Page 13 of Dirty Work

He’s half right. He may not have done my homework for me, but there’s no way my sorry academic self would have graduated high school without a lot of help from Connor. The day Mrs. Nielson paired us together for the second grade science fair was the luckiest damn day of my young life. Of course, I didn’t know then that I was dyslexic. No one did. That diagnosis wouldn’t come for another year, after a boatload of questions and tests.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open for me to step inside. Connor starts to come in after me, but I stick an arm out, blocking him and preventing the door from closing in one fell swoop. “Don’t you have some tax forms to deliver?”

He stares at the folder still clutched in his hand. “Right. Damn.”

“I guess this discussion will have to keep until tomorrow, then. Unless you want to join me on the floor when you’re done dropping those off.”

Connor flinches like he’s been struck and steps back. “Thanks, but I’d rather eat a shit sandwich.”

No surprise there. Crowds aren’t his scene. That’s why he’s the quiet genius behind Top Shelf and I’m the pretty boy front man. It’s like high school all over again. Connor the shy, studious bookworm. Me the cocky jock who loved the spotlight. We’ve always been an odd pair. Like Felix and Oscar on that old sitcom my dad loves to watch in reruns. But it works.

“That’s what I figured.” I lower my arm and the elevator doors start to close. “Don’t forget, we’re meeting with the architect to go over the plans for the renovations at nine.”

“I’ll be there.”

He touches two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. It’s the last thing I see before the doors come together and the elevator starts to move.

Alone, my thoughts turn to the woman waiting downstairs. Ainsley doesn’t strike me as the club rat type. So why tonight? And why Top Shelf? Did she come here looking for fun? Or looking for me?

The elevator bumps to a stop, and I know I’ll have my answer in a few minutes. But when I step onto the floor, it’s wall-to-wall partiers, and Ainsley’s nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, boss.” Brandon, the former Force Recon Marine who’s my head of security, comes up behind me and claps me on the shoulder, yelling over the techno pop tonight’s guest DJ is spinning. “How’s things?”

“You tell me,” I shout back.

He lifts an unconcerned shoulder and lets it fall, like being responsible for the safety of a nightclub full of millennials in various states of intoxication is no big deal. And I guess maybe after spending two tours in Afghanistan doing covert ops, it’s not. “Busy, but so far nothing major. A guy who was a little too handsy with one of the waitresses. Some teenagers with bad fake IDs. Two women doing meth in the bathroom. My guys took care of it, no problem.”

The drug shit pisses me off, but it’s an occupational hazard in the nightclub biz. I’ve got a good crew, though, and if Brandon says they handled it, that’s good enough for me.

Now that I’m reassured everything is business as usual, I decide to cut right to the chase. “I’m looking for someone. Female.”

“Business or personal?”

“Business,” I lie. My business. Not his. “She’s about five-three, maybe five-four. Shoulder-length blond hair. Wearing a little black dress—or maybe it was dark blue—and high heels. Which probably put her at more like five-seven or five-eight.”

Brandon smirks. “You realize you just described half of the women in this joint, right?”

“Never mind.” I scrub a hand through my hair and scan the bar area. Still no Ainsley. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. And I have a growing suspicion this woman is more than worth my while. “I’ll find her myself.”

He eyes me suspiciously. Not that I blame him. I’m not in the habit of stalking our female clientele. Top Shelf is my company, not my personal dating service. I don’t dip my wick in the company ink.

But you know what they say about rules. They’re made to be broken.

“Well, good luck on your quest, Frodo.” Brandon claps me on the back. “I should check on the guys working the door.”

He ambles off, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. I circle the dance floor a few times, my eyes pausing on every tiny, curvy blonde. But none of them are the tiny, curvy blonde who’s got me tied in knots.

I’m about to abandon the dance floor and try my luck in the VIP section when I spot her. She’s across the floor on the fringe of the action watching her friend, who’s at the center of it all, surrounded by a cadre of male admirers, shaking her booty to Ariana Grande’s “Thank U, Next.” And yeah, sue me. I know who Ariana Grande is. And the names of all of her songs. Although I wish I didn’t. Truth be told, I’m more of an old school, classic rock kind of guy. Led Zeppelin. AC/DC. Black Sabbath. But that stuff doesn’t go over well with the club set.

I find an empty spot against the wall and take up residence, prepared to wait for the right moment to make my move. But my ass has barely touched the painstakingly restored exposed brick when that moment arrives, courtesy of the jackass who sidles up next to Ainsley and starts gyrating against her like Channing freaking Tatum.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

I’m off like a shot, pushing through the crowd with none of my usual finesse, not caring who’s in my way or what they’re speculating about the crazy club owner plowing through their ranks. I’m a man on a motherfucking mission, and nothing—and no one—is going to stop me from stopping the creep creeping on Ainsley.

It seems like hours, but it’s probably only a few seconds before I’ve got my hand on the creep’s shoulder and I’m pulling him backward, away from Ainsley.

“Hey.” He tries to pry my fingers off his Brooks Brothers button-down, but that only makes my grip tighten. “I’m dancing here.”