West (The Henchmen MC 19)

It didn't really matter what day of the week you came in, this club—like most in the area—was hopping. When you lived in a party city, it was to be expected that all the local hotspots were full of eager bodies.

We had them all.

Those who just recently turned twenty-one and were not wasting any time. Middle-aged businessmen with their wedding rings in their breast pockets. Rich guys looking for their sixth wives. Cougars looking for someone who could keep up with them sexually.

It was what you'd expect from most clubs.

But I believed that the heat down here made everything just a little bit hornier than anywhere else.

"This way." I yelled over the music to make West hear me, pulling his arm with me toward the left, up a short flight of stairs flanked by security, over toward one of the oversized tables in the VIP section where my brother and his guys were all slipping into a booth. The women were happily hopping up to let them slide in, then dropping down on their laps.

"That's Teddy," I told him, going up on my tiptoes to get as close to his ear as I could get, so I could be heard without yelling. "Do not," I warned, "refer to him as a 'little person.' He hates that term. I mean, of course, it is PC not to refer to him as anything. But if you have to, he prefers 'dwarf.'"

"Got it," West agreed, gaze moving over the table to land on Teddy. At four-foot-four, he was someone who stood out. Especially in the crowd he ran with, full of tall and wide guys and leggy model types who were already tall, but added several inches with icepick heels.

"Teddy," I called, making his blue-eyed gaze move to me.

"My favorite girl. Who's this flavor of the week?"

"This is West. All the way from Navesink Bank. Apparently, he has business with you guys."

"Well then," Teddy said, flagging down a hovering waitress, "let me buy you a drink then."

"Order something expensive. Teddy is crazy rich. He covers the tab."

"If he's rich, what's he doing working in a chop shop?" West shot back, trying to untangle.

"The same reason I do sometimes. It's fun," I told him, pulling my arm from his, grabbing a drink off the table, and floating over to the next table. Ignoring the stink-eye from a few of the girls who had already staked the claim on a guy who I recognized as a pro basketball player.

"Babygirl, I didn't invite you over," he informed me, tone amused.

"No, but you would have. I'm just cutting to the chase. You girls can relax," I added, casting a look around the table. "I have my eyes on that tatted biker over there."

"He looks like trouble," the basketball player warned.

"And you don't?" I shot back.

"Fair enough," he agreed.

"What's so special about that one?" one of the women asked, likely trying to gauge if he was worth fighting over.

"My brother told me not to go near him."

To that, her smile went devilish. "That'll do it," she agreed, sliding out of the booth, likely not wanting to fight with the other three girls. There were always other rich men to charm. And with an ass like hers, it wouldn't take long to grab their attention.

I wasn't one of the club girls. The ones who slipped into something sexy to land a rich boyfriend. I had nothing against them. We all did what we needed to do in life. It just so happened that money wasn't a huge motivator for me. I wouldn't be able to tell a Balenciaga from something off the rack at Walmart.

I raised my glass, taking a long sip.

Okay.

There was something to be said for top-shelf alcohol, though.

I liked the club because I liked the unpredictability. I liked the occasional fights. The interesting people. And, yes, on occasion, I liked flirting with a guy, maybe even taking him home. Nothing serious. No commitments.

I wasn't against commitment, but I had yet to find a man I could tolerate for more than a night or two. Or one who could put up with me.

So I had my little conquests.

And despite Huck's clear disapproval, I planned to make a conquest of this West guy.

Why?

That was a good question.

He was hot, sure. I always had a thing for heavily tattooed guys. I liked ones who looked like they'd seen some shit, ones that had done some shit.

Bad guys were better in the sack.

Not afraid to pull your hair, smack your ass, and cut off your air a little bit.

They didn't get all butt-hurt when I told them it was good, but I never wanted to see them again.

This West guy just had a little something. I was good at picking up on vibes. It was how I never managed to get myself hurt no matter how precarious the situations I got myself into.