Declan's Demand

“So what are you going to do now?” he asks.

I raise my arms behind my head, feigning a relaxed pose. “I’m going to enjoy the show.”

He fiddles with his phone, taking a drink, but I see his eyes stray in her direction. He’s doing it to test me, not because he’s genuinely interested in her, and he’s lucky I know he wouldn’t poach.

“I bet you are, Dec.”

I growl, “Stop staring at her.”

Neil snickers. “You and every other man in here are looking her over.”

“Well knock it off.”

“Are you staking a claim?” He smiles and I sigh.

“As if you didn’t know.”

Neil barks with laughter and several heads turn to stare at us.

“Easy, brother. I don’t want the delectable Miss Meadows, but you might want to let the rest of them know that.” He points to where she’s shyly making her way into the center of the club.

“I imagine that’s why she came, but not for you, so stop staring.” Sitting up, I settle into my seat, spreading my legs out and casually adjusting myself. Ladies pass by and offer their services to entertain me, but I brush them off with lame excuses. I’m too interested to see what Miss Meadows hides underneath her pretentious little coat. Under the lights the navy looks black, same as my suit, and oh so fitting. We are both a metaphor in disguise, one pure as snow and one dark as sin.

I would love to teach her to sin; but it isn’t my place to sully her, despite how much I want to. Girls like her should be avoided at all costs. She might legally be adult, but in my head I know she doesn’t have the experience a woman of my acquaintance would—and that’s not putting her down, it’s the truth. My women are lionesses, scheming and seductive. Sydney is a fluffy little kitten with too-big eyes and a heart of gold, sadly misguided in thinking she can save her father from further ruin and destruction. Someone ought to tell the angel that he’s beyond redemption. And who better than a man coated in sin and on a first-name basis with the devil?

It’s tempting, that’s for sure, but I have no allowance for projects like this that could take up my time from legitimate business and whoever is fucking up my shipments. If I have to guess, it’s LeHavre, and right now I don’t have the trusted manpower to keep tabs on him and watch out for Sydney. Stevens and Rhodes already have enough to do without devoting time following Sydney around.

My eyes hover over the last sip of alcohol in my glass, watching her sneak around the corner. On shaky legs she climbs up to the dais, leaning down into my piano player’s ear and catching his attention. The grand piano sits in the center of the club, with spotlights illuminating the shiny black lacquer. The piano lounge is something else I inherited, and with a few upgrades I made the place a real money-maker, eliminating my need to launder funds—because shit, alcohol and sex are an easy cash cow.

She whispers in Rob’s ear, fueling my ange

r with irrational jealous feelings with each passing minute. Her hands fidget on her tied belt. What is Sydney doing? The anticipation of waiting for her to loosen the belt has me zoning out from the background noise of the club. I want her to do it. I want her to pull the belt loop loose, but I wait.

Rob gets up from the instrument, patting the seat for Sydney to sit down. Her hair is pulled back from her face in a tight bun as severe as the cinching belt around her waist, giving her an hourglass figure. The music from the bar behind me mutes to a whisper, and her fingers strike the pale keys with skill that surprises me. Shocks me, really. She plays as if classically trained, fingers stumbling on the keys but once, and the tune resembles the original song—only with a jazzy twist. It’s Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” and if she thought temptation with a song about a dying deputy was going to sway me, she’s wrong. Her father made his own fucking mess, and he should fix it himself instead of relying on her to do it. She relinquishes the piano back to Rob, who gives her a little bow. Confusion churns in the pit of my stomach as I scan the number of eyes focused on her. She moves to the pole strategically placed next to the piano, and Rob returns, picking up the song where she left off in a haunting melody.

Her legs sway a bit and she reaches up to let her hair loose. Pins scatter to the floor in little black bouncing pings, and locks of hair curl in delicious waves, taunting me to grab them. I wonder if girls learn to do that trick early on to wrap us around their little fingers. It’s obviously working, because men in the club whistle and I look around to see who is watching her declaration of war on my senses. If baby doll wants to play, baby doll is going to have to pay. They’re all watching and it’s pissing me off.

Her hair tumbles free in waves, releasing her floral scent into the air. Slender fingers tug at the belt loop, unraveling the knot. Her jacket slowly opens to reveal the present underneath. I wouldn’t mind a private show—except she’s showing everyone, and my ire magnifies tenfold. My fists clench, short nails biting into my palm, and I want to grab her hair up and wrap it around my hand, back into a bun. I want to button and cinch her jacket up tight from her knees to her neck so only my eyes have seen her offering. Mostly I want to spank her ass until it’s pink and raw and she’s unable to sit down for a week for this display she’s putting on right now in my club, uninvited.

Last week I turned her down for a reason, and if I don’t pick up the gauntlet in here, twenty men are likely to offer her assistance in my place—men who can’t possibly pay her father’s debt off the way I can and still offer her protection in exchange. The thought of another man exacting payment irritates me. Clenching my jaw, I’m mad because she’s forcing my hand by teasing these hacks, and I don’t like it. I hate it, and yet I admire her tenacity. When the jacket falls from her graceful shoulders like a fallen angel who lost her wings, I stand up.

“Dec, what are you doing?” Neil grabs the arm of my suit jacket, wrinkling silk and wool.

I sneer, shaking him off.

My club.

My rules.

My woman.

I shake off the last sentiment. She isn’t my woman—not really, and not any more than she could be some yuppie frat boy’s girlfriend, for all I know. It’s as if she’s begging to be treated like a woman instead of a girl with kid gloves. Maybe there is a bit of a lioness within her, and I won’t let her get away with it. She is a complication I don’t want or need.

I glare sideways at Neil, the voice of reason, and say, “I’m going to make sure the pretty girl understands what happens when she disobeys me.”

“Easy, Dec, she has no idea the monster she’s awakened,” Neil warns.

Of course she doesn’t. Nobody does.