Page 3 of Vicious Betrayal

"They're fine without me for a few more minutes." I watch his face for some flicker of amusement. There isn't one. His eyes have already moved past me again, and I have the distinct sense that I'm the least interesting thing happening in his field of vision right now.

"Suit yourself." He lifts his whiskey, takes the last sip, and sets it down. "But I've got somewhere to be."

"You just got here."

"No." For the first time, something almost like humor appears in his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. "I've been here all night."

Before I can ask what that means, his attention snags on something past the dance floor. Two men are near the far wall, one of them gesturing too sharply, too fast, and Cormac's whole body shifts, moving off the stool in a single motion that makes it clear exactly how strong he is. He doesn't look back at me.

"Careful, Oksana." It takes me a second to realize he remembered my name. "This isn't the kind of place you want to be too curious about."

Within seconds, he's swallowed up by bodies and lights, and I'm left sitting alone on a barstool with a half-finished drink and a pulse that hasn't slowed down at all. I watch the space where he disappeared for longer than I probably should.

This isn't the kind of place you want to be curious about.

I've never in my life been good at taking that kind of advice.

2

CORMAC

I've been running various forms of enforcement for the mob long enough that I know the difference between the sound of people having a good time and the sound of a room about to tip sideways, and tonight it's riding right on that line. My jaw's been tight for the better part of two hours.

Declan wanted the club packed for opening night, and packed is what he got. Every square foot of the main floor is bodies. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, spilled vodka, and a haze of vape smoke curling up toward the lighting rig. I've got four men on the floor, two on the door, one up on the catwalk where he can see the whole layout, and me right here at the end of the bar. I watch the exits, the service corridor behind the DJ booth, the fire exit past the bathrooms that somebody propped open twenty minutes ago that I sent Paulie to deal with. I watch the crowd in sections like scanning a boxing ring before the bell, watching for anyone who looks like they're going to be trouble, anyone getting too drunk, men putting their hands where they shouldn't. Two guys by the far wall have been getting louder for the last ten minutes, one of them gesturing with too much energy. I've already clocked which one of my men is closest if it turns into something. It probably won't. They're probably just drunk. But probably isn't a word I trust in this line of work.

And then a girl who looks like she was designed to make men make mistakes comes over to me.

I catch a whiff of her perfume as she moves into my peripheral vision. She smells sweet, like fresh flowers and a clean breeze, things that are a rare find in the underbelly of the city where I typically dwell. When I have half a second where my brain just... stops. It's not just because she's beautiful, even though she's stupidly gorgeous. She could turn every head in this club without trying, and she probably has already. She could pick any man she wanted to go home with just by crooking the tip of her little finger. It's because when I smelled perfume and saw someone moving into my field of vision, I didn't expect this. I thought it would be someone coming to get a drink, or maybe some woman in her thirties who decided to live a little and check out the new club gravitating toward a man vaguely in her age range.

I did not expect a girl who looks barely old enough to be in here at all, pale hair loose over one shoulder, blue eyes bright with alcohol and a reckless spark, to be looking at me like I'm the only interesting thing in a room full of them. She's fixated on me as if she's come over here just to find out who I am, and every warning signal in my head goes off all at once—not least of which because just the sight and scent of her has my cock stirring to life. I feel it twitch against my thigh as she sways toward the bar, the deep, loose neckline of her dress brushing the side of one small breast and letting me see the curve of it—and that there's no way she's wearing anything resembling a bra under it.

Christ.

I know this girl is nothing but trouble—for a man like me, and probably for any man who looks at her. But there's a tightening in my belly that I haven't felt in a long time, a quick thud to my pulse as blood descends to the part of me that should absolutely not be doing the thinking right now.

I have no idea why. I run into beautiful women more often than not, and at my age, I thought I'd gotten jaded enough on sex over the years that getting a half-hard-on from just seeing a woman was a thing of the past. But fuck, I'm definitely halfway to hard, and she hasn't even spoken yet.

"Is this seat taken?" she asks, but she's already sitting in it. She clearly isn't interested in my answer.

"It's not really mine to give." I don't look at her when I say it. There are two men by the wall who look like they're getting heated. I notice it, but one of the security guys, Marek, is already moving toward them. The quieter one laughs it off, claps his friend on the shoulder, and they go back to their drinks.

"I'll take that as a no." She flags the bartender and orders a shot and a drink—probably too much alcohol for someone of her size who looks like she's already had a few—and turns back to me with a smile that's definitely worked on other men before me. "I'm Oksana."

I don't offer my hand. Touching her doesn't seem like a good idea even in the smallest, most meaningless way. "Cormac."

"Cormac." Her teeth graze her lower lip after she says it, and I force myself not to look at her mouth. My cock twitches. How long has it been since I had a blowjob? Work has taken up so much of my focus over the last months that I haven't been hooking up all that often, and I recall the last woman I used to call when I needed to blow off some steam didn't like sucking dick. That's fine, everyone has their preferences… but fuck, it's been a while.

But fuck, this girl looks young enough that I'd need to check her ID before I kissed her. What the fuck am I thinking?

My eyes go past her to the entrance, where the line's backed up further than it should be. That's a problem I need to walk over and fix, not sit here talking to a girl young enough that I maybe shouldn't even be doing that.

"You're not much of a talker," she says, tilting her head as that smile widens. Fuck, it's impossible not to look at her mouth. "Or is that just for pretty girls who sit down uninvited?"

"I'm working." I pitch my voice so that she may start to get the idea that I'm not interested in continuing this conversation.

"Working." She smiles teasingly at me. "At a nightclub."

"Something like that." A waitress cuts past with a tray held too high, weaving through a knot of people who don't move fast enough, and I watch to make sure she clears them without spilling everything down someone's three-hundred-dollar shirt. She does, and I exhale.