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Mickey steps out from the shadows of the doorway. Stout, bald—late fifties would be my guess. Too many rings on his fingers, and too many chains around his neck. He cups his hand to his forehead to squint up at Lorcan.
“Mr. Quinn?” he clarifies, unable to hide the surprise from his voice. “I didn’t expect—i-is everything okay?”
Lorcan claps a hand to the man’s shoulder, causing him to stumble. “Everything’s great, Mick,” he purrs. “May we come in?”
Only now does Mickey realize there’s a “we.” He turns to drink me in and the confusion clouding his face melts into something else. An expression that every woman has been the focus of at some point in their life. “And who is this beauty?” He leers.
Lorcan claps his hand against his shoulder again, this time, it’s deliberately hard. There’s a crack from one of his joints and it makes me wince. “Off limits,” he growls, bearing his teeth. “Let’s talk inside, shall we?”
We follow Mickey into the building. Lorcan stays close and places a firm hand on my hip. It burns with protectiveness. I don’t know whether it’s his way of reminding me of his promise that nothing bad will happen to me, or he’s reminding me of what will happen if I run.
Either way, as we emerge from the staff entrance of a seedy nightclub, I’m grateful for his presence.
Stripper poles on podiums, red velvet booths, and matching curtains leading to the unknown tell me everything I need to know about this place, and everything I need to know about Mickey.
There’s a lone woman leaning over the bar, and Lorcan’s eyes are immediately drawn to her. Denim cut-offs disappearing up her ass crack, huge tits attempting the Great Escape from the tiny triangles of her bikini top.
Jealousy prickles at my skin, and I mentally scold myself for being so pathetic. I have no doubt that men like Lorcan Quinn fuck everything with a pulse.
“Let’s go to your office,” Lorcan says, dragging his eyes off the stripper and nodding to a door off the side.
My sandals stick to the floor as we cross the club and enter a small office.
Mickey lets out a nervous laugh and sinks into the chair behind the desk. His finger hovers over a button on his telephone. “Drink?”
“We won’t be staying that long.”
Lorcan commands the space while I find the nearest corner to disappear into. The fear of the unknown is brewing in my stomach.
“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Quinn?”
“I’m here to ask you for a favor, Mickey.”
Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm. I guess nobody wants to do the Devil a favor. “Anything,” he says with an expression that betrays him.
“I’d like you to accept my apology for the confusion with the supply this week. There was an…administrativeissue on our supplier’s end.”
Mickey scratches the scuff around his jaw and says, “W-well, yes. It’s been a hard weekend.”
Lorcan nods. “I understand. Unfortunately, we’ll have the same issue for a couple more weeks. Of course, we’ll be happy to compensate you.”
Mickey is all ears; it’s clear that money is a language he likes to talk. “Compensate?” he says with a gappy grin, eyes brushing over the emerald ring on Lorcan’s finger and the oversized watch on his wrist.
“We’ll take off five percent of our fees for the next four weeks.”
Mickey’s not quick enough at hiding the disappointment. “We lost half a mil in profits this weekend, Mr. Quinn,” he says, his carefully chosen words burning with anger. “I can’t speak for the other clubs and bars in the theater district, but a little more slack would go a long way.”
“I don’t negotiate.”
Lorcan’s tone is all ice and daggers; his looming body scarily still.
The standoff lasts for less than a beat; Mickey bows his head and clasps his hands together. “Of course, Mr. Quinn. Forgive me.”
“Talking of fees, I’m here to collect.”
If I wasn’t so observant, I wouldn’t see it. The way Mickey’s demeanor shifts. It’s less than a degree—his face remains neutral, his jaw still clenched. But I notice the whitening of his knuckles; the straightening of his back.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
