Page 13 of The Heart Breaker

I shove my hands into my pockets. “You ever seen me need help with girls?”

“Dude.” He shakes his head. “I barely see you anywhere unless you’re hitting someone on the ice or hitting the punching bag.”

Before I can tell him to get lost, he digs into his pocket and shoves a thick wad of bills into my hand.

“Make it rain,” he says. “My treat.”

Jesus.

These guys throw money around like it means nothing, like it’s just another thing to burn through on a night they won’t even remember. I glance down at the bills in my hand, my jaw tightening as I count them without meaning to. Two hundred, easy. Probably more. Crisp, clean, and completely wasted in a place built to swallow it whole. I curl my fingers around the stack.

He heads off toward the stage and I roll my eyes, shouldering past a knot of drunk assholes yelling over a tray of shots, all of them too loud and too close. I head for the bar instead, because at least there I can stand in one place and get a drink.

I flag down the bartender, order a Jack and Coke, and brace my forearms against the bar while I wait. When the glass slides toward me, I wrap my hand around it and take a slow drink, letting the burn settle low in my chest. The whiskey’s decent—better than I expected—so I nurse it instead of knocking it back, letting the burn drag down my throat.

A girl slips in beside me, wearing next to nothing, just a scrap of lace. She places her hand on my shoulder and shoots me a smile. “You want a dance, honey?”

I don’t even look at her when I shake my head. “I’m good.”

She leans in closer, putting on that breathy, practiced voice. “You sure? We’ve got specials tonight.”

I glance at her hand, then lift it off my shoulder. “You’ll make more off those guys.” I jerk my chin toward the guys around the stage.

She lets out a breath and moves on without another word.

I let my gaze drop to the singles still folded in my hand, irritation tightening in my chest. I could shove them back in my pocket, hang on to them, give them to Sophie instead. Half this stack would cover her groceries for a week, maybe two. She needs it a hell of a lot more than anyone in here.

“Alright, boys, you ready for something special?” the DJ shouts over the speakers.

The losers in this place whoop on cue, but I don’t bother turning around. I couldn’t care less about whatever’s happening on stage. My head’s already somewhere else. Next week’s game. The rent I’m still short on. Sophie. Always Sophie.

“We’ve got a new girl for you tonight. It’s her first time on stage, so let’s make her feel welcome. Give it up for… Roxy.”

The music kicks in and the guys around the stage lose their minds, whistling and shouting like they’ve never seen a woman in their lives. Someone beside me mutters, “Holy shit,” and shoves up from his stool so fast that his elbow slams into my arm, hard enough to make my drink slosh over the rim.

“Watch it,” I snap, already turning, irritation flaring as I try to see who the fuck?—

My eyes catch on the stage, and everything in me just stops.

For a second I’m convinced I’m wrong. It can’t be her. It’s just a coincidence. A look-alike. Some girl with the same blonde hair, the same sharp eyes, the same viper mouth.

But my body tenses up, and I know without a doubt, it’s Aurora Prescott up on that stage.

She’s wearing the skimpiest scrap of black lace I’ve ever seen, the thong cut high over her hips, the bra nothing but thin straps,leaving almost nothing to the imagination. The bass drops as she crosses the stage, the lights catching on every bare inch of skin.

Her hair hangs loose down her back, catching the light when she moves, and for a split second my brain forgets she’s a vicious snake and my eyes drift down her bare body.

What the fuck.

Snap out of it.

A guy next to me nudges my arm, jerking his chin toward the stage. “New girl’s got a hell of a body, huh?”

My grip tightens around the glass before I even realize it, but I don’t look at him. Don’t say a word. I just stand there, staring at her on that stage under a name that isn’t hers, my pulse hammering hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.

She’s not working the crowd the way some of the other girls do. She isn’t winking or blowing kisses or even reaching for the bills; she just moves like no one’s watching. One hand curls around the pole as she rolls her hips, then she slides a leg up and holds it there before letting herself swing. The music pounds through the room, and she keeps moving with it, every motion so confident it makes my jaw ache.

Guys around me are losing their minds, whistling, waving bills in the air, shouting the kind of shit that probably works on most of the girls in here.