As the customers filter out of the club and the doors are shut behind them, Doc whirls around the bar like a hurricane, flipping up bottles and pulling fresh pineapple and maraschino cherries out of the little tubs Kiara and I have just packed away. He’s making a mess, but I’m too intrigued to stop him. “Did you used to bartend?”
Doc usually answers direct questions with lies and misdirection, but maybe he’s too preoccupied because he just smirks. “Yeah. I made drinks for Eli’s Nonno and his boys back in the day. Sidecars. Martinis. All that shit.”
A few minutes later he puts a tall cocktail in front of me. It’s bright pink with swirls of Chambord and chunks of pineapple. “And what’s this?”
“This is something I invented just for you. I call it Pink Pussy Juice.”
I stare at him, but not because of the name. Doc has been so gross to me for so long that it barely registers anymore. “You invented a drink for me?”
“Yup.”
I squint at him. “You’re lying. I bet you told every girl you’ve made this for the same thing.”
Doc’s blond brows draw together. “I don’t make bitches drinks.”
I swat his arm. “Nico.”
“He doesn’t,” Kiara calls from across the bar. “Never has—”
“Never will,” Doc finishes. “Except for you, sweetness. Drink up.”
I stare at the cocktail. “You Googled a recipe, didn’t you?”
“Nope, I just thought of all the flavors that make me think of you and mixed them all together. Not gonna lie, it’s mostly peach because you have the most delicious cunt in the world.”
“Je-sus,” Kiara mutters.
“Shut the fuck up, Kiara,” Doc says, not taking his eyes off me. “You’re not actually questioning my obsession with you, are you? Because you’re my sweet girl and when I say I invented this for you, I mean it, and I’m willing to prove it.”
Doc’s love is as scarily intense as the rest of him, but it doesn’t frighten me anymore. Though God knows how he could prove he invented a drink. I take a sip of the cocktail. It’s powerful and sweet and tart all at once. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
Doc inclines his head. “Thankyou, baby girl.”
The other dancers start to cluster around the bar and Kiara mixes them vodka sodas and whiskey on ice. A new song comes over the club speakers, a heavy bass number that makes my heart prick up. A few of the dancers cheer and I take a long drink of my cocktail. When I’m done, I’ve made up my mind.
“Okay,” I tell Doc. “I want to dance.”
“Fuck, yes.”
Doc grabs my hand and leads me from the bar to the main stage. There are still a few guys sitting around it, dawdling over their drinks, waiting for security to kick them out.
“Doc,” I squeal. “The customers!”
“I’ll handle it.” Doc raises his fingers to his lips and gives an ear-splitting whistle.
“Here’s the deal, boys. My girl is gonna get up on this stage and dance for as long as she wants and if I see a single one of you look up at her, I’ll pop your fuckin’ eyeballs out like grapes.”
Every man allowed into Dreams is hugely successful—entrepreneurs, businessmen, professional athletes, and comedians—men used to getting their own way. But when Doc talks, all of them stare into their drinks like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
“What about us?” Kiara calls from the bar. “Are girls allowed to watch?”
Doc rubs his chin, examining the dancers clustered around. “You know what ladies…”
I reach for his arm, ready to dissuade him from anything too aggressive.
“…look all you want.”
The girls cheer and I feel my cheeks go red. To be honest I don’t mind my friends watching me either. As Doc goes to arrange the music, Kiara climbs out from behind the bar and winks at me. “Get up on stage, girl.”
