The club is on fire tonight. Fridays are turning into one of our busiest nights at Lotus. While I've been working on attracting a diverse clientele to the club, Fridays still belong to the suits—corporate men and women who come here after work ready to let loose. Even though it's dim and packed to the rafters tonight, when I hit the top of the stairs, nothing can stop me from spotting the dummies I've got less than fifteen minutes to handle. They're still at the bar and the glamazon is nowhere in sight.

Perfect.

"Let me have a word," I say finally approaching jerk number one with the big mouth.

Both of the posers back up a few paces once I approach.

"You talking to us?"

"No, just you."

"Is there a problem, man?"

They both give me a long confused look. Wondering who I am, what I want, and probably assessing how they plan on "handling" me if I turn out to be a problem. In all of ten seconds, I can tell by the new confidence in their stances that they're cautious but not particularly worried. I may be big, but there's two of them, so they think they're good.

Rookie mistake.

"Might be." I grin.

"What's your problem, dude?" the sidekick resembling a shorter version of Mr. Clean asks me.

"First of all, this is none of your business, Professor X, so you can step away. I've already made it clear that this is between me and Casanova here."

"I don't think I know you, dude. What's with the attitude?"

I stare down the poser's little bald headed friend until he does the right thing.

"Uh, I'm going to go take a whiz, Cord. Let you two straighten this out. I'll be right back."

Pussy.

"So, I think you might have me mistaken with someone else." Cord the poser starts timidly trying to talk himself out of whatever wrath he thinks I'm about to bring down on his ass.

Sometimes I forget that my size, my tats, and the way I carry myself intimidates most men. Most people really. That's because there's nothing average about me. So yes, I can be a scary motherfucker, but only when provoked. Most of the time I like to think that I'm a walk in the park.

"No, I'm pretty sure that I have the right jackass."

"Woe, dude, what are you so pissed about? I'm just here trying to have a good time."

I take a small step forward while simultaneously slipping my hand behind my back. Inside of my waistband and underneath my henley is where I keep Benny–my glock. Sometimes I like to touch the handle. Make sure it's there. Adjust it on occasion. I'm not reaching for it or anything. It's really just a habit. I like to play with something in my hands when I'm anxious, or angry, or excited. When I was two it was my stuffed dog. When I was four it was my GI Joe figurine. Then after tagging along on a few business runs with my father, it became a gun.

My father didn't talk much. He wasn't a big sharer. But I knew he was proud of the good shot I'd become when he gifted me my first handgun. A small Ruger revolver. I was way too young to have it, and he was probably a very bad father for giving it to me, but I cherished that gun.

Every day I cleaned it. Loaded it. Unloaded it. I had a special hiding place for it in my room, so that my mom wouldn't find it (she abhorred guns). And every time my dad took me and Camden on his "special runs" I'd carry it with me. Concealed like he taught me; but always reaching back for it. Making sure it was there. Just in case I needed it. Just in case one of my dad's runs went south. Which makes it all the more painful that the one day I left it at home, because my mom was watching me like a hawk that morning, was the day that my father was shot and killed.

Anyway, I'm guessing that the poser thinks I must be reaching for my piece or something, because a look of total terror passes over his face.

"What are you doing, man."

He places his drink on the bar top and starts backing away from me. He's getting worked up for nothing. I would never pull out in a club unless I absolutely had to, and I'd also never waste a bullet on someone like this no matter what he did. It would be too easy. There's no satisfaction in easy.

"Relax, Tinker Bell. Nobody's going to hurt you. I just want to tell you something, and I want to make sure that you hear me loud and clear."

"Sure, man, whatever. Speak your piece."

"A few minutes ago, you and your friend were talking about a young lady who's a friend of mine."

"Who . . . Sloan?"

"That's Miss Pearson to you."

"Miss Pearson," he parrots back in a forced but respectful tone.

"So, as I was saying, Miss Pearson is a friend of mine, and you were talking mighty disrespectfully about her. Being quite presumptuous about what you were going to do to her, and how that might benefit you at your sorry ass job. So I thought I should step in and make things super simple for you.

"You will never fuck Sloan Pearson. You will never kiss her, touch her, talk to her, or breathe the same air as her. If she's in this club, then you leave. If she walks by you on the street, then you better suck your breath in and hold it until she's ten feet away. She's a stranger to you. She doesn't exist. You understand what I'm saying, homeboy?"

You can always tell the guys who had to hold their own while growing up versus the ones who had everything handed to them on a silver platter. They're all the same. Say a couple of words to them and their faces crumple like they're ten-year-old kids being bullied on the playground.

This guy is definitely a powder puff. Soft as butter. It's not even fun to punk him, but it was necessary. I may not want Sloan for myself, but I can still do her this solid. We run in the same circles. Her best friend is marrying my best friend. I'm just eliminating some of the bad apples for her. At least the ones floating around in here. She should be thanking me. You're welcome, glamazon.

"Yeah, man, I . . . I understand."

"Good. Now is Sloan still here?"

I already know that she's long since ditched this guy. I watched her sneak out through the delivery entrance less than ten minutes ago.

"Yeah, man, she went to the restroom or something."

"So where should you be going right now?"

"But my buddy is still–"

"Let me stop you right there, Cord. Do you think your friend is taking the longest piss ever or is it possible that he left you? Because I strongly believe that he selected door number two. Something you need to be doing as well. Leaving."

"I think there's been a misunderstanding. I was just shooting the shit with my friend earlier, because I'm drunk. I really like Sloan. I mm-mean Miss Pearson," he stutters. "I meant no disrespect."

"You meant no disrespect? Well guess what, I don't give a shit. Excuses are like assholes, Cord. Everybody's got one. Your membership to Lotus has been revoked. Get out now while you still can on two legs." I point toward the exit sign.

A look of sudden recognition passes over his face.

"Wait, are you the owner?" His eyes enlarge.

"Do I even need to answer that."

"No, Mr. King. My apologies. I'm leaving right now."

Cord quickly exits the premises without even the smallest glance back. Another sure sign that he wasn't worth Sloan's time. He gave in way too easily. If it were me, I would have fought much harder for much less.

A woman sitting at the bar by herself, who's been eavesdropping on our exchange the entire time, turns around and gives me the thumbs up sign.

"What's that for?" I ask amused.

"You're Cutter King, right?"

"I am."

I check the time on my cell. Honestly, I don't have time for pleasantries. I should have left here for the hotel five minutes ago.

"I'm Aria. This is my third time at the club since joining two months ago." She holds her glass up then takes a sip. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Nice to meet you, Aria. How are you enjoying it here at Lotus?"

"Loving it so far. Listen, I know you're a busy man, but I just wanted to tell you that I happened to overhear what that jerk was saying, and you definitely did the right thing for your friend by sending him on his way."

Now this is a smart woman.

"It's nice to see that someone appreciates my superpowers," I say throwing on a little appreciative charm.

Aria responds with a chuckle which only confirms my conclusion that I must have the unmistakable ability to say almost anything and make every woman I meet laugh.

Every woman but Sloan.

"You should tell her what an ass that guy was. You probably saved her from wasting a month of her life going on some really bad dates with him. She owes you a debt of gratitude."

"That's exactly what I've been saying." I nod in agreement. "I'm helping her out and probably a whole lot of other women too."

"You are," she agrees. "I should know. I'm one of those women who went on about six weeks worth of bad dates with a man that nobody warned me about."

Exactly what I thought.

"So the king is actually performing a public service."

"I'm sorry, the who is?"