His eyes flickered over me in a way that communicated that he found me lacking. It hurt, that dismissal. I’d strived my entire life not to let the opinions, gazes or insults of others affect me, to not let any of it chip away at my confidence. Considering where I’d come from and the life I’d lived, I thought I’d done really well at gaining my self-respect from inside rather than out. Men did not dictate whether or not I felt good about myself, I’d made sure of that.
Or I had until this very moment. Until this man.
“You look like a girl who likes to party,” he said. The words themselves weren’t technically an insult, but the way he said them was.
You look like a slut.
When tears prickled the backs of my eyes, I tilted my head up and bit the inside of my lip so they didn’t fall. Another thing that I’d never let a man do: make me cry.
My hands were fists at my sides. I ached to scream at this asshole, tell him that feminism existed and that a woman could look however the fuck she wanted to look, could do whatever the fuck she wanted to do with her body and do it all without a man’s opinion or input.
But instead, I took a deep breath. Then another one.
It was not smart to get into a screaming match in my place of work. The place I actually liked working at—despite Dante’s presence. Kallum was a great boss. The girls were lovely. The clientele weren’t all complete sleazebags, and the pay was aces. As cool as Kallum was, I doubted he would approve of me screaming at a member of the club made of the biggest tippers. Plus, he was watching carefully from behind the bar.
Beyond that, I figured screaming at someone in a Sons of Templar MC cut was not at all smart. Although I wasn’t scared of them, of him, I wasn’t stupid enough to think that wouldn’t invite trouble.
And trouble was what I was meant to be staying away from.
So no screaming. I pasted on my biggest, sweetest, fuck you smile and bore my eyes right into his.
“Sure, I’m a girl who likes to party,” I replied, my voice high, saccharine-sweet and the same brand of fuck you as my smile.
And I did love to party. He didn’t need to know that my version of partying was dancing around in my underwear to the Spice Girls with a glass of cheap wine in one hand and a hairbrush/microphone in the other.
I did not need to correct his opinion of me, though. It didn’t matter. That’s what I was trying to tell myself, at least.
“The club has parties weekly,” he continued. His arms were folded across his impressive chest, standing stock still.
I nodded. As a dancer in this club and a resident of this town, I knew all about the club parties. A couple of the girls danced at them. By invitation only. The club paid well, the members tipped even better. Plus there was the fact that the members were hot as balls and many of the girls I worked with were very keen to become an ‘Old Lady.’ It was an honorary title around here, despite the club being involved in a lot of illegal shit.
Allegedly.
As of yet, none of the girls had managed to get themselves into an Old Lady position, though many had managed to get themselves in a whole bunch of other positions that were apparently very pleasing.
Very fucking pleasing.
I did my best not to think about any of those positions with Hades in front of me. It helped that he was looking at me in a way that communicated he was not interested in me in that way. In the slightest. Which was unusual for me. I was an attractive woman, not vain, but it was a fact. I’d used that fact to make a living. Men, as a rule, were interested. Most men. But clearly not all men.
Sure, it could be that I wasn’t Hades’s type. But that did not explain why there was something hostile about the way he looked at me. As if something very particular about me pissed him off.
Which made no sense, since the only interaction we’d had pretty much involved me saving his life, covering up a crime and getting a stain on my sofa. If anyone should be acting pissed off right now, it should’ve been me.
But that wasn’t really my style, and Hades was pretty damn intimidating. So I nodded placidly at his statement about the club parties, not sure whether it was a question or not.
A muscle in his jaw ticced at my nonverbal response. “You have a standing invitation to any one of these parties,” he said, voice cold. As if it had been painful for him to extend the offer. “Obviously, you’d be paid well, as I’m sure you’re aware. But because of your particular ... history with us, you’d be given a bonus of sorts.”