Dirty Work Page 5

  “Will do.”

  I tap a key to check one last live feed before I go down to the club floor and swear under my breath, my mouth going as dry as Central Park’s Great Lawn in August. Two women stand just inside the entrance, but it’s the petite blonde with the killer curves who has my undivided attention. She’s traded her normally casual attire for a flimsy little cocktail dress that hugs those curves like a jealous lover and a pair of spiky heels that make her legs look like they go on for miles.

  Fuck me sixty-nine ways to Sunday.

  “What’s wrong?” Connor’s hand drops from my shoulder and he swivels his head to study the monitors. “Trouble brewing?”

  You can say that again.

  “Nah.” Liar. “Just see a familiar face.”

  His eyes stop on the screen with Ainsley and her gal pal. One quick keystroke and they’re gone, but it’s too late. He flashes a superior, knowing, smile. “The blonde or the brunette?”

  I stand and stretch. The sooner I get out of here, the sooner this conversation can end. “What makes you think it’s one of them? There’s like six computer screens. It could be anyone, anywhere.”

  “I don’t know.” He hauls his ass off my desk and follows me out the door and into the hallway. “Maybe because that’s the screen you practically fell all over yourself to change so I wouldn’t see it.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “Not.”

  “Too.”

  We’re at the elevator, and I punch the down button. “What are you, seven?”

  He nudges me in the ribs with his elbow. “If I was, I’d be doing your homework.”

  He’s half right. He may not have done my homework for me, but there’s no way my sorry academic self would have graduated high school without a lot of help from Connor. The day Mrs. Nielson paired us together for the second grade science fair was the luckiest damn day of my young life. Of course, I didn’t know then that I was dyslexic. No one did. That diagnosis wouldn’t come for another year, after a boatload of questions and tests.

  The elevator dings and the doors slide open for me to step inside. Connor starts to come in after me, but I stick an arm out, blocking him and preventing the door from closing in one fell swoop. “Don’t you have some tax forms to deliver?”

  He stares at the folder still clutched in his hand. “Right. Damn.”

  “I guess this discussion will have to keep until tomorrow, then. Unless you want to join me on the floor when you’re done dropping those off.”

  Connor flinches like he’s been struck and steps back. “Thanks, but I’d rather eat a shit sandwich.”

  No surprise there. Crowds aren’t his scene. That’s why he’s the quiet genius behind Top Shelf and I’m the pretty boy front man. It’s like high school all over again. Connor the shy, studious bookworm. Me the cocky jock who loved the spotlight. We’ve always been an odd pair. Like Felix and Oscar on that old sitcom my dad loves to watch in reruns. But it works.

  “That’s what I figured.” I lower my arm and the elevator doors start to close. “Don’t forget, we’re meeting with the architect to go over the plans for the renovations at nine.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He touches two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. It’s the last thing I see before the doors come together and the elevator starts to move.

  Alone, my thoughts turn to the woman waiting downstairs. Ainsley doesn’t strike me as the club rat type. So why tonight? And why Top Shelf? Did she come here looking for fun? Or looking for me?

  The elevator bumps to a stop, and I know I’ll have my answer in a few minutes. But when I step onto the floor, it’s wall-to-wall partiers, and Ainsley’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Hey, boss.” Brandon, the former Force Recon Marine who’s my head of security, comes up behind me and claps me on the shoulder, yelling over the techno pop tonight’s guest DJ is spinning. “How’s things?”

  “You tell me,” I shout back.

  He lifts an unconcerned shoulder and lets it fall, like being responsible for the safety of a nightclub full of millennials in various states of intoxication is no big deal. And I guess maybe after spending two tours in Afghanistan doing covert ops, it’s not. “Busy, but so far nothing major. A guy who was a little too handsy with one of the waitresses. Some teenagers with bad fake IDs. Two women doing meth in the bathroom. My guys took care of it, no problem.”

  The drug shit pisses me off, but it’s an occupational hazard in the nightclub biz. I’ve got a good crew, though, and if Brandon says they handled it, that’s good enough for me.

  Now that I’m reassured everything is business as usual, I decide to cut right to the chase. “I’m looking for someone. Female.”

  “Business or personal?”

  “Business,” I lie. My business. Not his. “She’s about five-three, maybe five-four. Shoulder-length blond hair. Wearing a little black dress—or maybe it was dark blue—and high heels. Which probably put her at more like five-seven or five-eight.”

  Brandon smirks. “You realize you just described half of the women in this joint, right?”

  “Never mind.” I scrub a hand through my hair and scan the bar area. Still no Ainsley. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. And I have a growing suspicion this woman is more than worth my while. “I’ll find her myself.”

  He eyes me suspiciously. Not that I blame him. I’m not in the habit of stalking our female clientele. Top Shelf is my company, not my personal dating service. I don’t dip my wick in the company ink.

  But you know what they say about rules. They’re made to be broken.

  “Well, good luck on your quest, Frodo.” Brandon claps me on the back. “I should check on the guys working the door.”

  He ambles off, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. I circle the dance floor a few times, my eyes pausing on every tiny, curvy blonde. But none of them are the tiny, curvy blonde who’s got me tied in knots.

  I’m about to abandon the dance floor and try my luck in the VIP section when I spot her. She’s across the floor on the fringe of the action watching her friend, who’s at the center of it all, surrounded by a cadre of male admirers, shaking her booty to Ariana Grande’s “Thank U, Next.” And yeah, sue me. I know who Ariana Grande is. And the names of all of her songs. Although I wish I didn’t. Truth be told, I’m more of an old school, classic rock kind of guy. Led Zeppelin. AC/DC. Black Sabbath. But that stuff doesn’t go over well with the club set.

  I find an empty spot against the wall and take up residence, prepared to wait for the right moment to make my move. But my ass has barely touched the painstakingly restored exposed brick when that moment arrives, courtesy of the jackass who sidles up next to Ainsley and starts gyrating against her like Channing freaking Tatum.

  Not. Gonna. Happen.

  I’m off like a shot, pushing through the crowd with none of my usual finesse, not caring who’s in my way or what they’re speculating about the crazy club owner plowing through their ranks. I’m a man on a motherfucking mission, and nothing—and no one—is going to stop me from stopping the creep creeping on Ainsley.

  It seems like hours, but it’s probably only a few seconds before I’ve got my hand on the creep’s shoulder and I’m pulling him backward, away from Ainsley.

  “Hey.” He tries to pry my fingers off his Brooks Brothers button-down, but that only makes my grip tighten. “I’m dancing here.”

  Dancing’s a generous term for whatever the hell it is he’s doing, but I let it pass. Ainsley doesn’t, however.

  She stands up straighter in her high heels and plants her hands on her hips. The combined effect makes her already generous chest stick out even farther, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by the creep, whose eyes zero in on her breasts. I’d like to gouge them out of his smug face with a spoon
. If I had one. And if my eyes hadn’t done the same damn thing.

  “You call that dancing?” She lifts one perfectly shaped brow. “Looked like you were getting electrocuted to me.”

  “You didn’t have any complaints until he showed up.” The creep jerks his head at me.

  “Really? What did you think it meant when I threatened to knee you in the crotch?”

  “I dunno,” he says, swaying back and forth drunkenly. “Foreplay? Some girls like it rough.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. This guy’s seen 50 Shades one too many times. Not that I’ve seen it. At least not all of it. My sister may have forced me to watch a scene or two on cable before she took off for California.

  “Tell you what.” I grab his other shoulder to steady him. “You agree to leave the lady alone, and I agree not to throw your ass out of here.”

  He scowls up at me. Up because I’ve got a good four inches on him. And about thirty pounds, all muscle. “You and what army?”

  “That army.” I nod to Brandon, who’s making his way back through the crowd, trailed by two of his crew. Don’t get me wrong. I can more than handle this douchenozzle by myself. But it’ll be easier with some backup to help convince wannabe Magic Mike to move along peacefully. And if that doesn’t work, Brandon and company can drag him out by the collar of his designer shirt, and I won’t have to get my club owner hands dirty.

  “Hey, Zach.”

  “This guy giving you trouble?”

  “Want us to take him out back and beat the shit out of him?”

  I let go of Magic Mike and swing around to find myself surrounded by three khaki-clad yuppies who can only be his friends. Dammit. One drunk, overconfident asshat I can take care of solo, but four? I’d have to be really lucky. And they’d have to be really drunk.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Brandon and his boys rushing toward me, barreling through the dancers like they’re bowling pins. Looks like the cavalry’s coming to the rescue. Now I’ve just got to stall for time until they get here.

  I hold my hands up, palms out, in an I-come-in-peace gesture. “Listen, guys...”

  Those are the last words I utter before I’m sucker punched in the head, and I fall to the floor.

  Hard.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ainsley

  “I CAN’T DO THIS,” I hiss into the phone as I stand paralyzed outside Jake’s apartment, staring at his door like it’s the portal to an unknown world. Which, in a way, I guess it is. Because I have no clue what’s waiting for me on the other side. After last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jake took one look at me and barked at me to get out.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mia snaps back. “You’re a professional. You have a job to do. Get in there and do it.”

  “Did you see Jake’s face when they loaded him into the ambulance?” I shudder at the memory. I’ve never seen anyone so pale, his skin the color of chalk, his lips pressed into a harsh, thin line, his whiskey-brown eyes squeezed shut. “He was obviously in a lot of pain. I heard one of the EMTs say his shoulder was dislocated. Thanks to me.”

  Now I have two things to apologize to him for. I should start a list.

  “The only one to blame is the entitled prick who coldcocked him.” Mia pauses, and I can almost picture her lost in thought, twirling a lock of long dark hair around her finger. “And maybe me. If I hadn’t left you alone...”

  “Stop. This is not on you. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” Usually.

  Mia’s dry laugh cuts across the phone line. “Funny how easy it is for you to let me off the hook. Too bad you can’t do the same for yourself.”

  She’s got a point. Time for me to pull up my big girl panties and face the music, whether the tune’s “Get Back” or “Let’s Get It On.” Truth be told, I don’t know which one I’m more afraid of hearing.

  With my free hand, I pull Jake’s keys out of my bag. “Okay, I’m going in. Wish me luck.”

  “Trust me, you’re not gonna need it. That boy’s got it bad for you.”

  It’s my turn to laugh now. “You’re dreaming. Or smoking something funny.”

  “You’re the one who’s delusional. The guy practically broke the land speed record racing to your rescue.”

  “Now you’re making me feel guilty again.”

  “Totally not what I intended. I just don’t want you to miss what’s staring you right in the face.”

  I hear something crinkle, then what sounds like chewing. Figures. Mia’s always hungry. In law school she’d eat an entire quart of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk after every exam. She was always trying to get me to join in. With my own quart, of course. Sharing hers was out of the question. But unlike her I don’t have the metabolism of a hummingbird.

  She takes another bite and speaks through a mouthful of whatever she’s gorging on. “Now quit stalling and go get your man.”

  “He’s not...”

  The line clicks off, and I let the rest of the sentence trail away. No point protesting to deaf—or AWOL—ears. Stuffing the phone in my bag, I insert the key in the lock, turn it and push the door open a crack.

  “Jake? Roscoe?” There’s no answer from man or beast, so I give the door another shove and I take a step inside. “It’s Ainsley. I’m here to walk the dog.”

  Still no response. I’m starting to wonder if Jake’s done something stupid like try to take Roscoe out himself when the furry monster pokes his head out of one of the bedrooms and comes lumbering toward me.

  “Hey, boy.” I kneel down to rub one of his ears. He likes that. Another of the things I’ve learned about Roscoe in our getting-to-know-you period. “Where’s Jake?”

  As if on cue, a loud crash comes from what I assume is the master bedroom at the far end of the loft, followed by a flurry of swears in Jake’s throaty, masculine voice. My brain is instantly swamped with images of him lying on the cold, hard wooden floor in a puddle of blood. Or close to losing consciousness in the tub, his injured arm twisted awkwardly underneath him, the pain too much for him to bear. Don’t most at-home accidents happen in the bathroom?

  I jump up and sprint toward the source of the commotion, Roscoe at my heels. But when I burst through the door into Jake’s bedroom, I immediately feel like an intruder. There’s too much of him here. His minty, soapy, supersexy scent. The half-open book he was reading—the latest Jack Reacher mystery—on the nightstand. The imprint of his body on the massive memory foam mattress. What’s nowhere in sight, however, is the man himself.

  Another crash and a second barrage of profanity shifts my attention to the master bath. I shove down the feeling that I’m trespassing, drop my purse on the bed and sidle up to the partially open door. Some things are more important than privacy. Like personal welfare.

  “Um, Jake,” I call awkwardly through the space between the door and the frame. “It’s Ainsley. Everything okay in there?”

  Roscoe, who hasn’t left my side, adds a concerned bark.

  “Everything’s fine.” Jake’s voice is clipped, strained. He’s obviously in pain, but too damn stubborn to admit it. Typical tough guy. “Go walk the dog. I don’t want him peeing on my rug. Again.”

  I’m about to clap back with a snappy rejoinder—something about how the first time wasn’t my fault—when I hear crash number three, followed by some even more creative swearing.

  “Doesn’t sound fine to me.” I grab the doorknob, ready to pull it the rest of the way open. “I’m coming in. Cover your naughty bits.”

  “My naughty bits?” He chuckles.

  Laughter. That’s got to be a good sign. Still, I’m not leaving without checking on him. “You know what I mean. You’ve got three seconds to hide the family jewels.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want? We could pick up where we left off yesterday.”

  No, I’m not sure. But I’m
not letting him know that. “That’s a bit cocky, isn’t it? From out here, it doesn’t sound like you’re in any condition to get it on.”

  “I’m a man. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “Ah, so that’s how that little thing works. Mind over matter.”

  “Who are you calling little?” he asks with a laugh, but this time it morphs into a groan.

  “That’s it. I’m coming in, whether you’re decent or not.”

  I shove the door open and step into the biggest freaking bathroom I’ve ever seen. It’s like a palace, all shiny and sterile and manly with pale gray tile, polished brass fixtures and a rich walnut vanity. A glass shower big enough for a four-person orgy dominates the far wall. It would be a picture fit for Architectural Digest—if it wasn’t for the man slumped against the vanity, with what looks like the contents of one—or two—of the drawers strewn on the floor around him.

  The very nearly naked man. Jake’s naughty bits might be covered by the towel loosely tied around his waist, but not much else is. And when I say loosely, I mean that sucker’s hanging on for dear life. At any moment, the poor excuse for a knot could let go.

  I stare at the scrap of terrycloth, not sure if I’m willing it to stay up or fall down. I don’t know if I’m ready for Jake in all his fully nude glory. My poor, palpitating heart can hardly handle what I’m seeing now. The guy’s like the poster child for masculine perfection. Firmly muscled biceps. Broad chest with just the right amount of fine, dark hair. Washboard abs. My fingers itch to trace their ridges and valleys before following his happy trail down his abdomen, to his belly button, and under that damn towel to his...

  Stop. This is your friend’s brother. And your client. You came in here to make sure he wasn’t in mortal peril, not ogle him like a side of Kobe beef.

  I tamp down my runaway sex drive and close the door behind me, making sure Roscoe’s on the other side. He whines for a hot second, then I hear his nails tapping on the floor as he trots off, hopefully not to pee on Jake’s precious carpet. But I can’t worry about that now, not when Jake’s obviously hurting.