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We were nearing closing time when one of the blue collar workers mistook me for one of the strippers. He was a big, dumb-looking guy with an unruly mop of hair.
I swatted his hand off my ass. “Not on the menu, bub.”
He just hee-hawed like a donkey and watched me go.
Five minutes later Mop-head copped a feel as I leaned over to set his drink on the table in front of him.
“You do that again and you’re walking out of here without all your teeth,” I shouted in his face.
“It was an accident!” he protested, but laughed again.
I turned around, fuming – and then my entire mood changed when Jack Pollari walked in.
He was dressed in old jeans and a weathered leather jacket decked out with motorcycle club patches. Under the jacket, a wifebeater t-shirt showed off the tats across his chest – and God, what a chest. Muscular and powerful. I couldn’t see much under the wifebeater, but his stomach was firm and flat, and I was guessing there was a six-pack under there.
Damn he was hot.
Unfortunately, every stripper in the place thought so, too. The six who weren’t onstage or giving lap dances immediately rushed over to him, giggling and running their hands all over his body.
Jealousy surged hot and bitter in my gut before I caught myself.
It was ridiculous. I didn’t get jealous. I had never been that kind of a girlfriend. If a guy made me the least bit suspicious of what he was doing in his downtime, I dropped his ass and got an upgrade on the replacement model.
Yet here I was getting all green-eyed and envious.
And I hadn’t even gone out for a drink with him yet.
Remember, you don’t even CARE about this guy. All he is to you is a way to find out who killed Ali.
But no matter how many times I told myself that, the pit of my stomach still felt sour.
That is, until I saw him brush them off. Politely, but it was obvious he was disentangling himself. As he walked away, he looked around the club – and then his eyes lit on me. He broke out into a grin as he walked over.
I have to admit, my heart soared the tiniest bit.
As he passed by, every guy in a Midnight Riders jacket cheered and put their hands up for a fist-bump. He hit a few, grabbed one of the older guys in a bro-hug, and then gave the others a nod as he made his way over to me.
“Regretting quitting the diner yet?” he asked.
“Haven’t officially tendered my resignation.”
“Well, you can phone it in tomorrow morning from my bed.”
My heart skipped a beat – though I was a little annoyed, too.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Well aren’t we confident.”
He grinned. “Yes we are. You ready for that drink?”
“I still have twenty minutes left on my shift.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just let Shelley know you’re taking off with me.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What about Lou?”
“Yes, what about Lou?” a familiar, devilish voice said behind me.
I whirled around to see my new boss standing there smoking a cigar. I thought about mentioning California state law against smoking in business establishments, but seeing as he owned the establishment – not to mention his decidedly illegal take on alcohol sales – I figured now wasn’t the time.
