Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
But that’s not who I want to be. Not anymore. There’s no place in town that pays anywhere near what I’ll earn at The Sterling Rope.
I straighten my skirt, square my shoulders, and march up to the black metal door. I hold the watch Raven Sterling gave me at my interview up to the pad on the side of the door and it pops open.
“Showtime,” I whisper to myself, and step into the dark.
CHAPTER 3
WYATT
Most people think head of security means standing around flexing your arms until someone with a neck tattoo picks a fight. Maybe you get to yell at a few drunk assholes, walkie your code reds, and then collect a big sweaty hug from the owner at the end of the night. That’s what it looked like when I worked the casino in Vegas. That’s what it looked like on tour.
But here at The Sterling Rope, head of security is a full-contact chess match. Every angle, every person, every goddamn bottle left unattended is a potential disaster waiting to crawl out from under a leather couch and bite you in the ass. It’s only my third night and I already know the layout of the club better than my own brain.
Tonight is a new member welcome party, so the guests are all loaded or desperate to appear loaded. The main lounge has the atmosphere of a midnight confession booth with low lights, and everything filtered through a warm, hush-hush dimness. The air is perfumed with expensive cologne and the sharp ozone tang of disinfectant.
From my perch at the upstairs landing, I can see almost everything including the main bar, the black booths along the wall, the hallway to the private rooms, and the stage where tonight’s “special performance” is scheduled for midnight. There’s a persistent low soundtrack, equal parts moaning and jazz.
At seven fifteen, the side door vestibule camera blinks letting me know the new waitress is coming in. Club policy says I watch her diligently for the first few days to make sure she understands and plans to follow the rules. The auto-door hisses and in walks a tall, curvy woman.
Then she steps into the light and the world tilts, hard.
Her hair is a dark, glittery auburn that spills in curls down her back, the bounce of each lock making the club’s subtle neon reflect off her skin. Her eyes are blue, and not the boring cornflower blue of the Midwest, but a radioactive blue, like someone supercharged the sky just to fuck with my brain.
She wears the standard waitress uniform of a tight, short goddamn pencil skirt, tight ass too-small black top, and ugly ass flats. On any other woman it would look like a Halloween costume bought at the last minute, but on her, it’s motherfucking stunning. The skirt clings to her hips like it was sprayed on. The blouse gapes just enough at the chest to suggest a mistake, but I can tell from the way she carries herself it’s one hundred percent intentional.
She moves with a purpose, not the shuffling half-assed lope of the veteran waitstaff, but a no-bullshit strut that says “I’m here, I’m working, don’t you dare fucking look away.”
I sit back in my mostly hidden alcove and try to refocus on the security feeds, but my mind is already running a background process dedicated to watching her.
An hour later, I catch myself doing a full, unblinking scan of the room, only to notice her again, now just twenty feet away and carrying a tray of stemless glasses. There are six other staffers on the floor, but none of them register as anything but background static.
She pivots around a booth, sidestepping a banker with too much aftershave, and flashes the hint of a smile at the bartender as she passes. The asshole actually drops the bottle opener, and I feel the sudden urge to deduct points for unprofessionalism, then I remind myself I’m not one to talk.
I’m still tracking her when I hear a voice at my left, low and amused.
“You have the look of someone who just saw his future walk in.”
Roman Sterling doesn’t sneak up on people, but he’s mastered the art of the perfectly-timed approach. He’s traded his suit for dark jeans and a navy polo, but still radiates the menace of someone who could bankrupt you over breakfast and then pay for your Uber so you can get home.
“You’re seeing things,” I say, leaning on the railing and pretending not to care.
Roman grins, shark white. “Uh-huh. You can’t fool me. I’ve seen that look way too many times to count.” He follows my gaze. “That’s Naomi Bardot. Hometown girl. Supposed to be smart, tough. Tried her hand at acting but didn’t make it far.” He glances sideways, reading my face way the fuck too easily. “You want a formal introduction, or are you planning to just stare until she notices?”