“Honey,” I smiled softly. “You’re insane.”
“I’m not,” he rumbled, his hand coming up to cradle the back of my head. “I just got you back, and there’s a target on your back, baby. Until Cyber figures out who’s painting it, I don’t like the idea of you being out of my sight.”
And there was that fierce protectiveness that used to make sixteen-year-old me swoon.
Twenty-seven-year-old me was swooning a little too, honestly, but I’d spent eight years handling my own life, and I wasn’t about to let a stalker—or an overprotective biker—shrink my world down to nothing.
“It’s a public diner in broad daylight,” I said gently. “In the middle of town. Where everybody knows everybody. I’ll be fine.”
His jaw worked.
I could see the war brewing behind his eyes—the part of him that wanted to lock me in a tower fighting the part of him that remembered what happened last time he made a decision for me.
Thankfully, the second part won out.
“One hour,” he sighed. “And you keep your phone on you.”
“Yes, sir.” I saluted him with my half-eaten Eggo.
His eyes darkened. “Oh, Songbird. Keep calling me sir, and you won’t be making it to lunch at all.”
Heat flooded my cheeks and a few other places as I shoved my waffle in his mouth to shut him up.
The Pretty KittiesGentleman’s Club looked a lot different at eleven in the morning than I imagined it did at eleven at night.
The parking lot was mostly empty, and the only sounds inside were the low thump of music from the main room and the clink of glasses being restocked behind the bar.
Weston had to do payroll—apparently getting shot didn’t excuse a man from paperwork—so I’d tagged along rather than sit at the farmhouse alone. He’d been pretty clear about the alone part not happening.
We walked through the front doors, his hand warm on the small of my back, and I stopped dead.
There were dancers on the stage. Rehearsing, I guess, because the room was empty except for the staff.
My brows shot up at the leggy redhead that was working her way around the pole in nothing but a G-string and clear heels while another girl stretched at the edge of the stage, equally topless, chatting with the bartender like her boobs weren’t on full display.
I knew this was his job.
I knew the club owned this place, and I knew Weston ran it.
But knowing it and standing in the middle of it while my... whatever-he-was-now casually strolled through a room with half-naked women were two very different animals.
Weston caught the look on my face and frowned. “It’s just a job, baby. For them and for me.”
“I know,” I said quickly.
“Hattie.”
“I know,” I repeated louder. “It’s just... new.”
“Hey, Bash!” the redhead called from the stage, not even breaking her routine. “Is that—oh my GOD.” She stopped dead, grabbing the pole for balance, her eyes going saucer-wide. “That’s Hattie Lynn Jackson. BASH. That is Hattie Lynn Jackson.”
“Yep,” Weston said, steering me toward the back hallway.
“I saw you in Atlanta two years ago!” she hollered after us. “Third row! I cried during ‘What Changed’!”
“Thank you!” I called back over my shoulder, laughing despite myself.
Okay. Maybe this wouldn’t be so weird after all.
