Silly Landon. With that reaction, you just gave this girl enough ammunition to win the war.
I clutch the glass until my knuckles turn white. This is my third whiskey in under twenty minutes, but the liquor has yet to take the edge off. All I see are painted red lips spewing the venom potent enough to infect my composure. I’m fit to argue with the richest, cockiest, most reckless executives our world has seen—and I always come out victorious. Yet that woman strikes me down with a lucky guess. Her undeniable appeal takes credit too. My attraction to her is only the beginning, and already proving to be problematic.
A smokey burn sizzles my taste buds as I savor another swig. There’s no harm in letting the expensive label ease my burdens. I might need to request the entire bottle at this rate, though. It’d probably be cheaper too. Not that the tab is any of my concern. Jordan offered to—and I quote—treat my surly ass to a fun-filled evening. Excuse me while I mock his bonding attempts. But here I am, waiting for the numb to settle in. Until then, that treacherous siren is consuming my thoughts.
Vannah Simons wormed her way under my defenses. She managed to rattle me with barely more than a conveniently placed assumption. There’s no chance she’s privy to the vicious truth. All she did was fling some stereotypical bullshit and hoped it stuck. Why did I allow her impulsive ranting to make an impact? I don’t crack under pressure—that’s a weakness I shed in grade school.
I guzzle the remaining alcohol and signal for one more. Hours later and I’m still reeling. My reaction was so predictable that it’s almost comical. If only I hadn’t handed Vannah control on a silver platter. I should’ve brushed off her efforts to rile me without even curling my lip into a sneer. It was a rookie mistake that my pride will pay for. That doesn’t mean she’s winning. Quite the opposite. I’ll ensure she pays dearly for unveiling thoughts of that wretched wench.
A meaty palm clamps onto my shoulder, giving me a jostle worthy of alert. I don’t bother shifting my gaze from the amber liquid currently failing me. Whatever Jordan is about to say will only aggravate the buzzing in my ears. “Our entire purpose of being at the bar is to relax. You look worse than this morning. What the hell happened?”
Rather than answering, I distract myself by taking a lay of the land. This is the type of dimly lit establishment my father would loathe. I find myself appreciating the swanky lounge atmosphere from that fact alone. The air is saturated with an upscale quality, like it costs a small fortune to even consider stepping inside. A long inhale grants me a whiff of supple leather, the char on an expertly grilled steak, and the tang from a ripe ego. That last tendril might be all me.
This booze palace could almost be misconstrued as seedy with its shadowy booths and dark alcoves. The clientele appears to be mostly male, which only feeds the gentleman’s club reputation. Jordan’s suggestions from earlier make a screeching reappearance as I take another slow look around.
“Why’d you bring me to this place?”
His gaze follows the trek of mine. “What’s wrong with The Lair? Figured a posh dude like yourself would appreciate the bold concept.”
“That’s one way to describe including exotic dancers and happy endings on their menu.” This isn’t my first rodeo. The night never ends with a mere striptease.
Jordan chokes on his drink, beer dribbling from his chin. “The fuck?”
Maybe I’m reading the situation wrong. I flick a glance to the framed artwork displayed on a nearby wall. The candid photographs seem innocent enough. “I wasn’t sure what sort of entertaining company you were planning to deliver.”
His booming cackle breaks the silence ballooning across the room. “And you think prostitutes would be a wise choice? I said this was my treat, but I’m not paying to get you laid. Nice try, Winters.”
The man sitting beside him snorts into his crystal tumbler. Brance Stone, Jordan’s buddy from work, is parked on a stool in the corner. The thunderous expression hasn’t left his face since he sat down. “I wouldn’t risk my marriage on this joint if that were the case. You can trust me more than Hughes. His wife would probably like the thrill.”
A grunt of my own tickles the back of my throat. Whipped much?