Come Hard (Club Silken #1) - Jerrie Alexander

1

Morgan

My alcohol sedated brain barely registers the distant buzzing of my phone. I run my hand over the table next to my bed and come up empty. Where the hell is my cell? I open one eye and focus on the clock. My heart slams into my chest; good news never comes at three in the morning.

I cram my feet into the bunny slippers Nana gave me for Christmas last year, and run to the living room. My purse is next to my front door, right where I kicked off my heels the minute I got home a short two hours ago.

Leaning down to open my bag, the earthquake in my head increases tenfold. My stomach teeters on the edge of upheaval, a combination of too many daiquiris and fear. I dump everything out of my purse onto the carpet. Oh, hell no, my phone is inside my bag but my wallet isn’t. The thought of someone buying a big-screen television using my credit cards makes me want to throw up. I pull up my phone message while trying to remember the last time I used my wallet at the bar.

“This call is for Morgan Kimball.” The male voice is deep and raspy like he’d just taken a shot of whiskey. “Your billfold was found by the cleanup crew at Gloss Nightclub.” A wave of relief hits me. “We open tomorrow at one p.m., or, if you want to pick it up tonight, we’ll be here until around four.”

“I can’t wait until tomorrow afternoon,” I mutter. There’s no heavy traffic this time of morning and I can be at the club in twenty minutes. I rush to the bathroom, take two aspirin, finger comb my hair into a scrunchy, and slip on a knee-length sweater to cover my tank top and boy shorts.

I hurry to the parking lot and within minutes I’m driving down the interstate, constantly glancing at my speedometer to make sure I’m not speeding. I’ll never get to the club on time if I have to explain to a policeman why I’m out in the wee hours of the morning wearing my pj’s.

I park in front of Gloss with ten minutes to spare and rush to the door. “Hello,” I call out while knocking loud enough to get someone’s attention. This part of the city isn’t residential so I pound a little harder. “Hello. My name is Morgan Kimball and I’m here to pick up my wallet.”

The huge wooden door opens slowly, and an older, grey-haired man greets me with a smile. The corners of his eyes are crinkled and the laugh lines around his mouth give him a friendly look. I like him immediately.

“Come inside. I’ll get it for you.” He closes and locks the door behind us. I stop and arch an eyebrow. “You’re safe here. We just don’t want any strays coming in.”

“I understand.” I glance around the club. The inside looks different now that the bright, overhead lights are on. The club seems to be a large and lonely open space when a few hours ago it was alive with people, and the walls were vibrating with music. The stage that held the band is dark, with black sheets thrown over the instruments. I’m startled when a second male voice joins us.

“Mr. Henry, I’ll finish up here. You can go home.”

I look up and see the man whose voice is sending hot streaks across my skin. It’s the same deep, throaty voice that left the message on my voicemail. The man, wearing a black T-shirt, black slacks, and a sexy grin, is standing at the end of the long marble bar. He has a yellow rubber glove on one hand and a white bucket in the other. Tall with broad shoulders, his dark eyes scorch my body from head to toe.

“Join me?” He cocks his head and waits.

Between his looks and voice, a sudden need rushes across my skin and moisture dampens my panties. I’m not sure I can make my feet move from just inside the door. Maybe, Mr. Henry needs to stay.

Mr. Henry smiles again. “Thanks, boss.”

“Drive safely.” Mr. Sexy doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“Good night.” The older gentleman nods at me and then disappears down a hallway. I hear a door creak and then slam closed.

A tingle runs up my spine. Mr. Sexy and I are alone. We stare at each other for a long moment, and the temperature in the bar seems to rise before I find my voice.