“Sounds interesting. Maybe I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to make some decisions.” I’m nodding again, but really, I have no plans on calling Brody Hollis for investment advice. I’d rather not get suckered into some pyramid scheme, thank you very much.
Sabrina returns with a tray in her hand, and all my attention instantly belongs to her. She sets down our drinks, standing right at my shoulder. I figure it’s because I’m the least likely to play grab-ass with her and not because she wants to rub her tits across my cheek.
“I’ll be back in a bit to check on you,” she murmurs before darting off.
Jesus. I stare at her in admiration, wishing I could run after her and give her a hug. Serving a bunch of Briar guys—not to mention one she’s slept with—can’t be comfortable for her. She could’ve asked her boss to be switched to another section, but she didn’t. She’s continuing to do her job as if our presence doesn’t affect her at all.
For the next half hour, the guys and I watch the strippers do their thing. Well, the guys watch. Me, I’m wholly focused on Sabrina. I sneak glances at her every other second, barely paying attention to what’s going on around me. I vaguely register laughter and catcalls and snippets of conversation, but my entire world has been reduced to Sabrina James. The sensual sway of her hips as she walks. The high heels that make her long legs look impossibly longer. Every time she walks past our table, I fight the urge to pull her into my lap and kiss her senseless.
“How much does a girl like you cost?” a loud voice slurs from behind me.
“I’m not a dancer.”
My shoulders stiffen when I recognize Sabrina’s voice. The woman on stage has just finished up, and the music volume has dropped a few notches while the next girl gets ready to go on. When I twist around in my chair, I find that the obnoxious frat boys are at it again.
“But you would be if the price was right,” one of the douchecanoes drawls.
“No. I just serve drinks.” From where I sit, I can see the tension in her slender shoulders.
“What if I want more than a drink?” Douchecanoe taunts.
“Trust me, you don’t want to waste your money on me. I’m a terrible dancer.” Her tone is light on the surface, but steely beneath it. “You need anything else?”
“Sweetheart, I’m not asking for a Broadway show. I just want you to shake your tits and ass in my face. Maybe rub up on me a bit—”
That’s it. I’ve had enough.
I don’t miss Fitzy’s look of confusion as I push out of my chair and march over to the Douche Table.
“She said no,” I growl.
The main douche smirks at me. “She’s a fucking stripper, dude.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “She said no,” I repeat.
From the corner of my eye I see Sabrina edge backward.
“Where do you get off?” Douchecanoe demands. “Mind your own business or I’ll—”
The chair legs behind me scrape against the floor, and Douchecanoe shrinks in his seat as over six hundred pounds of angry hockey players stare down at him. Fitzy is particularly menacing with his two full-sleeve tattoos and the cut over his eyebrow that he got during our last game.
“You’ll what?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“Nothing,” the frat boy says sullenly.
“That’s what I thought.” I bare my teeth at the assholes before the boys and I settle back in our chairs.
It takes me a second to realize that Sabrina is halfway across the room. She turns, briefly, to glance at our table. When our gazes meet, there’s unmistakable sorrow in hers.
Before I can stop myself, I pull out my phone and send her a quick text. I don’t know if she still has me blocked, but it can’t hurt to try.
I’m sorry about that.
I don’t expect a reply, so when my phone buzzes three minutes later, I’m genuinely surprised. But then I’m pissed, because she texted back:
Did u follow me here?
It takes me a minute to regroup. I sip my beer, take a breath, and then answer her with, Meet me at the restrooms?
This time she responds right away.
5 min.
For the next four minutes, I have to force myself not to stare at my phone. Or set a timer. Impatience bubbles in my gut, intensifying with each passing second. By the time I rise to my feet, I’m tense as fuck.
“Hitting the head,” I mutter, but the guys pay me no attention. Hollis and Brody are too busy shoving dollar bills in a stripper’s G-string, while Fitzy watches them with a bored expression.
I thread my way through the crowd of mostly men toward the doorway on the other side of the dark room. Boots & Chutes has gone overboard with the western theme—saloon-style doors separate the bathrooms from the main room, and the wooden signs on the restrooms read Gunslingers and Fillies. From behind the Fillies door, I hear the muffled sounds of female moans intermingled with male grunts. Classy.
“So, did you?”
I whirl around at Sabrina’s voice. She stalks up to me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest in a way that causes her cleavage to spill over her bra.
“Follow you here, you mean?” I flatten my lips. “No, darlin’, I did not.”
She studies me for several seconds before nodding. “Okay. I believe you.” Then she turns to walk away.