Page 46 of That Girl is Trouble

Deviate from the plan, and I’ll know.

This isn’t keeping it simple. This is deviating. This is trouble.

“How about we play a game?”

He rests his elbows on the table, waiting, a look of intrigue sliding over his features.

“Let me show you exactly how not boring I am. Give me a number. And I’ll make that tonight. If I win,” I say, examining his hand, the gold ring around his pinky. A family crest, maybe. Adorned with rubies. It’s important to him. The only piece of jewelry he’s wearing. “I get your ring.”

His smile broadens. “And if I win?”

I shrug. “What do you want?”

“To fuck you.”

My mouth drops open, but I quickly recover. Of course he’d say that. Because it’s something he can take from me. A part of me I can’t get back. Something that would mean a lot to me and very little to him.

“Stakes too high?”

I clear my throat. “What’s the number?”

“You have to accept first.”

“That’s hardly fair.”

“I don’t play fair.” He smiles. “It’ll be reasonable.”

Nausea roils in my gut. I could walk away. Axe would expect me to. He’d demand it. He’d tell me I’m chasing a high to get my heart beating. That I’m throwing myself into danger without considering how I might come out on the other side. And maybe he’s right. All I have to do is say no. Bow my head in defeat and admit I couldn’t cut it. Back down.

But Kat Danforth never backs down.

I know men like this—dangerous men, powerful men. I know what kind of games they like to play. And maybe this is about more than getting my hands on that phone.

“I’m in.” I keep my voice as steady as I can, but there’s a shake in it anyway.

Reaching out, Mr. Rich Dude grasps my hand, sealing our deal, and smirks. “A thousand. You got until midnight.”

A thousand. In two fucking hours.

That’s a Saturday kind of night. A Saturday where I’ve pulled the attention of a man who doesn’t want to share, so he keeps topping up that bank to keep me on his lap. A Saturday where a grumpy, harsh-eyed biker throws cash at me to keep my ass planted firmly on the couch. A grand isn’t what you make at ten p.m. on a fucking Wednesday.

My first stop is Preacher, who’s less than thrilled when I plop back down on his lap. He curses his vibrating phone, shooting looks at the security camera and muttering that I’m ensuring him a very painful death.

“Money, Preach. Give it to me. I’ll pay you back. Probably,” I say as I toy with his hair. “And stop looking at me like that. You’re supposed to like having a woman on your lap.”

He drops his lips to my ear as he shoves all his cash into my hand—a measly two hundred bucks. “I do like a woman on my lap, but I don’t like getting my shit kicked in for it. Axe is going to flip watching this, Kat. And whatever you’re up to, it isn’t part of his plan. He’s not gonna be happy.”

No, he won’t be.

I work the floor, weaving in and out of pockets of men, loners at the bar. I laugh at jokes and sit on laps. I let a few hands linger too long on the small of my back, on the top of my thigh. I’m hyper-aware of the eyes on me. Mr. Rich Dude watches closely from his table, an arrogant smirk broadening each time I fail to coax a man into a private dance, and Preacher observes from his dark corner, inconspicuously leaned back in his chair, following my every move, tracing my every step. But it’s the cameras that have my heart racing. Or rather, the man who sits behind them. The man I can’t see but who I know is watching.

Midnight creeps closer, and I do the math as I eye the time on my phone, those final minutes ticking by, my pulse thrashing as I drop a wad of cash onto Mr. Rich Dude’s table.

Six trips to heaven in two hours. Three songs each. Plus Preacher’s top-up. I don’t make a thousand bucks. I make eleven hundred. Fuck. Yes.

There’s no anger when he counts my spoils.

I set my phone on the table next to his and grab his glass to take a drink, a smile playing at my mouth. “Impressed?”

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