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“First of all, it’s been five fucking minutes since we walked in here.” I took a sip of my blue drink, whatever the hell it was. “Second, this place isn’t ready for my moves yet.”
“It sure as hell ain’t ready for your bullshit,” Row snorted.
“Well, we’re going to dance.” Dylan grabbed Cal by the hand and dragged her to the dance floor.
“And I’m going to supervise,” Row grumbled.
The girls were already deep in the thick mass of human bodies. I was reassured by Row’s presence there. He wouldn’t let some guy from the Outfit snatch them, which seemed like an actual possibility in a place like this.
Tate stared at me wordlessly.
“What do you want?” I knocked down a whiskey—fuck the raspberry cocktail—and stared into the bottom of my empty tumbler.
He didn’t say anything.
I needed to rein in my temper. Tate had helped me a lot with my Bruce Marshall deal. Yes, he’d fucked him over, and yes, he was going to cash in on the favor in due time, but he’d never wronged me before.
“I didn’t say anything,” Tate said.
“Bruce told me why he hates you.” I turned to face him.
Not a muscle twitched in his blank face. “And?” he asked dryly.
“Why’d you do it?”
“I needed the business with him,” he replied blatantly. “And I had a tech company in need of a PR facelift. I managed to turn a corner with it after Bruce agreed to cooperate. It helped create a veneer of legitimacy with my high-tech ventures.”
“You’re a ghoul.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I turned to look at the girls on the dance floor. “Hypnotize” by Alesso bounced over the walls, making the floor tremble. Dylan and Cal were in the zone, flipping their hair, grinding against each other, shouting the lyrics, lost in this moment. Everyone was looking at them—and not because of their dance moves. The men were gaping. I couldn’t blame them.
But I sure as hell could be pissy about it.
“Everyone’s staring,” I commented to Tate, gesturing to Dylan and Cal.
Tate redirected his gaze begrudgingly to the dance floor, one arm slung over the headrest of our black leather booth. “Yeah, well, Row’s wife looks like she’s having a fucking seizure.”
“They want them.” I ignored his distasteful joke.
“Maybe,” Tate drawled. “But Calla isn’t up for grabs. Dylan is.”
No, she wasn’t. She was mine. In every fucking way that counted.
Her pussy was mine.
Her laughs were mine.
Her funny observations.
Her tears. Her fears. Her worries.
Well, not everything. Her heart wasn’t mine. We’d made a promise to each other to keep that organ out of our arrangement.
I stood up and walked to the dance floor, cutting in between Cal and Dylan. Cal shrugged it off and danced her way over to a horrified-looking Row, swaying her hips to the music and knotting her arms around his neck. He didn’t do dancing.
I grabbed Dylan by the waist, staring into her eyes. “Every man in this club is eye-fucking you.”