Page 16
Poor Katrina continues to dance on her platform. Not much of an audience in this section. The only ones paying her attention are the four men on the center couch to my left. Typical guys’ night out. Temporarily unshackled from wives, children, mortgages, and whatever other little prisons they pretend to cherish.
One’s voice shreds through the music.
“Show us your tits!”
He leers up at Katrina as if she exists for the sole purpose of entertaining his lowest impulses. She handles him with more grace than he deserves, hips still swaying, finger wagging at him like he’s an animal being trained not to piss on the furniture.
He doesn’t take the hint.
“Come on. This place fucking sucks.” He reaches over the narrow table and grabs her ankle. “At least give me something to jerk to.”
His friends are too drunk to care. They laugh as if being a repulsive idiot is just the way he is.
But Katrina freezes. Fear catches in her eyes. And that’s when I move.
I’m on him in a second, my hand snapping around his thick neck before his little mind can even register danger.
The sound he makes is marvelous—a wet wheeze in a panicked choke. I squeeze harder.
“No touching,” I tell him, leaning in. “Without an explicit invitation.”
He releases her and claws at my fingers, suddenly very attached to the act of breathing. His heartbeat thunders beneath my palm, a frantic drumbeat of prey.
“Sorry,” he screeches pitifully.
“Not to me,” I purr. “To her.”
I turn his head towards Katrina, holding back the urge to pop his skull off his spine. Men who disrespect my town tend to inspire a certain creativity in me.
His eyes bulge as he forces the word out. “Sorry!”
She stands with her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes. I take it the apology is not accepted.
I release him.
He stumbles back, rubbing his throat, sucking in greedy breaths. The couple stops groping each other for a moment to look over at us.
“Asshole,” he mutters. He can’t keep his mouth shut. “Who wears black velvet in August?”
My blazer’s crushed velvet shimmers over the plain black T-shirt just as much as the silver chain around my neck. Paired with black leather pants, I’ll admit the heat is not my friend. But I’ve never been one for comfort.
“I’m an autumn trapped in a relentless summer,” I tell him.
“You’re a fuckin’ loser here by yourself.”
He takes another swig of champagne that his buddy bought. I assume that anyway, since we’re apparently passing judgment on clothing choices. T-shirt tucked into denim shorts at the club? A crime in several languages. I should have had a talk with our bouncers about taking bribes from slobs.
I grin despite myself. This night really needed a good confrontation.
“Leave.” I graciously give him the opportunity to preserve what little dignity he has left.
He puffs his chest. Evidently, this guy thinks his considerable belly makes him formidable.
“Fuck you.”
And there it is. The invitation.
I slip a hand inside my jacket and pull out the revolver. His bravado dies the moment the barrel meets his forehead. The small crowd around us draws back in a ripple of fear.
