His blatant drooling earns him a death stare from Saint, and he gulps, instantly stepping back and averting his gaze.
“Harlow is with us. Spread the word. I’ll gut anyone who even looks at her,” Saint coolly replies, his words dripping with intent.
“Ruben’s in the VIP area waiting for you,” the first bouncer says, his anxious gaze jumping between Saint and his colleague, trying to break the sudden tense atmosphere.
Saint nods. “Thanks, bro.” He eyeballs the other jerk. “You’re lucky Ruben vouched for you.”
“I’m sorry, man. It won’t happen again.”
He looks half scared out of his wits, and it’s a timely reminder of how much power The Sainthood have around these parts. If this burly bouncer is terrified, and all he did was ogle my tits, what the fuck would they do to me if they knew everything I’ve done?
CHAPTER 29
THE BOUNCERS OPENthe doors and we step inside the industrial-sized warehouse. Sultry beats reverberate around the space as multicolored lights stream over our heads. The large open-plan room is packed. A big crowd dances in the middle of the floor watched by groups centered around booths on either side. At the top of the room is a large bar, thronged with people. Overhead, on a circular balcony, a DJ spins the latest tunes.
Saint leads us through the room toward the bar. People jump out of our way, while others nod respectfully at the guys. A few fools eye me up and down, and Caz sucker punches each one of them until everyone understands I’m off-limits. It’s ridiculously alpha, and totally unnecessary, but I’m enjoying it.
Not sure what that says about me.
The sea of people at the bar part to let Caz through. He orders another round of shots for everyone but Galen. No money passes hands, and I wonder if that’s always the case.
We down our tequila shots, and then, we’re on the move again, rounding the bar. I take in our surroundings as we walk, observing everything and everyone. A bouncer guards an elevator at the back of the bar, but he moves aside to let us enter.
We pile in with Saint and me at the rear and the other three in front of us.
“These guys are dangerous assholes,” Saint explains. “Be careful.”
“That means keep your mouth shut and let us do the talking,” Galen clarifies, and I shove my middle finger up at his back. “I know you’re flipping me off,” he adds.
“Only because it’s most people’s reaction to you,” I retort.
He glances over his shoulder, grinning. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Only you’d think it wasn’t,” I whisper, just as the door opens on the upper level.
Saint holds my hand firmly in his as we walk along the narrow hallway and enter the VIP area. It’s a decent-sized room with about twenty booths and its own private dance floor and bar. A glass window wraps around the front of the space, highlighting the main area below. It’s virtually empty except for the five guys in black and red leather cuts occupying one of the larger booths.
A tall guy with muscles to rival Caz’s ripped body stands and steps out of the booth to greet us. “Saint.” Cue more stupid manly—I say that with a healthy dose of sarcasm—greetings.
“Ruben. Thanks for meeting on short notice.”
Caz and Theo step up alongside me, while Galen flanks Saint on the other side. Ruben nods, his eyes flaring with interest when they land on me. He takes my free hand in his, and though I want his callused palm nowhere near my body, I don’t object, because I don’t want to ruffle any feathers.
All five Bulls are wearing pieces, and they’re doing nothing to disguise it either. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’d never forget such a hot body,” Ruben says, raising my hand to his lips and planting a wet kiss on my knuckles.
What a sexist pig.
I bite back my distaste, offering him a tight smile. “Harlow Westbrook. Good to meet you.” I figure it’s fine to confirm my identity because A, Saint introduced me as Harlow downstairs and B, if what Dar said is true, and the Saints have put the word out that I’m under their protection, then everyone already knows who I am.
“Pleasure’s all mine.” Ruben roams his gaze up and down my body, his eyes lingering on the hickeys on my neck before lowering to my breasts. I meet his gaze full on, not backing down, shooting venom from my eyes while keeping a fake smile plastered on my face.
Saint subtly grips my hand tighter, but outwardly, he’s composed.
“Thought you guys didn’t do girlfriends,” a guy with a shaved head and bushy beard asks. He’s slouched against the back of the booth with one knee bent, his thighs spread in a vulgar manner.
“Thought we were here to discuss business not pussy,” Saint says, and I dig my nails into the underside of his palm.
