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“She’ll get here when she has time.” His eyes narrow on the group of kids across the stage. The one who bumped me is standing on his chair, bottle of beer held high in the air as his friends cheer him on. He tips it back and drinks the whole thing down before thumping his chest and belching so loud I hear it over the sultry beat of the new song that just started. More cheers erupt as he drops down into his seat with so much force that the chair tips over, landing him in the lap of a dancer curled close to an older man in a suit. Both the dancer and the man stare in shock as the beer-guzzling frat boy struggles to right himself, rubbing his face up her naked front as he does.
I turn to Carlos, intending to ask exactly what his job is here, but the bouncer is focused completely on the scene, a walkie-talkie pressed to his lips as he points their way.
I catch movement across the room. A set of men dressed in the same black t-shirt as Carlos are fighting their way through the crowd, the iridescent Platinum logos emblazoned across their chests glittering in the stage lights as they head for the group of boys who clearly weren’t raised by an unyielding father that demanded proper behavior.
Unfortunately, the club is surprisingly packed for a Wednesday night, and they aren’t making much headway as the house lights dim even more and the spotlights angled along the base of the stage flare to life.
The group of kids across the stage suddenly go quiet, their eyes all locked on a spot just in front of the silvery curtains running along the backside of the stage.
I don’t have to turn to know who they’re looking at.
I can feel her.
Nearly everyone in the club is watching her and I’m watching them.
Deciding who to kill first.
She’s not theirs to look at.
She’s mine.
I have the bank receipt to prove it.
I thought I couldn’t get angrier with Paisley, but she’s proving me wrong.
Like she has too many times before.
I finally drag my eyes to where she stands on the stage.
It’s no wonder she’s commanding so much attention. Just like the first night I saw her, Paisley stands out.
Her soft blonde hair is smooth and straight, falling over her bare shoulders and the purple sparkle of yet another dress that doesn’t quite fit her. There’s barely any makeup on her face and her skin doesn’t have a hint of the glitter so many of the other dancers wear.
But the way she looks isn’t the only thing making her stand out.
Her wide blue eyes are filled with panic as they snap across the faces watching her. Every move is stiff and jerky as she walks down the stage cutting through the middle of the floor, her pale skin growing whiter with each step. She stops at the center pole and holds it tight, lowering into a squat before straightening and circling the pole in small steps.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize she’s never done this before, but that almost seems to be what’s pulling the men in the room closer.
Fresh meat.
I fist my hands as she lets the pole go and continues on, making it to just in front of the table of frat boys before the belcher holds his hands at either side of his mouth and yells at her. “Take something off.”
Paisley jumps a little at the interruption, but it seems to jolt her into action. One hand goes to the side of the ill-fitting dress and she unceremoniously drags down the zipper and lets it fall to the floor, revealing an equally sparkly bra and panty set in the same purple as the dress.
The color isn’t right for her. She should be in blue. Maybe red.
Not purple.
“Woo!” The punk in the NY shirt is waving bills at Paisley, doing his damnedest to get her attention.
I straighten, looking for the bouncers Carlos alerted, but they’re still nowhere near close to getting their hands on him.
They should hurry, because I will have no problem getting my hands on him if he gets near Paisley.
But I want her to get his money.
That’s what she seems to need after all.
