Why can’t anyone just fucking do their job?
“I said I’m sorry,” she shoots back, her head pulling to the side a bit with emphasis. “I didn’t do it on purpose!”
My eyes widen as I take her in. Did she really just clap back at me? Me? I can’t help the sarcastic grin that spreads across my face. “Well, your sorry ass doesn’t make my jacket any less sticky, now does it?”
“That’s why I was trying to wipe it off!” she says, her tone slightly less angry and a little more matter-of-fact. She doesn’t seem scared of me at all, and I can’t quite figure out why.
Unless she doesn’t know who I am.
It shouldn’t matter; most people are scared of me from a simple glance in my direction. I do a good job of looking the part of the angsty bad boy who might just blow your brains out. “Don’t you know that the customer is always right?” I ask her, narrowing my eyes slightly. Part of me just wants to hear what she comes back with. The way one side of her ruby lips curl up when she’s defending herself is sexy, and despite my irritation, I can feel my body start to respond to hers.
“Yes, of course, the customer is always right,” she says. “That’s why I’m apologizing to you for running into me.” She sets one hand on her narrow waist, and my eyes can’t help but roam back up from those slightly rounded hips to a pair of breasts that look like they’ll fit perfectly into my hands, to a lovely, but puckered face.
I need to get away from her before I either rip her fucking head off or fuck her brains out.
Luckily for me, Allie shows up right then. “Oh, shit,” she mutters, seeing the stain on my clothes. She grabs the girl by the arm. “So sorry, boss!” she tells me as she yanks the girl away. “Meghan, did you apologize to Mr. Stone?”
Her jade eyes widen into the same look I saw on a doe once right before I plowed into it with my truck. “Mr. Stone?” she says, and in the back of my mind, I think I like the way my name sounds on her lips.
But then Carter is there, and I can tell he’s in a hurry. I’m forced to pull my attention away from the new girl to hear what the bartender has to say. “Hey, Hunter,” he says, “I have a message for you from Brandon.”
I step farther away from Allie and Miss Sassy Pants. “Yeah, what is it?” I ask, thinking I already know.
“He said the package has been delivered.” Carter stares at me with his eyebrows raised for a second, checking to make sure I’m clear.
I am. This is not the first time I’ve brought my other work back to the club. So I say, “Thank you” tersely before giving the girl one more glare and storming off toward one of our private rooms down the hallway.
Before I leave the dance floor, I turn to look at Dylan, who is hard at work behind his turn tables. I catch his eyes and make a signal for him, my thumb toward the ceiling as I raise my hand a few times. He nods in understanding, and I rush on down the hallway, already feeling a shift in the music as the heavier beats begin to drop and the speakers go crazy with a high-pitched techno sound that will mask anything that goes on elsewhere in the building.
Leaving the club floor behind, I proceed down the hall toward the private room I already instructed Brandon and the others to bring Jonathan to. I noticed when we pulled up that he was conscious again, so hopefully, now he’ll be willing to answer some of my questions.
Outside the door, I take a deep breath. My mind is filled with only one thought: I need to find out what the hell that bastard did with my money.
Pushing the door open, I look around. Brandon, Omar, and Caleb are here, as well as Leah. I silently curse under my breath at the sight of her. Not that I don’t appreciate her legal expertise; it’s just always a little harder to break the law when I know the one person who understands it better than anyone I’ve ever met is watching.
Her hazel eyes narrow on me, and I give her a cocky smile. She readjusts her arms and shakes her head, her dark hair catching the light. A shrug is all I can give her, and she backs up a few steps, knowing well enough there’s not a word that can come out of her mouth that will change my mind.
Taking off my jacket, I try to ignore the scent of whiskey and hand the garment over to Brandon.
“Whew, Boss, you must’ve thrown back several shots to smell that strong,” he jokes.
I turn and glare at him, not thinking it’s funny at all. Stupid, clumsy, sexy-as-fuck waitress…
Brandon puts his free hand up in the air, a sign he understands he needs to shut his fucking mouth, and then moves back toward Leah. His blond hair looks a little disheveled, which is odd for him, but then, something tells me Jonathan didn’t come into the room easily.
We are not in a dingy basement with only one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. No, this room is much different than the last one I sprayed Jonathan’s blood all over. The lighting is better. I can see the full extent of damage to Jonathan’s face and feel a ripple of satisfaction. His bruises are almost the same shade of blue as the walls. The paint also has pops of other colors in abstract shapes and designs. It’s a nice room for customers who need the space for their own gold key issues.
It’s a shame I’m about to fuck it up.
Thank God for washable paint and scrubbable carpet.
I push my sleeves up to my elbows and then approach the man in the chair. He’s tied still, but not to the chair. Jonathan’s not going anywhere anyway. Fuck, he used to work for me. He knows how this works. He’s either going to tell me what I need to know, or he’s not.
And if he’s going to be a stupid motherfucker and not tell me, the only way he’s getting out of this room is rolled up in a rug.
“All right, Jonathan,” I begin, noticing I have some cuts on my knuckles from our last round. “Are you ready to talk?”
He looks even worse now than he did when I started roughing him up, to begin with. He can’t really smile, but he tries as he tells me, “Go to hell.”