Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,17
onto the floor, it’s wall-to-wall partiers, and Ainsley’s nowhere to be seen.
“Hey, boss.” Brandon, the former Force Recon Marine who’s my head of security, comes up behind me and claps me on the shoulder, yelling over the techno pop tonight’s guest DJ is spinning. “How’s things?”
“You tell me,” I shout back.
He lifts an unconcerned shoulder and lets it fall, like being responsible for the safety of a nightclub full of millennials in various states of intoxication is no big deal. And I guess maybe after spending two tours in Afghanistan doing covert ops, it’s not. “Busy, but so far nothing major. A guy who was a little too handsy with one of the waitresses. Some teenagers with bad fake IDs. Two women doing meth in the bathroom. My guys took care of it, no problem.”
The drug shit pisses me off, but it’s an occupational hazard in the nightclub biz. I’ve got a good crew, though, and if Brandon says they handled it, that’s good enough for me.
Now that I’m reassured everything is business as usual, I decide to cut right to the chase. “I’m looking for someone. Female.”
“Business or personal?”
“Business,” I lie. My business. Not his. “She’s about five-three, maybe five-four. Shoulder-length blond hair. Wearing a little black dress—or maybe it was dark blue—and high heels. Which probably put her at more like five-seven or five-eight.”
Brandon smirks. “You realize you just described half of the women in this joint, right?”
“Never mind.” I scrub a hand through my hair and scan the bar area. Still no Ainsley. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. And I have a growing suspicion this woman is more than worth my while. “I’ll find her myself.”
He eyes me suspiciously. Not that I blame him. I’m not in the habit of stalking our female clientele. Top Shelf is my company, not my personal dating service. I don’t dip my wick in the company ink.
But you know what they say about rules. They’re made to be broken.
“Well, good luck on your quest, Frodo.” Brandon claps me on the back. “I should check on the guys working the door.”
He ambles off, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. I circle the dance floor a few times, my eyes pausing on every tiny, curvy blonde. But none of them are the tiny, curvy blonde who’s got me tied in knots.
I’m about to abandon the dance floor and try my luck in the VIP section when I spot her. She’s across the floor on the fringe of the action watching her friend, who’s at the center of it all, surrounded by a cadre of male admirers, shaking her booty to Ariana Grande’s “Thank U, Next.” And yeah, sue me. I know who Ariana Grande is. And the names of all of her songs. Although I wish I didn’t. Truth be told, I’m more of an old school, classic rock kind of guy. Led Zeppelin. AC/DC. Black Sabbath. But that stuff doesn’t go over well with the club set.
I find an empty spot against the wall and take up residence, prepared to wait for the right moment to make my move. But my ass has barely touched the painstakingly restored exposed brick when that moment arrives, courtesy of the jackass who sidles up next to Ainsley and starts gyrating against her like Channing freaking Tatum.
Not. Gonna. Happen.
I’m off like a shot, pushing through the crowd with none of my usual finesse, not caring who’s in my way or what they’re speculating about the crazy club owner plowing through their ranks. I’m a man on a motherfucking mission, and nothing—and no one—is going to stop me from stopping the creep creeping on Ainsley.
It seems like hours, but it’s probably only a few seconds before I’ve got my hand on the creep’s shoulder and I’m pulling him backward, away from Ainsley.
“Hey.” He tries to pry my fingers off his Brooks Brothers button-down, but that only makes my grip tighten. “I’m dancing here.”
Dancing’s a generous term for whatever the hell it is he’s doing, but I let it pass. Ainsley doesn’t, however.
She stands up straighter in her high heels and plants her hands on her hips. The combined effect makes her already generous chest stick out even farther, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by the creep, whose eyes zero in on her breasts. I’d like to gouge them out of his smug face with a spoon. If I had one. And if my eyes hadn’t