Page 52 of Heart Over Heels

Brad’s buddies hooted like I’d performed a trick, then egged me on as I held the pose. The one with the bottle tipped it toward my mouth, a slow and sloppy showman. Champagne streamed over my tongue, down my chin, and soaked my chest all over again.

The room howled. Brad’s laughter tangled in the ruckus as his hands clamped down, locking me in place while he thrust gracelessly against my backside.

“Atta boy,” he growled.

My nails dug into his knees as I dragged my tail across the back of his neck. His friends started chanting, feet stomping out a rhythm that rattled the chandelier and shook the floor.

Every gaze belonged to me, and so did every dollar they’d brought as long as I kept them entertained.

So I smiled, tilted my head back, and let the last drops of champagne trickle down my throat while Brad rutted against me like a dog humping a leg.

He was reaching around, grabbing blindly for my cock, when everything died.

The music cut off, the lights snapped out, and sudden darkness pressed in on all sides.

For the space of a breath, there was nothing but silence and Brad’s ragged panting in my ear.

Then uproar broke like a dam bursting.

Screams.

Shattering glass.

Feet pounded and bodies slammed into furniture as panic swept the suite. Brad yelped and threw me off his lap, launching me face first into the void. I hit the floor and scrambled on my hands and knees, blind and helpless against the rush of people storming past.

I found the pole table and curled beneath it with my knees to my chest and my tail coiled while the stampede thundered around me.

In seconds, the VIP suite was empty, and I was alone.

I still heard heavy breathing, but now it was my own gasps too harsh in my ears. Slowly, I stretched out, hands slipping on spilled champagne as I pushed upright. My knees ached from the fall, and my vision blurred. I sucked in a breath, trying to piece myself back together.

Something hummed, distant and metallic, and the auxiliary lights illuminated the main floor below. Chaos raged, but in small bursts now rather than all-consuming. The stage was empty, but the audience was a tangle. Colette carved through the crowd at an unholy speed, corralling customers like a sheepdog with her flock. Mercer braced against the tide, shouting over the noise as he steered stragglers toward the side exits.

Shoving myself to standing, I swayed then caught myself against the pole. The room tilted, and liquor rushed to my head as the adrenaline burned off.

You should be down there.

The thought cut through the haze.

You’re the manager. You have a job to do. You’re needed.

My chest constricted, and I dragged a shaky hand down my face. I was exposed, which didn’t usually bother me, but now I felt the urge to hide. The impulse to disappear into the dark clashed against the pull in my gut to move, to help, todo something.

It was just a power outage, and I wasn’t scared of the dark.

I cast another glance at the lower level. The initial wave had thinned into streams of stragglers, but there was still work to be done.

With another steadying breath, I moved. My stockinged feet crunched on glass as I headed toward the stairs.

The descent was treacherous with each tread pitching under me thanks to the liquor pickling my brain. When I reached the ground floor intact and upright, gratitude left me weak with relief.

The last of the customers staggered toward the doors, spurred on by Colette’s barking commands while Mercer brought up the rear.

I’d barely cleared the final step when Colette’s head snapped up.

“Darby!” she called. Relief softened her snarl for half a second, then she waved to her fellow bouncer. “He’s over here,mon grand.”

Mercer turned and caught sight of me hovering at the stairs’ edge. He shouldered past a dazed customer and crossed the floor in three strides, a force of muscle and urgency.