Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
My boss lowers me to the ground, and the moment my heels touch the floor, I shove him away. This infuriating man stares at me, and I fucking glare back. Most men would ogle my body, the G-string and barely-there schoolgirl top. Not this man. He takes me in as if he’s entitled to my every movement, never averting his gaze from my eyes. He’s fucking intense and purposefully trying to intimidate me.
Good fucking luck.
Dutton is dressed in a black suit. His lips are pressed in a hard line as if expecting me to actually be scared. I don’t ever feel intimidated by men. I’ve been around all types of powerful men in my life. And although none of them have ever put me on edge like Dutton does, I fucking refuse to bow at his intensity just because he expects it.
So, I might be a brat.
I don’t give a fuck.
When I don’t say anything, a tic runs through his jaw, and he grudgingly breaks the silence. “I requested you to come see me when you got here, and you ignored that and went on stage.”
I place my hand on my hip.
“I was coming to see you after work to display why I’m a valuable asset.” I beam at him, and the vein in his temple throbs once, then twice before he shakes his head.
I know he wants to call me a smartass. I can see it written all over his face.
“Is this fun for you? You do need this job, correct?” he asks, crossing his arms as if trying to look at me in a different light.
“I do need a job, but I don’t do well being micromanaged by a man who doesn’t know how to shake his ass or show his tits,” I throw back at him.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I’m not sure if he’s trying not to laugh or if he’s so furious that his face is starting to spasm in weird places.
“I should fire you. I have fired women for far less.”
“Fire me then if that’s what you want to do. But at least get my tips off that fucking stage. I earned that money.” I point in the direction of the stage. His gaze remains on me.
“Are you always this much of a brat?”
The question surprises me but also fills me with a weird amount of pride. “So it seems.”
Wait. Am I getting away with this?
“Stay off the fucking stage for the night,” he orders, and it’s like a bucket of cold water thrown over me.
“I need my tips,” I yell out as he turns and walks away. “I don’t work here for free!”
He’s gone, and I throw my hands up in disbelief. Maybe I wanted to get fired or for that asshole to return to whatever trust fund hobbies he was up to before he decided to make weekly visits to his club.
Huffing, I walk back into the dressing room, remove the shirt, and then head out to the bar area in my lingerie.
I’m a woman who lives off technicalities. He said I should stay off the stage, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make money from working the floor and performing personal dances.
I spot him standing at the bar with Mike, but their conversation comes to an immediate halt when his gaze lands on me. I offer him a small wave before I focus on my job and start walking the room. I feel him tracking me, even when I do my best to ignore him. I sit on the lap of a guy who offers me a hundred-dollar bill, and I stroke his tie as I ask what he’d like to drink.
“You’re really beautiful,” he says, and my nostrils flare at the offensive smell of alcohol on his breath and the wedding ring glinting in the lights from the stage. Disgusting, really. His wife is probably at home, clueless about what’s happening here. And men wonder why women have trust issues. It’s because men act on impulses and always want what they can’t have. I’ve been burned by this personally when I discovered Bentley’s father was cheating on me throughout our relationship. I hate myself because, even at the time, I had my suspicions. It wasn’t until I became pregnant I gathered enough courage to leave.
But I’m here to make money to give my son everything he deserves.
So, unfortunately, I have to ignore my moral compass.
“Well, thank you, handsome.” My hand pauses on his chest. “How about a dance?” He nods eagerly, and I stand, offering him my hand.
“She’s booked,” Dutton says and pulls me to him by my waist.
Fucking hell.
Really?
Is this man hellbent on making me lose all my clients tonight? For what purpose? To teach me who’s in charge?
Fuck that. I’ll just find another job and tell him to shove this one up his prim and proper trust-fund-baby ass.