Again. Fucking. Athletes.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Ronnie’s grip tightens so hard around her glass that a fissure of concern zigzags through me. It’d be a shame if she got champagne on that stunning white bandage dress. Oh, and blood. That too. “Please tell me you’re fucking kidding me.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I can’t do that.”
Her harsh laughter rings out in the suite, and it reminds me of the Liberty Bell. Loud, clear, but with a jagged crack right up the middle.“I can’t believe this. I honestly cannot believe this,” she mutters, tipping her head back and staring at the ceiling. I take the opportunity to slip the glass from her fingers. Better safe than sorry. Especially if she intends on returning the dress in the morning. No shade. Those are my plans for my leather jacket. “We meant something to one another.” She returns her stunned, angry gaze to me. “I know we did. He told me he cared about me. And then he breaks up with me by proxy? He doesn’t even have the nerve to face me and do it himself? Who does that? What kind of person agrees to do itforhim? Is this fun for you?”
I was expecting this transference of emotion. It makes sense since I’m the only available target. And it’s a fair question. Hell, it’s one my own parents ask. Over and over ... and over again. Ad nauseam.
“Look, Ronnie, you strike me as the kind of woman who deserves and wants honesty.” I wait for the abrupt jerk of her chin.
Each client requires a different approach, because each one is just that—different. But she seems like a straight shooter to me ... even if she somehow convinced herself that she had more than a one-night stand and some change with Lincoln Young. Even the smartest women can lose their heads over celebrity and big dick. I should know. I grind my teeth. Yeah. This is so not about me.
“Lincoln is a nice guy, a fun guy,” I continue. “But he’s not the staying, house-family-picket-fence kind of guy. More like the house-bros-with-hos-in-the-hot-tub-for-an-orgy-it-ain’t-no-fun-if-the-homies-can’t-have-none kind of guy. I’m sure he did care about you because, like I said, nice guy. But, sis, be honest with yourself. Or be mad at yourself. But don’t delude yourself. He was notyourguy. He is not the one who will walk beside you through this life, sharpening you like iron, making you better even as you do the same for him. He isn’t the one who will show you the true meaning of love. He just wasn’t that person.” I dare to reach and cover her fisted hand with mine. “Chalk this up as a lesson learned and some good sex. At least I hope it was good sex,” I grumble, squeezing her hand. “And as for what kind ofperson breaks up with a person on the behalf of someone else? A person who wants to make sure your feelings are handled with care. Not trashed and discarded. Because they matter. And so do you.”
I give her hand one last squeeze and release it, then grab my abandoned drink. After all that love-and-completion nonsense, my throat is parched. Everything else, oh, I definitely meant. She deserves only the best, and Lincoln Young isn’t it. But that nasty four-letter word that’s worse than any f-bomb I could drop? Not a chance in hell.
Ronnie stares at me for several long moments, then dips her head.
“Thank you for that,” she murmurs.
I smile, turning back to the table and picking up the glass I’d removed from her earlier death grip. After handing it back to her, I hold up my own. And looking at her, at how, yes, gorgeous she is but also how strong and dignified even in the face of being broken up with by someone else other than the one who dicked her, I see her as stunning. A queen. She’s a fucking queen. One with sad eyes and regal bearing. And no one’s taking her crown.
“A toast.” I wait until Ronnie takes the glass and, though not smiling, holds it up to mine. “When one door closes ... get a hammer, and nail that bitch shut.”
She snickers and taps her glass to mine. “Amen to that.”
We both damn near drain the champagne without coming up for air. When the last drop is gone, I grab the bottle, pop the top, and pour more for her.
“Listen, old sayings are old for a good reason. They’re true. And since we have the best champagne, the most exclusive VIP room in the hottest club packed full of some seriously fine men, this saying is appropriate. The best way to get over a man is to fuck a finer one with a bigger dick.”
She blinks, then barks out a loud crack of laughter. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how that goes. Although, I think it should.”
“Right?” I shoot up from the couch and hold out my hand. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go shake our asses and run up a horrendously expensive bar tab.”
She studies my palm for a moment; then, shaking her head, she slaps her palm on top of mine and allows me to tug her to her feet. “I’m game. Let’s do it.” She downs more champagne and then squeezes my hand. “Miriam.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
“Thank you. For ... being kind while dumping me. A lot of women wouldn’t have.”
The sad part? She’s not wrong. And that’s why I’m in this business. My sister, Zora? She has her reasons. And they all revolve around our train wreck of a childhood courtesy of our parents. Zora, Levi, and I deserve veteran benefits because of them. Me, though? Everyone deserves to be handled, to be treated with care, with respect ... with decency. You’d think that was a given, but it’s not.
Yeah ... it’s not.
Mentally shaking my head and clearing it of thoughts that should have cobwebs—I wish to God had cobwebs—I pull on her hand and lead her toward the VIP suite exit.
“You’re welcome. Now, we have acts on our agenda that will have us waking up tomorrow questioning our morality.”
Snickering, she follows me, and the sound blooms in my chest like a bud unfurling its petals before the sun. No, I don’t take these jobs often. But this feeling right here. This explains why I do.
“Renae, we’re going to hit the—damn, hold on a sec.” I frown, popping up a finger, as my cell vibrates against my ass. After sliding my phone free, I glance down at the screen and force my expression to remain clear. “Ronnie, I have to take this. Why don’t you go ahead with Renae, and I’ll catch up with you two?”
I pin the other woman with a pointed look. Though most people might figure her smooth chestnut skin and sharp cheekbones would bemore at home on a supermodel, Renae is one of the most lethal women I know. Which is why BURNED hired her for our security staff to cover the asses of our employees when they’re out on jobs. Becoming my best friend is just a side benefit.
Ronnie scans Renae from the top of her dark-red twists pulled into a bun on top of her head to the black lace of her tight tank and the red leather of her pants. As a slow smile curls her mouth, I just manage not to roll my eyes. My best friend elicits that reaction from men and women—and rocks.
“Take your time,” Ronnie purrs, then turns and descends the steps to the main part of the club.
