The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,18
collar of his costume to prevent himself from choking.
He showed up.
“Get rid of him, but not before breaking a few bones,” Sam ordered dryly, dumping Chris on the floor in a pile of limbs and moans, like he was a bag of trash.
“Oh, man,” Chris whined as the two burly guys grabbed each of his arms, yanking him toward the stairway. “Sorry. I didn’t know she was a VIP. C’mon, Brennan. Please!”
“Shut up,” Sam quipped.
“Am I banned from the club?” Chris whined.
Sam frowned at him coldly. “By the time my men finish with you, you’ll be lucky not to piss blood for the rest of your life. Take him out.” He pointed at the door up the stairs, and the bouncers immediately followed his order.
Sam took a step toward me. I took another step back, my knees knocking together in a mixture of fear and desire.
I’d been caught red-handed at his club, dressed like a legendary hooker from the nineties. Lovely. He was definitely going to be serving me my own ass. Maybe even tell my brothers and father about this.
I squeezed my eyes shut, getting ready for a verbal beating.
“Follow me,” he rasped softly.
“I’m sorry! I …”
Wait, what?
Why wasn’t he tossing me out to the street right along with Chris?
I looked around, internally cursing Belle for bailing on me. She was crazy enough to get into a fistfight with Sam. And somehow win.
Sam pressed his hand on the small of my back, ushering me toward the bar then past two bodyguards blocking a narrow, dimly lit hallway. Every cell in my body prickled with alarm. We passed by four doors—two on each side of the corridor—all of them open. The card rooms. Underground betting venues Sam operated, masquerading as Badlands nightclub. Everyone knew Badlands was notorious, but only a select few were privy to the true reason it was famous.
Apparently, only the richest and most respected men in New England could secure a membership to Sam’s little gentleman club—and only if they were vouched for by one of his few trusted contacts.
I caught a glimpse of the rooms. Brown, oaky, and smoky, the men inside clutched cigars between their teeth, drinking expensive scotch, laughing and placing bets.
Silently, we went up the stairs toward a door that obviously led to his office. He opened the black wooden door and closed it behind us, leaning against his desk.
I looked around, blinking away the harshness coming from the fluorescent light, drinking in more details about his life. Nothing about the room screamed money or power. It looked like just any other office of a nightclub owner. Sam wasn’t a flashy man. Meaning, he looked the part when it came to being rich, but he wasn’t desperate to show off his wealth.
We were now together—alone—with no one to stop him when he’d grind my body up and turn me into meatballs for defying his words and showing up here.
My heart beat so fast I thought I was going to puke.
“Look, I—” I tried to explain my presence at the club, but he raised his hand to cut me off.
“What happened to you tonight is not a representation of my club or the people inside it. I know things can get rowdy in here, but sexual harassment is where we draw the line. I’d like to offer you a hundred-dollar voucher for your troubles, Miss … Roberts.” His eyes scanned me, though there was no desire or want in his expression.
I bit down on my lip to prevent my mouth from gaping in shock when I figured it out.
Sam didn’t recognize me.
He had no idea who I was.
How would he? With my bleach blonde wig, costume, full face of makeup, and sunglasses.
My heart lurched, urging me to take advantage of the situation. The opportunity was overwhelming. To have Sam without really having Sam.
I knew Boston’s favorite monster was notorious for sleeping with every willing woman. Why not me?
Because it is immoral, corrupt, and unfair, a voice inside me chided, in a slight French accent, her accent. Not to mention, you deserve a man who would beg for you, not vice versa.
Yeah, she still haunted me. A decade after her death.
But Sam didn’t have any morals. Why not play by his rules?
“Who said I didn’t want the attention?” I tilted my chin up, adopting a smokier, raspier tone than my own.
Sam arched a thick, dark eyebrow, lazily perched on his desk, strong arms folded across his massive chest.