Page 23 of Play the Game

“Youarefine,” a man mumbles.

Our eyes meet, and I can already tell that he’s slimy.

I purposefully stay on the left side of the pole in case he gets any wild ideas and tries to touch me.

He grumbles when I don’t reply. “What? No thank you?”

I smirk, and I know it comes off as flirty, but on the inside, I picture myself levitating over the bar and kicking him right in the mouth with my heel.

My long hair touches the floor of the platform when I tip my hips to the ceiling for an inside leg hang. Once I feel the pole dig into the side of my torso, I wrap my inside leg and slide my hand against the metal to spin slowly to the other side of the pole. Fire zips through me when I feel a tug on my fake auburn hair, and I nearly slip when I realize it’s the man.

“There’s a no-touch rule,” I remind him, feeling the blood rush to my head.

He pulls tighter, burying his fingers under my hair. “None of the other girls tell me not to touch them.”

This asshole.

Panic surfaces, and I fearfully search the Cat House for Chastity. She’ll break this guy's arm if she needs to. Harry, my favorite bouncer, is at the door with his back to me, andshit, just let go.

Profanity threatens to slice through my pursed lips, and there’s an instinct promising to show itself if he doesn’t let go of me within the next few seconds, which will likely lead to me getting fired, and then I’ll really be shit out of luck.

I open my mouth to try and convince him to let go of me, but before I can mutter a single word, he does so on his own. I breathe out a sigh of relief and am tempted to take his shot glass and down the liquor in it before slamming it on his head, but instead, I play nice and smile sweetly. “Thank you.”

He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his obvious beer belly. “Now you owe me.”

Emory pops into my head with the recent memory of those exact words coming from his mouth. Although I’m not proud of it, and I wouldn’t admit it aloud, I keep thinking of him while I take commands from a patron that needs to be thrown out for even thinking that I owe him. Picturing Emory is much better than the alternative.

“Show me your best moves, baby.”

The song changes, and I know it’s my cue to climb down and take my break. I slide past him, but when his hand reaches out and slips around my waist, I stop breathing. “Want to go to a private room?”

My refusal cuts through my panic before I have room to think. “No.”

“No?”

If I wasn’t pissed off and trying to remain calm, I’d laugh at the audacity of this man.

“She can’t go to a private room with you.”

I jerk with a spin, causing the man’s callused hands to rub against my bare skin. Blinking through my shock doesn’t help my confusion even in the slightest. Emory stands no more than three feet in front of me with a tense jaw and a gaze lasered on the hand against my waist.

“Why can’t she?” the man asks, gripping me a little tighter.

I move past Emory’s death glare and try to catch the eye of Harry, but with Emory’s height and broad shoulders, I can’t see anything, even with heels on.

“Because…” Emory steps forward, and my heart races. “I already booked her for the night.”

“What?!” I blurt.

There’s a pinch on my skin from the man squeezing me tighter, and I wince. Emory’s eyebrow arches, and I swear his jaw becomes as sharp as a knife. “Let go of her.”

Violence edges within his tone, and the only thing that races through my head is the sports commentators’ voices and how they constantly bring up Emory’s arrest for assault that led him here, to my hometown.

I’m seconds from stepping on this man’s toe with my heel, but he proves that he’s smarter than he looks, because he lets go at the last second. I stumble forward, landing with a thud against Emory’s hard chest. He snaps his hands to my forearms, gripping them roughly. Yet, for some reason, they feel safe.

I glance over my shoulder, and the man scoffs, as if he’s waiting for me to refuse going into the private room with Emory.

Which, I do.

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