Page 151 of The Pucking Wrong Man

I typed out a text to Anastasia.

Me: Where’s the place? I can take you there. We can celebrate once you get the job :)

There were three text bubbles for a solid minute before she finally texted back.

Anastasia: I have a ride. Thank you, though. XO.

Alright...that wasn’t suspicious at all.

I glanced at the clock. She’d be out of class in an hour.

“You going to help me with this, or are you just going to stand there contemplating your existence?” Ari snarked.

“Do you want me to drop another weight on you?” I drawled absentmindedly as I went over where Anastasia could be going tonight that she didn’t want me to know about.

“Just make sure not to hurt his face. We’d never hear the end of it,” Disney commented as he started jump-roping.

“Or his dick,” Lincoln added, finally joining the conversation. “That would probably be even worse.”

Ari looked vaguely sick at that comment. “We’d better switch, Hero. Just in case you get some ideas.”

I huffed, but switched spots with him, so I could lift weights and think about Anastasia in peace.

The next hour ticked by painfully slow. I was tempted to go wait outside of the ballet studio, but I eventually figured I would just use the tracker to follow her to wherever she went.

“See you guys later,” I said finally, not really paying attention to whatever they said in return.

She was on the move.

Anastasia’s job interview was at a strip club.

I knew that fucking club. Nick and Matty, two players on the team, went there at least once a week.

Fucking hell.

I didn’t want my girl anywhere near that place. All of those men seeing her? I didn’t want them seeing her fully dressed...let alone with no clothes on.

What was she thinking?

I’D THOUGHT SHE’D BEEN JOKING THE OTHER NIGHT.

Okay...what to do.

Besides standing outside and waiting for her...something I was already doing...

I knew there was a lot of security inside, Matty had told us about being thrown out one night after he’d drank too much—so that ruled out going in and dragging her out.

I dialed the number for the club to see if I could get any information…or tell the employees they’d better not hire her or there would be hell to pay.

“Dolly Pockets,” a woman answered. She’d been smoking fifteen packs a day for the last forty years judging by the sound of her gravel-filled voice.

“Yes, hi. Can I speak to your manager,” I demanded in what I hoped was a very non-threatening and charming voice.

The woman had the nerve to snort at me. “You don’t think we get these calls all the time from jealous boyfriends? Fuck off, asswipe,” she snapped, hanging up on me.

I frowned. That was fair. But I liked to differentiate myself from these so-called boyfriends. I was Anastasia’s future husband after all.

And I wasn’t just doing it because I was jealous. It was because I would literally murder anyone who saw her dancing around a pole. Double murder if they saw a nipple.

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