Page 24 of Red My Lips

Chapter Eleven

Jill

“Angelina?” Walking into the club for my shift, I look at the other bartender prepping her kit behind the bar—the bar I’m supposed to be working at. “What are you doing here?”

“Working…” she responds, flashing me a confused look. “I’m on the schedule.”

That can’t be right because I’m on the schedule tonight. Or at least I was last time I checked two days ago.

“Since when?” I’m getting irritated now. I wouldn’t have gotten ready and come all the way here tonight if I didn’t have to. Someone in management fucked up.

“Since yesterday.” Angelina pulls out her phone and shows me a picture that she took of the schedule. To add insult to injury, my name’s been crossed out for tonight, and Angelina’s name has been written in pen beside it. “Sorry, girl. I thought you knew, or else I would have sent you a text.”

“It’s not your fault,” I assure her, my eyes scanning the area for the night manager. “Have you seen Miranda? I have a few choice words for her.”

“She said something about a broken locker in the dressing room.” Angelina waves her hand towards the employee door. “Good luck.”

“I’m not the one who’s going to need it.”

She laughs behind me, but I’m already moving. Stalking through the club, I skirt around barbacks and servers prepping the club for opening, on a mission.

I find Miranda in the women’s dressing room with one of the bouncers, Jax. She’s supervising while he uses a screwdriver to jimmy open one of the lockers that’s been jammed for almost a week now. She raises her hands in submission when she sees me coming in hot.

“Don’t start with me,” she says defensively. Jax looks over to flash me a dimpled grin as he checks me out, his bulging biceps intentionally flexing.

“Looking good, Jill,” Jax comments. I flash him a wink before crossing my arms over my chest and leveling a glare at Miranda.

“Then who should I start with, Miranda? Because someone decided to do arts and crafts on the schedule next to my name. Why the hell am I here?” Miranda’s shoulders go up helplessly as she searches for words.

“I don’t know, honestly. When I made the schedule, you were on it, and I didn’t change it.” She gestures to the door. “And if it wasn’t me, there’s only one other person who could’ve done it. So I suggest you go ask him.”

Gage.

I narrow my eyes at her, agitation bubbling inside me at the knowledge that the man who watches my every move is now manipulating my work schedule. He’s so desperate to insert himself into my life he’s no longer happy showing up wherever I am—he now wants to choose where I show up and when. And he has the power to.

I don’t like being manipulated.

“Fine,” I concede, earning a small relieved sigh from the woman currently under my deadly stare. Turning on my heel, I storm into the hallway towards the owner’s office back behind the VIP booths. I enter without knocking, letting the door swing open until it hits the wall with a bang.

Gage sits behind the desk, leaning back in his chair with an arrogant smirk on his infuriatingly handsome face. He knew I was coming.

“Fuck, you’re hot when you’re angry,” he states, eyes raking over me hungrily. “I would’ve changed the schedule a lot sooner if I knew that meant you’d be in my office looking like this.”

I narrow my eyes at him as I saunter closer. Placing my palms flat on his desk with a smack, I lean forward to stare him down. I don’t give a damn that he can see straight down my minidress. In fact, I prefer it.

“You fucked around with my work schedule to make me angry?” I challenge, my anger undeniable. Gage cocks his head to one side and takes his time looking at me like he’s memorizing the image.

“It’s definitely a perk,” he answers, running his tongue across his bottom lip before biting it with a smile. The movement is so small, but it makes my heart stutter, and I hate that it’s so damn sexy. My body comes to life under his gaze, the mostly healed marks he left on me aching to be remade. “But that’s not why you were taken off the schedule. I have other plans for you tonight.”

I stand and place my hands on my hips, my pointed gaze demanding. “You better start talking, or you’re about to watch my sweet ass walk back out the door and go home.”

“You’ll be serving a private party.”

“You pulled me from behind the bar on the busiest night of the week to do VIP bottle service?”

“Poker,” he corrects me, making my stomach drop—I have a visceral reaction to that word after what happened with my brother. “I’m hosting a private poker game tonight. You’ll be serving drinks.”

He changed my regular bartending shift so I can serve him and his asshole buddies alcohol while they piss away amounts of money that could save and ruin lives? A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “No.”

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