Page 75 of Triple Pucked
On the Rocks, Freedom
Shay
“You co-owna bar that looks like James Bond would hang out here before stepping into his Aston Martin with a gorgeous woman on each arm.” I whistle, glancing around myself at On the Rocks in admiration.
D’Angelo arches his brow, looking smug. “If you want the best drink, make sure that you own the best bar in town.”
Robyn narrows her eyes. “You just made that up.”
“Doesn’t mean that it’s not true.”
D’Angelo is sprawled in a red velvet booth in the center of the bar, looking as at home as if this was Freedom Mansion.
He’s studying us closely, however, waiting for our reactions.
What other secrets does he have?
After all, I have plenty.
I’ve been vibrating with excitement all day, ever since D’Angelo told us that he was going to introduce us to his friends, as well as the man who mentored him, professionally training him to become a dom.
D’Angelo is doing the same for my brother now.
I respect the hell out of D’Angelo for that. I can’t wait to get to know the people who were there for D’Angelo when I wasn’t in America yet, being still in college.
D’Angelo has been a legend to me for years. I am bouncing with joy that he’s now allowing me to see him as a man as well.
The fear that I will lose this connection to Robyn and D’Angelo, who are bloody everything to me, if they find out about Blythe is still eating at me.
But I force myself to push the memory of her words inked on my skin away.
I stare around at the bar.
I’m only dressed in a long sleeved scarlet shirt and black jeans. My metallic gray nails are chipped.
Amongst this opulent luxury, I feel like the biker trash who has wandered in off the street.
I wrinkle my nose at the citrus, syrup, and alcohol scents, which are mixed like the smell of the elites.
The walls are floor to ceiling mirrors, arched and gleaming. Chandeliers drip like shards of glittering ice. The far wall is a long obsidian counter, which glitters under the lights. Behind it, colorful bottles of alcohol, which each must cost more than my parents have in savings, are proudly on display.
A glossy grand piano stands in the corner.
Red velvet stools and booths circle a dance floor with poles and cages.
I smile.
Kinky.
I should have known that this place was owned by D’Angelo.
Currently, the bar hasn’t opened yet. It’s empty of customers, apart from us.
Bartenders in smart uniforms are busying themselves behind the counter, shooting D’Angelo smiles and waves.
Possessively, I step closer to him, blocking their view.
My shoulders stiffen.
