Page 1 of Boss Daddy

Chapter 1

Erin

“You’ll do as I say, woman. Or you’redone.”

I’m sitting across from Misha Grinkov in his stale, smoke-choked office, doing everything I can not to gag on the scent of his cheap cologne and cigars.

He leans back in his oversized chair, looking like a bloated toad on a throne, the leather creaking under his bulk. His predatory eyes scan me in the way he looks at all the girls here, and I hate it.

“You hear me?” he asks.

I know he’s serious.I know him too well to think otherwise.

The silk shirt he’s wearing strains over the girth of his gut, a gold chain tangles in his chest hair, and his permanent sneer spreads across his face. He’s a total sleaze, through and through, and though he looks like a cartoon villain, it would be deadly to underestimate him.

“I’m not going to do it,” I say, a hard edge to my voice.

He laughs, his belly shaking. For a second, I think the buttons of his shirt might pop off and spill all that bloat out.

“What, you think you’re too good for it?” he asks, placing his big hairy hands on the edge of the desk. “That’s part of the job. All the girls here know that now and then they have to go the extra mile. And trust me—it’ll be worth your while. Those customers are big spenders. You give them a nice little show, hell, they’ll send you out of here with a months’ pay stuffed into your little pink panties.”

I want to puke. Of all the things I hate about Misha, the way he treats women and talks to them has to be number one.

I shake my head. “Not a chance. You hired me to tend bar and that’s what I’m going to do. Nothing beyond that.”

He scoffs. “Come on, it’s just a little private dance. Go back there, shake that gorgeous ass of yours, and then you’re done. Ten minutes of work, fifteen tops.”

I want to say what’s really on my mind, accusing him of all of the horrible things I’ve learned since starting at Club Scarlet. I know for a goddamn fact this is all part of an elaborate grooming process. First, he starts by pushing girls into giving private dances. Then, fully nude shows. After that, it’s whatever else the customers want.

And that’s when he has you.

“Take care of my patrons. They pay good money for time in the back room. You’ve got the looks and the body—use that to your advantage and make them happy.”

I lock my jaw so tight it’s a miracle my teeth don’t crack. My hands curl into fists beneath the table, nails biting into mypalms.

“No.”

His eyes narrow, the vein in his temple throbbing like it’s about to explode. “No? You think you can say no to me, little girl? After everything I’ve done for you?” He scoffs as he points at me. “I took a chance on you, Erin. Gave you the best nights of the week. I wanted to see you thrive, I knew you had it in you. And this is how you repay me?”

I want to laugh in his face, but my rage is too hot. Everything he’s done for me? Please. He’s done nothing but shove me closer to the edge of a line I refuse to cross.

“I’m not for sale, Misha. And that’s all there is to it.”

His sneer twists into an ugliness I’ve not seen before. “You think you’re better than the other girls? You’re nothing, Erin. Without me, you won’t last a day. Go on, see who else hires a woman like you.”

He’s wrong. Or maybe he’s right. Either way, I’d rather crawl through glass than give him what he wants.

Misha narrows his eyes. “Go back behind the bar then. I’ll tell my customers you’re not in the mood.” He points his fat finger at me. “But you have one week to change your mind. The next time I ask, you’d better be in a more compliant frame of mind.”

I open my mouth to speak, to tell Misha to fuck off. But I remember the rumors, the stories I’ve heard about people who have said no to Misha, how sometimes they’re never heard from again. So instead, I say nothing. I simply stare straight ahead at a spot on the wall just to the left of his ear.

He flicks his chin up, silently dismissing me. “Top my whiskey off on the way out.” He extends his arm, holding out the glass, shaking it a bit.

“Sure.” I get up, snatch the glass out of his hand, and walk over to his personal bar. I scan the bottles, finding the Jack Daniels and placing my hand on the neck.

“Jack Daniels?” he asks, his tone dismissive. “That’s for the guests who don’t know better. Give me the good stuff.”

“The good stuff?”

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