“Well, I?—”
The door bangs open, and the bouncer appears again.
“What the fuck!” Diesel bellows.
“Smoke wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“Shit!” Diesel turns to me. “I’ll be right back.” He pushes off the couch, then stops at the door and points to me. “Don’t move.”
Yeah, right.
I gulp the rest of the champagne, and two seconds later, I vault to the door, pull it open, and come face-to-face with the grim reaper, I mean bouncer.
“Diesel wants you to stay.”
“The thing is . . . ummm, I need to use the ladies’ room.”
The bouncer’s lips twist, then he jerks his head. “Make it quick.”
It just amazes me how that excuse works every damn time on men.
I edge past my jailor and head toward the dressing room. I’ll get dressed, and then—shit—my money. Diesel has my money.
All right, new plan. I’ll get dressed, then approach Diesel and ask for my money. Fully clothed, I’ll have a better advantage. After all, it is my money. Hopefully, he’ll see it the same way because staying here and doing anything with Diesel would be an obvious mistake. A hotter-than-hell mistake, but mistake nonetheless.
I’m about fifteen feet from the dressing room when Diesel and two of the other bikers barrel out of a room a little farther down the hallway. I duck into the alcove for the public bathrooms and listen.
“You must have a fuckin’ death wish,” one of the bikers yells, followed by something or someone being slammed up against the wall.
“Yeah, this is a private party.” Definitely Diesel’s gravelly rasp. “You make us wait, we tell you to get lost, but you sneak in anyway,” he continues. “Then the bouncer tells us you’re in one of the private rooms.”
“He wasn’t doing anything wrong.” A female voice.
“Stay outta this, Chantel,” Diesel says.
Chantel, the bitchy stripper in the dressing room.
Who in their right mind would even chance pissing off these men? Their bulk and muscle alone would dissuade most people. Plus, I’m sure I caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster under Diesel’s leather vest earlier.
“No, no, no, wait. You don’t understand.”
Oh. My. God. Eduardo.
“Don’t understand what?” Diesel again. “That you can’t show up to a meeting late, then come in here uninvited after we threw your sorry ass out?”
“I just thought?—”
“Well, you thought wrong, fucker.”
Yup, that’s my brother, always thinking the rules don’t apply to him.
“Throw him the fuck out,” Diesel orders.
My idiot brother continues to whine and protest, then more shifting of bodies, cursing, and the slamming of the door.
