Page 45 of That Girl is Trouble

And I wait.

And then I think for a second that maybe he’s starting to squirm.

With an annoyed sigh, he drags his attention to me and scans my body, my outfit, my long, dark hair. He’s decent looking. Probably the most attractive man in this place tonight other than Preacher. Dangerous eyes, like Axe. The kind that scream bad news. But unlike Axe, the man’s manicured nails make it obvious he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.

He cocks his head. “You’re new.”

“Not that new,” I say, taking in his custom-tailored suit. “How about a dance?”

He scoffs. “Lazy.”

“What?”

“Lazy,” he says again, putting an annoying emphasis on the word that sends a prick of irritation to the back of my neck. “Won’t make money with a line like that.”

I huff out a laugh. “And you’d know?”

“I’m a man. I know what’s attractive and”—he gives me a once-over, his face twisting into a condescending smirk—“what’s not.”

Crossing my arms, I sit back in the chair and scowl at him. “And what exactly is unattractive about me?”

“It’s the desperation,” he says with a chuckle, turning back to his phone. “It ain’t pretty, honey, and I can smell it on you. Men don’t like a desperate woman. I think you want my money too bad, and I won’t give you any.”

“I do all right.”

“Yeah? How much you got hiding in that little skirt of yours?”

I purse my lips in response, and he laughs.

“Exactly my point.”

“No one makes money on Wednesdays.”

“Not with that attitude.” He drops his phone onto the table, facedown.

My eyes burn to track the movement, to stare at it, to memorize the shape and size.

Take it. Take the phone. Take it!

“You got a name?” he asks.

“Doesn’t everybody?” I toss back. I’m suddenly finding it difficult to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

His jaw flexes, and he takes a sip of his gin, his eyes not leaving mine. “How about I teach you something?”

“God, please do. I’m just desperate for help.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, his grip around the glass in his hand tightening. “One. Lose the attitude,” he says, and I smile at that. “Two. Be a little more original. ‘How ’bout a dance’ is lazy and boring.”

“Hasn’t failed me yet,” I retort.

“And three. Understand that being pretty doesn’t make you special. Tits and ass don’t make you appealing. If that’s all you got going for you, you got nothing. Try harder.”

Dropping my forearms to the table, I tip forward, giving him a peek at what’s underneath my blouse. “So… try harder, but don’t be desperate about it. Got it.”

“Circling back to rule number one. Attitude.”

I smile. I should play into this. Nod. Listen. Let him teach me things because he seems like the kind of man who likes to talk a lot. But he also seems to be the type who doesn’t like to lose. And the thought of that—of what I could teach him—makes my skin tingle in excitement.

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