Page 29 of Trigger Happy Ending

The silence in the car is killing me. I twist the knob, turning up the volume so there is something other than this awkward-as-hell silence. Trivium blasts through the speaker. I shift in my seat, pulling my duffel bag onto my lap, and pretend not to notice the way Soren’s hand tightens on the steering wheel.

He wants to say something.

“Short enough skirt?” he mutters, eyes locked on the city traffic.

Oh, cool. An insult.

I rummage through my duffel without looking at him. “I work at a gentlemen’s club, Soren. Not a bank.”

“Where are your weapons?” Still feigning indifference, the stoic ass.

I smirk. “I am the weapon.”

He chuckles, not mocking this time.

Is this an olive branch? It throws me off slightly, but I take it.

He stops the car at a red light, giving me enough time to unzip my boot slowly, letting him see me draw a blade from the inside of the leather. His eyes flick down, then return to the road just in time for the light to change to green.

His eyes. God, they’re obscene. Dark as midnight. Staring into them is like staring into the abyss and finding something alive staring back.

We pull into a private alley behind the club, where the dedicated staff entrance is located. No one is loitering, thankfully. The fewer questions, the better. I reach for the handle, then pause as he says my name.

“Raine?”

I glance over, hand on the door, brows raised. “Yeah?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates. Whatever it is, he seems to swallow it down.

“You look good,” he says eventually, looking away.

I give him a saccharine smile. “I know.”

Popping the door, I climb out, making sure I push my ass out just enough to give him something to think about. Then, just for the hell of it, I slam the door behind me and raise my middle finger in farewell.

His inverted cross creases underneath his eye as he grins. He flips me his middle finger in return.

Maybe, just maybe, we became friends.

Chapter 15

Raine

It’s been a while since I’ve had to work this hard. Like, properly, as an honest, hard-working member of society and not as an assassin. It takes me a hot minute to remember the basics.

Luckily, I’m partnered with a bubbly, flame-haired bartender, who seems to know everything. She flirts and laughs with the patrons, earning generous tips for her provocative behavior. Most of the men here order easy drinks. Whiskey and Coke, vodka, tequila. But every now and then, I get an order for a random-aged scotch that has me baffled.

Thankfully Big Red helps me out. She’d make a great Black Widow; she easily makes men feel oh-so-important with every interaction they have with her, giving them false hope they may have a fighting chance with her. If they just tip her a little more.

I smile to myself as I overhear her tell a man in her thick Southern accent to “never say never,” and “nothing is impossible,” while sliding a hundred-dollar bill down her top. Smart woman.

The first three hours of the shift are busy, which makes my surveillance of the Golden Claw challenging. Plus, my feet are aching like a bitch in these boots, and on more than one occasion, my hidden knives press into me, causing me more discomfort.

Finally, around midnight, the line of customers subsides, and I’m able to take in my surroundings. Nothing about this place is subtle. It’s fucking glowing rich. The air smells like sin, which I’ve decided is a blend of designer perfume (not all of it nice, by the way), hairspray, power, and lust.

I can see why this place is named the Golden Claw. Gold is everywhere.

The poles, the handrails, the bar, even the damn stage gleams in gold. It’s shaped like a perfect triangle, a deliberate choice based on the logo, with three towering poles at each point, stretching all the way to the ceiling. Three dancers swirl and sway around the poles, the men watching, weak at the knees and even weaker in their wallets. Dozens and dozens of bills coat the stage floor.