Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I laugh hard. He’s never let me or Donnelly pierce him. Oscar ends up grinning. “Only because my decade-long friend is getting married. Put that in your mental Rolodex.”
I smile so fucking wide.
We make a deal that I’ll pierce his nose back at the house tonight. And we keep playing. The stack falls on Quinn, and he has to down two shots.
I try to drink less, my instincts on a taut wire. It’s been a while since I’ve last heard from the temp on Maximoff’s detail. I click my mic. “Farrow to Jasper. Can I get an update on Maximoff?”
Six heads whip in my direction. Necks snapping. Yeah, Omega heard my request over comms. Didn’t really care. Still don’t.
“Redford.” Oscar gives me a look. “We all made a pact.”
The pact was to not check in with our clients. Only Akara is supposed to be in communication with the temps.
“He broke it, so we can all break it?” Donnelly’s fingers hover over his mic, seconds from calling for an update on Xander.
“No,” Akara says. “Don’t jam up comms.”
Jasper’s voice comes through. “Uh, yeah…he’s okay…”
Everyone collectively goes rigid.
That sounded too cagey.
Akara clicks his mic and starts asking for detailed updates.
And then, my phone pings with a text.
From my groom.
Did you hire strippers to come over here? Some showed up – Maximoff
I have a hand over my mouth, re-skimming that message. The only request we had about our bachelor parties: no strippers. The thought of a set of breasts or another dick rubbing up on Maximoff is what I’d consider hell.
Maximoff felt the same, and I thought he’d burst a blood vessel when we just talked about strippers. We’re territorial assholes.
I look up at Jack and all of SFO. “Did any of you fuckers hire strippers?”
“What?” Donnelly is shocked.
Oscar shakes his head, and Thatcher’s brows knit together, confused. They all are, and while I text him back, I tell them, “There are strippers at the other party.”
“Shit,” Oscar mutters, his eyes softening on me.
I’m mostly concerned that Maximoff is in crisis-doomsday-mode right now, and I’m not with him.
I send the message: No one here hired strippers for you or me. And I pocket my phone. “You boys want to migrate?” I broke one rule tonight. What’s another one?
Immediately, they all stand, willing to break this one too.
24
MAXIMOFF HALE
What…the fuck.
DEAFCON 1 is here. In the form of three chiseled male strippers, the bulkiest one approaching in nothing but a metallic-silver G-string. I slide my phone in my back pocket.
Farrow and SFO didn’t order them, and I’d ask Janie about it, but to get to her, I have to pass Silver G-String and his gelled brown hair. I think his muscles are glistening.
Did he oil himself?
Jesus Christ.
Shock roots me in place. I linger near the bar, four temp bodyguards separate me from the stripper, and all of security are talking in their mics, their stoic expressions hard to read.
I wonder if they think someone in the wedding party hired the half-naked men, which is why I’m not surprised when the temps let Silver G-String pass.
Fuck.
“Hey, Groom.” He reaches me with a warm, flirtatious smile. “You might be having a good time, but it’s about to get better.”
My natural instinct isn’t to run away. Isn’t even to tell this guy to fuck off. Because he’s just doing his job. He’s here—for some reason—and I don’t want to be a dick at his workplace. This is his workplace, right? Technically, he’s at work—and okay, I don’t know why I’m thinking about this of all things.
The stripper steps closer.
People invade my personal space all the time. It usually doesn’t bother me, but this is one of those gray areas that makes me uncomfortable. Worse, I start thinking about how Rowin encroached my space on the yacht, and a chill slithers down my spine.
Instinctually, I just want to throw a punch. To get him away from me as fast as possible. But I war with that instinct. Because I’m doing this thing now where I try not to blow a fuse.
Unfortunately, restraint has put me in a silent, shocked and frozen state. I manage to say, “I’m not interested, man. But thanks anyway.”
“It’s okay, I don’t bite.”
“No, I’m serious.”
Silver G-String smiles seductively (he’s not even close to seducing me). “You must be a shy one.”
I shake my head.
“Don’t think,” he says huskily, “and you’ll enjoy the ride.” He bridges the distance and thrusts his hips in my direction, trying to grind on me.
I snap.
And I shove him. I thought my force was light, but he stumbles back and hits the edge of the bar. “Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl, a fifty-ton severity icing my voice. “I’m not joking around.”
Jasper, my temp, overhears and seizes the stripper around the shoulders. Finally, he realizes they’re not supposed to be here.
My pulse rumbles in my veins, and I watch as more temp bodyguards pop into action, ushering the three strippers towards the other side of the bar. They might have been slow to intervene, but at least they’re intervening. Progress, right.