Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
White is worn if a staff member is interested in playing, but has limits. Hard limits. It’s often soft touches, or heavy petting at the most. It’s a tease, nothing more.
Black indicates the waitress, server or anyone wearing the color is off-limits. No touching whatsoever.
Mia, the bartender currently occupied with cleaning the necks of the liquor bottles, has always worn black. She’s slim and tall, with a deep V-neck dress that displays her cleavage generously. Her jet-black hair is twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She never wears an ounce of color, not even in her makeup.
Once a patron assumed the uniform color had no meaning. He quickly found out he was wrong and that when she said no, it meant no.
The security who stood at the curtained entrance was useful that night in coloring that gentleman’s eyes black also.
Glancing toward my left, I note Jeffrey and Nicholas are working tonight as well. They’re nothing but muscle, disguised in black suits and polite nods.
“Good morning, sir,” Angela greets me as I get to the bar, a smile playing on her lips.
My eyes drift down her dress, a tsk at my lips. “It’s well after noon, Angela,” I say, correcting her with a playful tone.
The red dress has a deep V that ends at the woman’s navel. Which is the third color we allow and the most preferred. Red informs the patrons the woman is available for whatever the men would like.
I don’t play where I work, but I have to admit I’ve been tempted more than once, in my weaker moments. Angela is very aware I’m not interested. Just as I’m aware she is a flirt with everyone and prefers Mia to any of the men she toys with.
Whatever arrangement they have is none of my business.
“Good afternoon then,” Angela replies and I don’t miss Mia’s gaze following her ass as Angela leaves.
“Coffee, Mr. Cross?” Mia questions.
“Please.” She’s worked for me since the doors opened two years ago, as have a good number of the staff.
Everyone is replaceable, though, and multiple bodies have come and gone since then. One constant is the women. There are a number of rumors surrounding the club and the one I love the most is that the women run this place. That they have the men wrapped around their little fingers. They make the rules, and they’re protected by myself and my brothers.
We’ve proven that more than once. Of all the whispers, I prefer those the most.
Which leads my gaze to land on curves that sway with a deep red dress clinging to every inch of a new waitress. And then she turns.
“Would you like your usual as well?” she questions a patron, but I hardly hear her. The music fades to nothing as her long dark brunette hair falls down her tanned shoulders, teasing along the slender curve of her neck. Time slows as the memories come back to me.
Braelynn.
“Who’s that?” I say even though I’m certain it’s her. Her plump lips match the deep red shade of the satin dress. I knew her years ago, in a different life, although it seems both of us have grown since then. My pulse quickens as I take in every inch of her. The world around me stands still for a moment as the scene comes back to me when I first met her. Her father’s as Irish as they come. Her mother, Latina. Braelynn’s temper comes from them both, her beauty, though … her dark eyes and curled messy hair are uniquely hers. Although both seem tamed as my gaze begs for her to look back at me.
As my blood rushes in my ears, I hear her laugh at something the woman she’s waiting on says. It’s feminine and quiet but it’s her. Every bit of her that I remember.
Braelynn.
“Scarlet’s friend,” Mia says just as Angela makes her way to us once again, a drink order slip in hand.
“The new girl?” she says and follows my gaze to her.
“What’s her name?” I ask, my tone low and my question holding a demand that catches both women off guard.
“Braelynn,” Mia answers. Angela’s eyes hold a curiosity I don’t care for.
It takes a calm control to keep the statement on the tip of my tongue. I know her.
When my mother died, she was the only one to tell me she was sorry. It was barely a murmur, her hand grazing mine. And then she was gone and my life changed forever.
“Braelynn.” I speak her name out loud and nearly choke on it. All the while, she doesn’t even notice me.
The ceramic saucer and mug tink as Mia cautiously sets down my coffee on the white marble bar top.
“Tell her to come to my office,” I instruct Angela, who stares back at me with wide eyes. She doesn’t hold back her surprise. A stray blond curl falls in front of her face and she brushes it away as disappointment registers in her gaze.