Frank Harston’s daughter is an enemy.
Not as big as Frankie, but still an enemy. Alarms blared, and red lights flashed in my head when she introduced herself. If she hadn’t grown up so beautiful, my bouncers would’ve escorted her out, no questions asked. But she’s fucking spellbinding.
I can’t peel my eyes off her to save my life.
She shouldn’t be anywhere within my reach. The mere thought of entering Delta should make her all kinds of scared, but there’s no fear tainting her steel-gray, almost silver eyes, just a blazing fire. Not only did she have the courage to show her beautiful face on my territory, but like a true pussycat, she hissed, showing off her claws. My surname didn’t change her attitude.
It pissed her off more.
She’s fucking irresistible with that sharp tongue, disdain painted over her doll-like face, and the abhorrent disrespect. Six years have passed since anyone spoke to me the way Layla does, and it was her father.
She inherited the nasty personality I hate most about him, yet I find it utterly impressive on Layla.
I spotted her on the many screens in my office displaying live feed from inside the club. A small commotion started in the POP music room where a petite girl dressed in red pushed her way through the crowd as if pushing through a jungle. I liked how she walked: head high, shoulders back.
People stepped out of her way, awestruck.
No wonder. She’s a sight to behold. Dark brown hair fell to her hips, hidden under a flared dress. Most girls who greet Delta with their presence just about cover their asses, but Layla doesn’t show her thighs, fascinating me that much more. She’s outrageously sassy and utterly unfazed by me, my money, position, and reputation. Everyone else is, but Layla doesn’t give a shit, showing no respect, fear, or interest.
Another novelty. Indifference isn’t a reaction I’m treated with often. I like her more than any other woman who crossed my path, even though I should stay away from her.
What a shame I don’t want to.
The vodka bottle we started over an hour ago is half-empty, but Layla hardly looks tipsy. Jake comes by every twenty minutes to take her dancing, so she’s burning the alcohol, moving in sync with that asshole’s arms around her middle.
“That’s it,” I say when she comes back with Jake’s hand holding hers. “No more dancing. Sit and drink.”
The guy can’t stand straight without assistance anymore. He’ll likely fall down the stairs if he takes her dancing again. He’ll trip, or I’ll push him. Either way, he won’t leave the club without at least two broken bones; jaw and nose.
Layla raises a shot glass, throwing the vodka at the back of her throat. “Sir, yes, sir,” she salutes. “Favorite color?”
I push a Marlboro between my lips, pinching the filter with my teeth. “Is this a game, or are you curious?”
“You shouldn’t answer a question with a question.”
“Red.” Since two hours ago. “You want to play twenty questions? How old are you? Five?”
She wags her finger. “That’s three questions right there. Are you afraid I’ll ask something inappropriate?”
We just met. Two hours ago, but she already knows how to get by me. Accusing me of fear does the job. There’s no fucking way I’ll pass on the game now. Besides, with the right questions, it might get interesting.
“Favorite song?”
She catches her bottom lip between her fingers, pulling gently. I imagine my teeth in their place, biting, sucking, consuming her sweet mouth. “I think “One Way or Another” wins it at the moment.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I’m not talking about the original, though.” She pulls her phone out, tapping the screen.
“Don’t tell me you’re a One Direction fan.”
“Nope. Until the Ribbon Breaks.” Standing on her stiletto heels, she presses the phone against my right ear, covering the left with her tiny hand.
I stare at her, mere inches away from me, her hands cupping my face. Jesus wept. What the fuck is this spark between us? I grasp the stool, digging my fingers into the leather to contain the urge to touch her. It’s too loud around to enjoy the song playing from her phone’s speaker, but I focus on the melody, dark and slow, the words a husky whisper loaded with emotion.
My stomach ties itself into a double knot when Layla bites her lip. I think it’s her tic. A tell of sorts. Some people crack their knuckles, some play with their hair, but Layla... of course, she’d have the sexiest tic out there.
Just my fucking luck.