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but not as ominous-looking at Nate. He’s cute
in that “I’m from Wisconsin and I play football” kind of way. He
reminds me of Billy …
    “Kacey, this is Ben,” Storm introduces
us.
    “Hey, Kacey,” he grins and then his head
cocks as if he suddenly recognizes me. “Hey, weren’t you at The
Breaking Point the other day?”
    I look him over. I don’t remember him, but,
then again, I don’t pay any heed to the guys there. “Maybe. I just
joined.”
    He nods slowly. “Yeah, that was definitely
you.” His eyes do a full shameless intake of my body. “You’re
incredible. Do you compete?”
    I brush off the compliment. “Nah, it’s just
for fun.” The truth is I’d love to complete, but it’s too dangerous
for me, given my injuries. One hit to the wrong place will cause
serious damage to all the work those surgeons did years ago to put
me back together. I’m not about to tell Ben any of that though.
    “First night at Penny’s?” he asks, leaning
one forearm against a door frame.
    “Yeah.”
    A lusty gaze wanders over my frame again.
    “Bartending only ,” I add, crossing my
arms over my chest, emphasizing the ‘only.’
    His attention skates back up to my face and
he smirks. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
    “And you’ll hear it again from me every time
you ask,” I throw back coolly. What a pompous ass. He needs a good
kick to the head to wipe that smirk off his mouth. Maybe I’ll ask
him to spar next time I’m at the gym.
    Storm ushers me forward past him, hollering
over her shoulder, “See ya later, Ben.” She knocks on a door with a
sign that reads Bossman . There’s a caricature of a naked
woman sitting spread eagle and a pair of black lace thong underwear
tacked on beside. How fitting.
    “And here’s Cain’s office. Don’t worry.
You’ll fit in here,” she whispers as she pushes through the door. I
give the back of her head an arched brow. She thinks she knows me. She thinks I’ll fit in with silicone and booze and
vajayjays or whatever I’m supposed to call them. I’m
second-guessing how smart Storm really is.
    “Come in!” A harsh voice calls out and my
back tenses up.
    Inside is a small office with floor to
ceiling shelves on all four walls, lined with more cases of booze.
Tons and tons of booze. On the back wall is something that looks
like a weird chemistry experiment—a bunch of upside down liquor
bottles with a mess of hoses flowing from their spouts, down into
the floor. My nose catches a faint scent of cigar smoke, cedar, and
whiskey lingering in the air.
    “That’s the bar well,” Storm explains in a
whisper. “All the basic liquor. It controls how much goes out. You
hit a button behind the bar and it gives you one ounce. You hit it
twice, two ounces, not rocket science.”
    “So I can’t reenact my favorite scenes from Cocktail ?” I mumble, picturing twirling bottles like a
baton.
    Storm chuckles. “You can, but it will be with
the pricey bottles on the shelf and they cost a lot when you break
them.”
    A man with slick black hair and a navy dress
shirt sits behind a giant mahogany desk with his back to us. Cain,
I presume. He’s on the phone with what sounds like the beer
distributor. By the way he barks out ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ I’d say he’s
not happy. He slams the phone down and spins around and I prepare
myself for a painful conversation.
    But then his coffee-colored irises settle on
Storm and they instantly warm. He’s a younger man—early
thirties—with attractive features and a sense of style. Definitely
good-looking by anyone’s standards. But he’s a strip club owner and
that equals dirt bag in my book.
    “Hello, Angel,” he drawls, giving Storm a
slow once-over. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’m not
going to like this guy. Not. One. Bit.
    Storm ignores the leer. Or maybe she enjoys
it. Frankly, I have no idea. I don’t know her well enough either.
“Hey, Cain.” She cocks her head toward me. “This is my