Thinking of security brings to mind my personal guard dog. He’s not on the security team. In fact, he’s way farther up the paygrade as a part owner and the architect of the club. Not that most people recognize his role here when they catch sight of the brute skulking in the most shadowy corners here. His name’s Callum Vincent, and I guarantee if anyone asked him, he’d say nobody even sees him.
But I do. Every night when I’m dancing, I feel the protective glare of his gaze focused not just on me, but on everyone around me. Most nights, prickles of heat and awareness let me know he’s still got eyes on me when I walk home, too. Not that he ever approaches me, much less speaks to me.
“Hey, girl, you got enough water?” One of the cocktail waitresses is below me, and I’m thankful for the excuse to bend forward to respond to her. It’s the perfect opportunity to show a hint of cleavage in Callum’s direction without being obvious about it. He stands a head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. I’m comfortable being a little bit daring, knowing I’m only dipping low enough to give him a show and not the whole room.
The rest of the night flies by, my shift filled with upbeat bops and heavy grinds. The DJ even sneaks in a couple remixes of Christmas songs in honor of the holiday in a few weeks. Dancing toBaby It’s Cold Outsideremastered and sped up is wild. I know my skin is shiny with sweat, the glittery makeup we wear to perform long melted away. By the time the last call bell rings, my legs feel like rubber and my low back aches. At twenty-three, I’m starting to believe I’m too old for this, but despite my parents’ nagging and the framed diploma gathering dust on my bookshelf at home, I can’t imagine doing anything else.
I’m ready to make my way to the door and walk home when the Spidey-sense that alerts me to Callum’s eyes on me raises the hairs along my nape. I don’t want to make it obvious I’m looking for him, but I’m craving one last look at his rugged, scarred face before I leave for the night. Tomorrow, I’m off, which means forty-eight hours without laying eyes on my secret crush. Not cool.
“Night, Sal. Night, Bruce!” I wave to the bartenders, who are still cleaning up and prepping for tomorrow, before sidling up to Fitzy’s side.
“You about ready to head out, Fitzy? Since you sent your poor would-be suitor off with his head hung low, I thought we could wander homeward together.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living in her building the past months, it’s if I want to look out for her, I’d better do a damn thorough job of disguising it. A single hint of trying to protect the bold-as-brass old dame is a surefire ticket to the kind of tongue lashing nobody wants.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t rush me, Lumi-babe. Last call is for weenies. I’ll take my damn time and be ready when I’m ready.” Her words may be feisty, but she’s gathering her purse and jacket while slugging back the dregs of her drink as she says them.
“I know, you can party ‘til the sun comes up, but I’m wiped out. It’s late enough the boys will freak if I try to leave alone, so do me this solid and walk home with me. Besides, if we hustle we might be in time to catch Olive walking Rupert before bed. Some bunny snuggles are exactly what we need to settle us down before bed.”