“Looking for the bathroom,” April repeated.
“Bathroom’s three doors down,” he said. He didn’t look away, but flicked a single blue chip toward the end of the table, a casual, wordless pointer toward the door.
She didn’t move. Neither did he.
His eye contact game was intense, a look that made you feel like he was reading more than your face.
April should’ve left. Should’ve apologized, backed out, and found the actual bathroom. Splashed her face. Had that conversation with her reflection about strokes and life choices. Instead, she looked at him.
This man looked like he could be terrifying if he wanted to be. Head of security at a club like this? He probably knew how to handle problems with his presence, not his words.
And Chad was terrified of exactly this kind of person.
An evil, petty thought bloomed in her brain like a vindictive flower that grew fast when given the right conditions. Apparently, the right conditions were a bucket full of spite and rage at men trying to speak for her.
"Can I ask you for a favor?"
One eyebrow lifted. The other stayed exactly where it was; a power move April didn't have the coordination to replicate.
"A favor," he repeated, tasting the word.
"It's stupid," she said. It was definitely the best way to start asking a scary stranger for help: lead with an admission of herown ridiculousness and then committing to it like a valid life strategy.
"But my ex-boyfriend walked up to a VIP booth he wasn't invited to, sat down like he belonged there, and tried to help himself to drinks that weren't his. When that didn't work, he got blocked by a literal velvet rope. Except I'm still furious. And he's still out there thinking velvet ropes taught him a lesson when the real problem is he doesn't listen to women."
The man stared at her.
April realized she'd unloaded all of that on a complete stranger. A complete stranger who looked like he could make people disappear.
She paused, trying to figure out how to phrase the rest without sounding insane. She failed, but continued anyway.
"And you and your guys look like you could pass for mafia. The whole—" she gestured at the cigars, the suits, the general atmosphere of controlled menace "—this thing you've got going. My ex-boyfriend tried counting cards at a casino once. Lost all his money anyway because he's terrible at math, but somehow convinced himself the mafia was after him because of it. He's been terrified ever since. Watches The Godfather like it's a documentary about his personal enemies."
She took a breath. "So if you and your guys could... use those looks? Lean into the whole intimidating thing? He'd lose his mind."
April watched his shirt pull across his shoulders: The fabric strained, expensive material stretched over muscle that suggested he didn't just delegate violence, he participated in it. She couldn't tell if he was amused, annoyed, or calculating exactly how much effort it would take to have her escorted out by one of the six very large men who were now all very carefully not looking at her while listening to every word.
"How scared?" he asked.
"Not hurt," April added quickly. "Just uncomfortable. Like… someone following him. One of your guys. Really selling the hired-muscle aesthetic. Following him for blocks, looking really intimidating, freaking him out, and then, right when he's about to call the police, the guy just hands him something completely benign. Like free taco samples. Or a car wash flyer. Something normal but delivered wrong."
The man blinked slowly.
"Tacos.”
"Or whatever," April said. "A coupon for dry cleaning. A flyer for a church bake sale. Literally anything. The point is it looks terrifying but it's actually nothing, and he'll have no idea what it means. He'll think he's being watched. He'll think he's in danger. But really he's getting junk mail delivered by someone who looks like he bench-presses motorcycles."
The man stared at her.
And then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle. Full, uncontrollable laughter that filled the room. His head tipped back, exposing the line of his throat, and April found herself tracking the movement. The other men glanced up from their cards with expressions that suggested their boss didn't laugh like this often.
It was slightly terrifying, but also weirdly validating. April had accidentally told a joke to someone who didn't laugh easily and somehow nailed the delivery.
"You walked into my den," he said, "and asked me to terrorize your ex-boyfriend with taco coupons."
"When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous."
