Page 9 of Direct Action

He wasn’t wrong.

“You’ll live,” Pete shot back, not looking at Mase but instead scanning the room.

“I think I have a rash developing,” Mase continued to complain.

“You know there’s cream for that, right?” I shot back. “And really, it’s uncouth to discuss your crotch rot at the table.”

“Uncouth,” Mase choked out. “Did you learn that word from your Word of the Day app?”

Before I could answer, a man appeared with a tray of drinks. We had good service at the Plank—our servers had it going on. No one sat at a table longer than a few minutes without a drink in front of them. We were in the business of selling booze, our servers were there to make money, and the only way they made that money was to keep the drinks flowing.

But, damn, that was quick.

“First round is on the house,” the man announced and passed out the drinks without having to ask who ordered what.

We all muttered our appreciation, Pete slipped the man his tip, and he was off.

“Shit, maybe we should be taking notes,” I mumbled, and picked up my tumbler.

The toasted oak, caramel, with a hint of vanilla hit my tongue. There was nothing like the first taste of a perfectly aged Kentucky whiskey. Smooth and lingering on the tongue before it warmed from the inside out.

Pete didn’t feel the same.

“Watching you choke that down is straight-up blasphemy,” I grumbled.

My friend shot me an unmistakable go fuck yourself look and shook his head.

“You know, real men drink bourbon,” I continued to prod.

“Is that . . .” Calli started but didn’t finish.

The music changed from a low hum of rock to pulse pounding. It took me a moment to recognize the synthesized guitar riff. And suddenly the leather made sense. Billy Idol’s iconic gritty voice pulsed through the speakers as the servers took the open spaces between the tables, dancing to “Rebel Yell.”

Some of the women wore leather jackets with bralettes underneath, some had on sunglasses, some were in heels, others in motorcycle boots. The dancing wasn’t choreographed, which made it cool as hell. Three women danced on top of the bar. The male bartenders stood behind them, either waiting to catch them should they fall or standing sentry.

It shouldn’t have worked, women dancing around posh tables to Billy Idol while those tables were occupied by men and women dressed to the nines, in an upscale club that cost a whack to join.

Yet it did.

Halfway through the song my gaze locked onto a familiar pair of hazel eyes.

What the fuck?

No, what in the actual fuck?

Chloe stumbled a step but quickly recovered. And fuck, the woman could move her body.

“Shit,” Pete ground out across from me, in a barely-heard-over-the-music grouse.

Shit didn’t begin to touch on the monumental snag in our operation.

Chloe Baughman should not be here.

Why was she here working when she had a fucking job—working for me.

“You need to contain her,” Pete ordered.

Contain her? I was going drag her ass out of here and demand she never wear leather booty shorts, bloodred heels, and a bustier in public again. And what the hell had she done to her face? At the Plank, she was fresh faced—if she wore makeup it was light and expertly applied to look like she wasn’t wearing any. Now, however, her eyes were lined with black, smoky shadow on her lids, making the hazel pop. Deep-red lipstick that gave a man ideas where he’d like to see those puffy red lips. And where I’d like to see them was wrapped around my dick while she was on her knees in front of me, in that bustier that didn’t just highlight her cleavage—it showcased it.