China nodded.

“Who’s called Hawk?” Chardonnay went on.

“I’d call him whatever he wanted me to call him, he’s just that hot,” China replied.

“Now, sugar,” I began to advise, “this guy could be hot but she’s givin’ him some and he’s been seen with her in public once?”

I left it at that but shook my head slowly.

“Daisy, serious,” China said. “I was at that party. I saw him. And Bethany has talked about him. A lot. So even if half the shit she said is true, just getting a load of him, I’d not only call him whatever he wanted me to call him, I wouldn’t care if we saw the light of day, just as long as he kept the lights on when he was doin’ me. Because, I’ll repeat, he’s just that hot.”

“Well then,” I murmured on a grin, “there you go.”

There was a knock on the door and Wynter called out, “Decent.”

Smithie swung in with the door, just his torso, his hand still on the knob, his scowl already set.

“Any a’ you bitches feel like doin’ somethin’ other than sittin’ around throwin’ back a few beers, like, I don’t know, dancing?”

“Is it time?” Chardonnay asked.

Smithie’s gaze cut to the big clock on the wall that said yes, the day girls were done, the night girls were on seven minutes ago.

He didn’t use those words. He just returned his scowl to the room.

The day girls didn’t leave the stage until the night girls scooted out.

So it was definitely time for them to hit it.

“Right, we better go,” Ashlynn said, setting her beer aside.

“Thanks for the cake. I can’t wait to try some during your first set,” Wynter added, shooting me a smile.

I gave her a smile back.

“Knock ’em dead, sugars!” I called after them.

Smithie didn’t move, glowering at them as they filed out in front of him.

After China, the last of them, cleared the room, his eyes came to me.

“Sloan’s booth is empty and the place is already packed. I need the space if he ain’t gonna show. He comin’ tonight?”

I nodded, feeling my heart squeeze and not in a good way.

I’d been back at work for over five weeks.

If I was working, most nights, at some point during the night, Marcus slid into the semi-circular booth at the very end on the north side of the club. A booth that had become his. No one sat at it because, first, it was Marcus Sloan’s and second, Smithie put a red velvet rope in front of it until he showed.

Sometimes I’d watch from the dancers’ hall, and when I did, I’d see that he didn’t watch the dancers (though I noticed his eyes never left me when I was onstage). He would either be on his phone, talking to one of his men, or going over papers he had on the table while he sipped his bourbon and branch.

Whether Marcus showed or not, Brady stood outside the dressing room door if I was in it. If I was onstage, he stood just offstage, eyes on the club.

Yes, Marcus gave me his bodyguard.

After the night was done, if Marcus was there, Brady escorted me out the back door and into Marcus’s limo. If he wasn’t, Brady escorted me to my Porsche then followed me wherever I went after and then escorted me behind closed doors once I got there.

That there usually being Marcus’s place, sometimes my place, though that was rarely.

If I had a day off and it wasn’t a weekend (and I was a headliner and weekends were big for Smithie’s, so it was rare I had time off on the weekends), I’d do my thing, Marcus would do his, but we’d meet for dinner.

The majority of the time he took me to fancy places. The other times, I made him let me cook for him (yes, I’d horned in on his kitchen). Twice, he got takeout but it wasn’t from Twin Dragon or alternate goodness like that. It was always from swanky places that didn’t even do takeout (except for men like Marcus).

In the beginning, I slept in his big bed, him in his guest room, or the times we were at my place, he insisted on sleeping on the couch.

Giving me hope, about two weeks ago, I got him to messing around in his bed, and even though he stopped the good stuff, he didn’t leave. He got on his pajama bottoms (silk, drawstring, navy-blue, f-i-n-e, fine) and joined me there.

And from then on, we slept together.

Without, it was important to add, sleeping together.

He held me when we slept. Or he didn’t move all night if I cuddled up to him.

That was good.

But I will repeat, we slept together without sleeping together.

That was bad.

He’d slid into second base repeatedly. And he was good at that in a big way. And once (giving me more hope), with his fingers over my panties, he’d given me the very good stuff.

But only once and that was it.

Mostly, he stopped the festivities before they got too heated, turned me into his arms or let me snuggle into him, gave me a soft kiss on my nose or forehead, and then we went to sleep.

And I’ll repeat something else.

That was it.

For over five weeks.

We’d had conversations about this. Twelve of them to be exact. (Yes, I was counting.)

And I was getting nowhere except to know really well Marcus thought we should “take it slow.”

I hadn’t had a drama since my first time eating at his dining room table. I’d never had another nightmare. Not to mention, he knew I was no fragile flower. And I was giving him every indication I was ready to move us forward.