Page 30 of A King’s Obsession

I'd been in and out of Vice for training, meetings, and everything else we needed to get ready for opening night, and he hadn't shown his face. I didn't know where he'd been or what he'd been doing. Not that it was any of my business, but every now and then I'd catch myself wondering if he was going to walk through those doors. He never did.

Nearly everything inside Vice was black. Dark walls stretched toward ceilings that seemed to disappear overhead, while polished black marble floors caught the glow of low amber lighting. Smoked-glass shelves climbed behind the long bar, bottles glowing beneath soft backlighting. Deep burgundy velvet covered curved booths and VIP sections, with gold fixtures breaking through the darkness along tables, railings, and shelving. Upstairs, more burgundy seating overlooked the main floor.

Dark. Sexy. Expensive. And by eleven, packed as hell.

“Jru!” one of the servers called, rushing toward me with panic written all over her face.

I turned, already checking the tablet in my hand. “What's wrong?”

“Section six says they ordered another bottle twenty minutes ago,” she explained, glancing nervously over her shoulder.

I checked the order history before looking back at her. “It's been eight minutes. Stop letting people scare you because they spent money on a section. Tell them it's coming.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and I gave her an encouraging nod. “And smile. You look terrified.”

She immediately smiled at me, making me laugh. “Not at me, girl. At them.”

She laughed too before disappearing into the crowd. I shook my head and kept moving, the bass vibrating beneath my heels while servers weaved between sections carrying bottles and sparklers. Behind the bar, glasses clinked and somebody yelled for more ice. One of the bartenders caught my attention, pointing toward a nearly empty bottle on the back shelf. I held up two fingers, letting him know we needed another backup run.

Security had already shut down one argument near the entrance before it turned serious, and two servers kept ringing orders incorrectly, but overall, we were killing it. Malachi had been moving through the building since before the doors opened, checking on everything without hovering.

Ezra, on the other hand, was still nowhere to be found. Not that I was looking for him. I was checking the room. There was a difference.

At least that was what I told myself right before I turned toward the entrance and saw him.

Well, speak of the old-ass devil.

Ezra walked inside dressed completely in black, his broad shoulders filling out his shirt like the damn thing had been made specifically for him. The gray threaded through his waves and beard caught beneath the low lighting as he surveyed the club. Then his eyes found me.

He stopped for barely a second, but I noticed. His gaze traveled down my body, slow enough that I damn sure noticed that too, before returning to my face. His eyebrows pulled together, whatever appreciation had been there disappearing as he looked toward Malachi.

Uh-oh.

I went back to work, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing I'd noticed him. A few minutes later, I was passing near VIP when his voice cut through the music.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Ezra demanded.

My steps slowed just enough for me to catch Malachi's response. “Working.”

“I told you I didn't want her working here.”

My fingers tightened around the tablet, but I kept walking, my expression neutral even as irritation crawled straight up my spine. Oh, so that was what we were doing? Three weeks ago, his ass had been sitting across from me asking questions that had absolutely nothing to do with a job interview. Now he didn't want me working here.

Fine. For what they were paying me, Ezra King could hate my ass from VIP. I had money to make.

***

The irritating part was that for somebody who supposedly didn't want me there, Ezra couldn't stop fucking looking at me.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Then I caught him watching while I helped a bartender fix a tab, again when I crossed the floor, and again while I stood talking to security. By the fourth time, there wasn't shit imaginary about it.

I was behind the bar checking a ticket when that prickling feeling hit the side of my face again. I looked toward VIP, and there he was, sitting back against a burgundy booth with one arm stretched along the seat behind him. A glass rested loosely in his other hand as he watched me. People moved between us, but he never looked away.

Neither did I.

His head tilted slightly before one corner of his mouth lifted. I rolled my eyes and turned back toward the register. Asshole.

“Girl,” a familiar voice called from across the bar.