Page 47 of That Girl is Trouble

“I stand corrected,” he says, dropping my pile of cash between us, and he actually does look impressed. Too impressed. Interested. “Well played.”

I shrug and take another sip of his gin. “I believe you owe me a ring.”

He chuckles, removing the gold band from his finger and placing it on top of the cash. “I’ll be getting that back.”

“Looking forward to it,” I say with a smile. My heart is a jackhammer in my chest, my palms sweaty. The phone. Take the damn phone.

Pushing up, I grab the ring and slide it onto my finger, making a show of inspecting it, and then I gather my cash and the phone from the table.

His phone.

Mine remains, and it takes everything in me not to look at it, to give myself away.

His eyes are on me—staring, studying—and I hold them, ensuring his attention stays trained on my face, my body. Anything but the phone on the table that doesn’t look like his. I flash him a victorious smile and turn on my heel, then saunter as quickly as I can to the dressing room.

The second I’m over the threshold, I break into a run. I parked my things in one of the back lockers to put the most distance possible between me and the door. Vanities, clothes on the floor, benches, chairs. My hands shake as I search for that little driver to connect to his phone, my movements working faster than my brain.

I connect it. I stare at it. A small bar appears on the screen. Ten percent. Then twenty. Then thirty. Axe said it would take time to do what it’s supposed to do, but I didn’t ask how much. Why didn’t I ask?

Sixty percent.

I’m sweating. The door to the dressing room opens. A throat clears. A man. He followed me. Shit. Shit.

Eighty percent.

Footsteps echo across the room. Louder. Closer.

Ninety-two percent.

Ninety-seven.

Ninety-nine.

Mr. Rich Dude turns the corner the second after I toss the phone on top of my bag. The moment I’m in his line of sight, I busy myself by shoving a protein bar into my mouth. The gun. I should get the gun.

At the sound of his shoes on the concrete floor only a couple of feet away, I freeze and turn slowly, swallowing my food. I take a step back and slide my hand deeper into my bag. Until my fingers wrap around the grip of the gun. Only when it rests heavy in my hand do I speak. “Customers aren’t allowed back here. What do you think you’re doing?”

Narrowing his eyes, he cocks his head, his gaze roving over me. Maybe he’s trying to decide whether he should kill me now or kill me later. And then he holds up a phone—my phone—and says, “You took mine instead of yours. You really don’t know who I am?”

“Oh—I—sorry,” I say, my heart beating so fucking fast I can barely string words together. He doesn’t know. I’m safe. I think. Reluctantly, I let the gun fall softly back into my bag and point to his phone, motioning to him to help himself. “Customers aren’t allowed back here,” I say again. “You need to leave.”

“I’m not a customer. I’m your boss,” he says, dropping my phone onto the bench.

Confused, I say, “No… Rayna’s my boss.”

“And I’m Rayna’s boss. This is my club. Vic Rossi.” He holds out a hand, but I don’t take it, and he smiles at that. My boss. Leaning close, he says, “I meant that, you know. I’ll be getting that ring back. And I will be fucking you.”

His smile broadens when I step away from him, a knot of nerves twisting in my stomach. I don’t get any words in before he takes his leave. Quickly, I gather my things, then head for the door that leads directly from the dressing room to the back parking lot. Preacher’s already waiting for me, his gun in hand like he was ready to burst through the door and start popping off shots.

“Any problems?” he asks, assessing me, his eyes snapping to the empty dressing room behind me. “Saw him follow you in here. I was about to come play hero.”

I shove the USB-key-thingy into his hands. “My fucking boss, Preacher? What the hell are you guys up to?”

He shrugs. “Keep me out of it. You got a problem, take it up with Axe.”

Oh, I fucking will.

Without another word, I stalk to my car, toss all my shit inside, and then peel out of the parking lot, driving way too damn fast back to my apartment.

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