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“See ya around, kid.” He casually threw the words over his shoulder, then strode through the door, without a second look.
The deep pain and utter humiliation of his words rang clearly in her ears. She lay there for a good five minutes, thinking he’d return, laughing and teasing her for being so gullible, but that never happened.
Finally, in a daze, she crawled from her bed, threw on her clothes, and walked into the kitchen. As if on autopilot, she made coffee, then sat and watched the pouring rain pelt her front window while trying to make sense of what just happened.
From the moment Samson left her bedroom that morning, he never talked to her again. He ghosted her calls and looked right through her at the Oasis like she didn’t exist. The manager took her off the prime shifts and cut her hours until she finally quit.
On her last day, she left Nick’s office after retrieving her final check, pushed through the back door leading to the parking lot, and froze. Samson leaned against the brick building, casually smoking until he saw her, then he ground the butt under his heel and turned toward the door.
When she walked past him, she heard him say, “Have a good life.” His low rasp was barely audible. Then he pulled at the heavy metal door and disappeared into the club.
Lisbeth never saw him again until two weeks ago at Club Wicked, yet he still had the power to make her believe him. To make her doubt the life she’d made for herself and the man who’d been by her side for the last eighteen months.
She’d seen a few clients and friends suffer from addiction over the years, and she never quite understood the alluring pull until now. Samson was her compulsion, her drug of choice—her special blend of cocaine mixed with a double shot of seduction.
As much as Lisbeth wanted the Club Wicked account, it wasn’t worth her sanity or well-being. She’d cultivate other clubs and venues in Las Vegas but steer clear of anything with Samson because he was her kryptonite.
* * *
Samson arched his back and dug his heels into the floor, attempting to distance himself and the very enthusiastic stripper who was not Lisbeth. When she turned around and settled her ass on his lap, he gripped her hips and pushed her off.
“Thanks, babe, but we’re done.” He stood, set her on her spiky shoes, and turned right into Madeline’s pinched expression.
“You men never fail to amaze me with your stupidity.” Madeline anchored her hands on her hips and threw back her shoulders. With heels on, she was only a little shorter than Samson, and the deadly look in her eyes had him thinking about covering his balls.
“Huh?”
“That’s the best you can do? I settle that poor girl down outside, tell her to search her heart, and come to the conclusion you are what she wants. Then I drag her in here so she can tell you how she feels, and she finds you getting a fuckin’ lap dance with your big paws all over a stripper grinding your dick.”
“What’s goin’ on?” Boa flanked Madeline glaring at Samson.
Fuckin’ great. Now he had this big beast on his ass while his old lady screamed shit at him that he didn’t understand.
“I swear to fuck. I don’t know.”
“What’s goin’ on is, that sweet girl, Lisbeth, was gonna tell this asshole how she felt about him, and he’s in here tryin’ to get his dick wet.”
“Wait, what?” Samson only understood Madeline’s every other word between the pounding music and her southern drawl becoming stronger with anger.
Boa slung his arm over Madeline’s shoulders. “Calm down, babe. Ain’t your business.”
“Well, yeah, it kinda is 'cause I told her to come in here and claim his sorry ass.”
“Fuck, you mean Lisbeth was here and saw me getting a lap dance?”
“Ding, ding! Give the big man a medal.”
“Ahhh, shit.” Samson craned his neck, scanning the crowd. “Where is she?”
“Probably halfway to nowhere right now. She beat it outta here like the hounds of hell were nippin’ at her ass.”
“I gotta find her.”
“You gotta do way more than that,” Madeline yelled at Samson’s back as he fought his way toward the front of the club.
He banged through the door, surveyed the sidewalk, then headed into the parking lot. As he gazed at the rows of cars, Samson realized he had no idea what kind she drove. He walked up and down a few aisles hoping to catch her, but he had no luck, so he returned to the club.
Typical bullshit of his goddamn life. One fuckin’ mistake, one slip-up when he wasn’t paying attention, and everything fell to shit. Yvette’s face taunted him, berating him that he was a major fuck-up not worthy of happiness—and just like every other time she invaded his subconscious—Yvette was right. He didn’t deserve shit, and he certainly didn’t deserve a woman like Lisbeth.
