet-black fabric that nearly shone under the stage lights. His cufflinks sparkled and I found myself questioning if they were real diamonds. He smiled knowingly, and I knew at once that they were authentic and very expensive. There was a certain cool, calm, and collected aura around him that was far more unnerving than I was prepared for. Drunk guys I could handle. This one was something different and that scared me.
He cocked his head to the side and smirked rather arrogantly in my direction. A shiver of anxiety raced down my spine and I hoped against hope that no one had seen it. He cleared his throat and I glanced from him to the drunken dude still staggering back and forth in the second row. At this point, he’d either drunk another of the three beers he’d come with or spilled it on the drunk goons beside him. I didn’t much care either way.
“I suggest that you sit down and do as the lady says. I’d like to see the rest of the show and if you don’t quiet down, you need to get the fuck out of the club,” the man in the front row said. He didn’t shout or raise his voice, not even a little. The command in his voice rang out anyway and the entire establishment quieted down at the sound of it.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the drunk guy slurred. I watched his friends turn to face the man in the front row. They recognized him and the instant they laid their eyes on him, they turned as white as a sheet. One of them stood up in a rush and clapped a hand over the drunk guy’s mouth in an effort to keep him quiet. That didn’t seem to stop him however, and he fought to free himself even as his buddies started to drag him off in the direction of the exit.
“Our sincerest apologies, Mr. Romano. We’ll get him out of here at once,” one of them piped up and the man in the front row appraised him for a long moment before he nodded in agreement. The audience was silent as we all watched the heckler kick and try to fight his way back toward the stage. It took three of his friends to finally haul him out of the venue and the reigning silence that followed felt like an ominous warning to whatever was about to follow. I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Continue, Miss Banks,” Mr. Romano ordered.
