Page 12 of Loving Smoke

Guys jockeyed for drinks three deep at the bar while others sat at tables around the stage. Even the raised VIP area was sold out.

I guided Marisol around the edge of the room to Blood standing by the service end of the bar.

I leaned into Blood. “This is Marisol, your missing bartender.”

Blood scowled at her, then jerked his head. “Get to work and don’t be late again.”

5

The rest of the night went off smooth and the crowd remained steady. No bar fights, no guys trying to storm the stage. None of the typical bullshit that happened in strip clubs. All in all, I was happy—or as happy as I could be after being cut out of my club, but I had plans for that too. The goal now was to make this place a moneymaker and an asset to the Bastards. Then Jameson would bring me and Blood back to the States and let someone local, like Ricky, run The Tropics.

I brought the cash for the night into the office while Blood supervised the cleanup. I headed for the closet where I had a safe installed in the floorboards. No fuckin’ way would I trust the banks here, so for now this was the plan. On the upside the money was completely legit and didn’t have to be washed or finessed into other accounts. Going forward we’d probably stash it in the crawl space under the building.

After I replaced the floorboards, I settled behind my desk and pulled a bottle of Jack and two glasses out of the bottom drawer. Only fitting Blood and I celebrate our success.

A soft knock on the door pulled me away from my thoughts.

“Hi, again.” Marisol peeked around the door. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I, ahhh, just wanted to thank you for being so nice before.”

Although she had a slight accent her English was much better than the other girls Blood hired.

“No problem. How did it go?”

“Good. I had fun. And because it was so busy the night went by fast.”

“Yeah, we had a good crowd. Hopefully, it’ll continue.”

An awkward silence fell between us. She probably expected me to say more or even flirt with her, but I wasn’t about to engage in the one vice that always blew my life to hell. Women.

“What should I call you?” She shifted her feet and her tits swayed in the low tank top all the female bartenders wore.

“Huh?” While I was confirming her tits were real and not fake, I missed her question.

“What’s your name?”

She shifted again and yeah, I was certain, her tits were real. They were natural just like the roundness of her ass. Fuck, close it down.

“What should I call you?” she repeated.

Yeah, she had the whole package wrapped up in thick dark hair falling in waves down her back.

“Smoke.” I dragged my gaze away from her bangin’ body and was met with eyes so dark they appeared black.

“Excuse, me?” She tilted her head and yeah, her tits swayed again. Fuck me that I noticed—again.

“My name’s Smoke.”

“That’s different.” She said it in a way that made me want to explain my life story.

“It’s my road name.”

“Like a nickname?” She licked her pouty lips and my faithless dick twitched.

“Yeah, like that.”

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