Page 10 of Direct Action

Top to toe, the woman was the epitome of sexy vixen.

No, this wasn’t a hiccup for our operation. This was a motherfucking disaster.

This right here would be what made my control snap.

Chapter Five

This was a disaster, with a capital D and seventy-two exclamation points, with thick bold lines underlining the disaster this was.

No, this was whatever was worse than a disaster—it was catastrophic. A ten-point-seven earthquake. A category-five hurricane. Whatever tornadoes were measured in, right before they touched down and demolished an entire town.

Pete, Mason, and Ryan. Three of my bosses, along with Calli, Mason’s woman, were at the Vault.

And did I mention Ryan, because that was worth the repeat, especially when he was the one watching me dance with what could be described as disgust on his gorgeous face.

Holy freaking shit.

This couldn’t get any worse.

It was the longest four minutes and fifty seconds—give or take thirty seconds—of my life.

As soon as the last echoes of Billy Idol’s raspy voice faded, I double extra quick beelined back to my section, which was thankfully on the other side of the room from my bosses’ table.

Bosses.

Fuck me sideways.

“Hey, pretty lady, can we get another round?”

Pretty lady.

Yuck.

With my best smile I looked to the table and the two men currently occupying it. One filthy rich, the other with enough money to pay the membership fee, drive a fancy car, and live in a ridiculously big house—all on credit. Maybe he was new money. Maybe he had an inferiority complex or maybe he was just a dick, but he was nowhere near as wealthy as the man sitting across from him. He knew it, I knew it, and the other man—who’d introduced himself as Sterling—knew it.

“Len,” Sterling chastised.

Len. That fit. Though when Len had introduced himself, he did so as Mr. Taylor. One of the reasons I knew he was new money and a dick. The show of superiority was unnecessary, yet he felt the need to flex his perceived dominance. I was nothing more than a lowly waitress there to serve him. It was arrogance personified.

“My apologies,” Len muttered. “Chloe, right?”

I ignored his half-assed apology.

“As soon as the bar reopens, I’ll bring your drinks right over, Mr. Taylor.”

I transferred my gaze to Sterling and gave him the same fake smile. Another difference between the men—Sterling didn’t allow his conceit to cloud his awareness. He was astute in a way Len was not. Which meant he read my smile, knew it was total bullshit, and gave me one of his own—his wasn’t fake, it was amused. I’d peg Sterling as a man in his sixties. Though, as the universe often did with men, his good looks didn’t take a hit with his age, and when his lips curved up into a smile, I couldn’t deny it took years off his face and gave him a silver-fox appeal I was positive meant he had no trouble finding a date. Incidentally, I had noted he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Thank you, Chloe.”

Another confession: He had a great voice. And when it wrapped around my name it was almost as nice as when Ryan said it.

Almost.

But nothing beat the way Ryan’s smooth drawl made my lady parts contract. One day, if I wasn’t careful, I’d let a moan slip out when Ryan was talking to me.

Ryan.

No. Pete, Mason, and Ryan.