Page 102 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“No. Don’t distract me.”

The dancer hooks one leg around the pole and turns upside down. The tiny piece of fabric remains in place through some miracle of engineering.

“He’s very talented,” I say.

“He’s a national treasure.”

He lowers himself until his back touches the stage, then rises by rolling through his body one section at a time.

Sam leans closer to me. “Do you think they let us take them home?”

A low sound comes from Carrson’s side of the booth.

I glance over. He’s watching me rather than the dancer, his arms still crossed and his expression increasingly hostile.

“I think some of us are already having trouble with the club’s sharing policies,” I tell her.

Sam follows my gaze to Carrson and grins. “Good. Maybe watching Blondie will improve his attitude.”

Carrson’s eyes narrow.

When the song ends, the man steps down from the stage. The crowd reaches for him, but he walks straight to Sam. He bends to murmur in her ear.

Her eyebrows rise. The dancer offers his hand, and Sam takes it.

“Don’t wait up,” she says, letting him lead her toward one of the doors at the side of the room.

I watch them disappear.

Across from me, Thomson stares at the seat Sam left vacant. His fingers close around his glass until the tendons stand out along the back of his hand.

Then he places it on the table and raises two fingers toward a woman passing nearby. She wears a black lace bodysuit and stockings fastened with crimson ribbons. The instant she notices him, her professional smile warms with recognition.

Thomson leans close when she reaches the table and says something I can’t hear. She takes his hand, and he rises without a trace of the embarrassment that colored his face when I asked about the bedrooms.

They leave together.

Interesting.

Maybe Thomson is only shy when discussing sex with me. What he does in private appears to be a completely different matter. I raise an eyebrow. Perhaps the reserved, future doctor has a darker side I don’t know about.

I turn to ask Carrson whether he saw that, but his attention has shifted to the bar. He catches the bartender’s eye, then inclines his head toward Tipson.

Tipson has grown steadily drunker as the night progresses. Now he lists against the side of the booth, sloshing his drink whenever he gestures and blurring one word into the next.

Carrson draws a finger across his throat.

Cut him off.

The bartender nods and comes to clear away the bottles of alcohol before Tipson can fill his cup again.

Carrson’s been doing that all evening. Watching, taking care of everyone. Managing every outcome. Making all the important decisions.

The Brothers waited for him to agree that the Sisters could come. They followed him into the club without being told. He stopped Tipson from touching me, ended the confrontation before it became a fight, and has kept track of how much everyone is drinking while the rest of them laugh, flirt, and disappear into private rooms.

Even his conversation with Thomson sounded like work.

He isn’t one of the children enjoying themselves. He’s the parent watching them play.