For the next week, I keep an extra eye out on Meghan. It’s not that hard, honestly. I keep an eye on the entire club anyway, and I’ve been paying attention to Meghan for at least the past month regardless. She’s just so tempting that I can’t help myself.

But now I find myself making sure that her area is even better behaved, that nobody gives her any grief even as I keep my distance physically. My attention never wavers from her tiny body as she swishes around the tables, leaning over provocatively to flash the fullness of her lush tits as she flirts harmlessly, giggling her little girl laugh and playing her airhead act every night. The guys love it, and the few girls who come in love it too. They just see her as the totally relatable girl next door.

Every flirt, every move, every time she makes eyes with a customer, it feels like she’s taunting me. But deep down, I know it’s her usual schtick as a waitress.

Every girl has one, dancer or waitress alike. They have to in order to survive in a place like this. They find a mask, a mantle of fakeness they put on like a Halloween costume when they hit the floor. For some, they become sweet or sarcastic, and for some it’s femme fatale flirty or bitchy snippy. They find the personality type that attracts the customers, and the best girls know how to read their customers and behave accordingly to get the big tips.

For Meghan, that’s her natural innocent bubbliness. It’s disarming, enchanting, and very effective camouflage. I’ve watched her for long enough to see how smart she really is, and that while she’s innocent and maybe even naturally flirty, she’s no airhead despite her act. It’s in the flow of her words, the way she shoots guys down even as she compliments them, and how she can subtly manipulate every table into falling in love with her. She’s quickly gotten a small group of regulars who come not to see the dancers, but to get their beer and liquor with a side of her sweetness.

They see her as the girl they always wanted in high school, the good girl whose sparkling eyes and smile say she’ll be honest and pure . . . but that underneath is a kitten waiting to be unlocked if she can find someone able to teach her.

Although, I’m not entirely sure that part is an act. I remember the way she blushed at my tawdry comments, her eyes dropping even as her breathing quickened, and her awkwardness the morning after we’d slept on her couch.

I don’t think the innocence is all that fake, and though it shouldn’t, that just ramps up my interest in my little angel Meghan all the more. Because I know, deep down in my guts where the good and bad sides of me swirl in constant tension, that I could unlock that sex kitten.

All I’d need is one opportunity. Much like the thought I had in her apartment about sullying her white couch with my griminess, I can picture dirtying Meghan up—lipstick smeared across her face by my lips, long blonde hair a mess from my hands tugging and pulling her at my will, my cum all over her tits in her black bustier uniform as she sags, spent from spasming helplessly around my cock before I marked her as mine.

Suppressing a groan, I shake my head, trying to clear it. Meghan’s taken up so much real estate in my damn mind, I’m having to wear my compression shorts every time she’s on shift, or else I walk around with a tent in my trousers.

Needing something more, I head over to the bar for a cold drink. No booze. That’s unprofessional . . . but the bar has more than liquor. “Hey, Marco. Can I get a Coke when you get a chance?”

Marco doesn’t look my way, too far in the weeds with orders to talk, but he flashes me a thumbs-up so I know he heard me. While I wait, I lean against the bar, surveying the room. Meghan and two other waitresses are hustling about, Sasha is on stage crawling on all fours toward a front-row guy in a nice suit who looks like he’s going to have a stroke with as red as his face is getting, and every table is full. Best of all, the patrons are behaving themselves. It’s a good, easy night at Petals.

My eyes are drawn back to Meghan, and before I know it, Marco clears his throat from right beside me. Shit. I never even heard him approach. And in my job, letting myself get that distracted is dangerous.

“How’s she doing?” Marco asks as he hands me a Coke, no ice, just like I always have it when I’m on duty. “Any problems after the parking lot guy?”

I shake my head, taking a swig of the cold Coke. “No, she’s been fine. Seems to have moved on.”

Marco wipes the bar beside me with his towel, even though it’s already spotless. He’s a neat freak and compulsive in keeping up appearances both on the bar and in his personal habits, so I know it’s not just for show. I wait, knowing he’ll speak when he’s ready.

“So if she’s all good after the incident,” he says, flipping his towel over in a quick quarter-fold before tucking it in the strings of his work apron, “why are you staring at her like you expect her to need you to run in like a knight in shiny fucking armor to slay the dragon?”

“Maybe because some people attract the dragons?” I ask. “She’s different, you know? The other girls in here, they’re more experienced and harder than she is. They can handle their shit and not blink twice about it. But Meghan has a softness to her. Dragons are attracted to that and would burn her to ash without a second thought just to ruin her tenderness.”

Marco laughs a big belly laugh, his smile flashy. “That was some fucking panty-dropping poetry, man. Hold on, I gotta write that down.”

He actually grabs a pen and paper from behind the bar, scribbling chicken scratch notes that only he can read. That’s Marco, a dapper, fastidious dresser, a decent bartender with a neat freak fetish, but his handwriting is so messy I doubt even an expert can decipher what he puts down.

Marco tucks the paper away and looks up at me. “Shane, you said she attracts these types that can burn her up, right?”

“Yeah.”

Marco nods. “One question then. What color dragon are you?” His laugh is gone, his tone serious and his eyes intense, reminding me that behind the affable exterior, there’s the soul of an alpha male. “Oh, make that two. Who’s protecting her from you?”

It’s a question I’ve asked myself for the past week, but instead of answering, I take a drink from my Coke and lift it in salute to Marco. “Thanks for the drink. Better get back to the door.”

I give Thomas, one of my fellow security guys, a nod, which he acknowledges, and we rotate positions. I resume my relaxed but ready, arms crossed front door stance, scanning the room.

As I do, something catches my eye. There’s a patron at a side table, far from the stage, in a hoodie with a ball cap on. Not too unusual, since not everyone wants to be recognized at Petals, but something about him sets me on edge, like he’s trying to not be noticed or seen. Every time the waitress in his zone comes by, he slinks down, turning his face even farther away from her.

I press the button in my ear, triggering the walkie talkie. “Hey, did you catch a sight of the hoodie guy at table twenty-eight coming in? I don’t like the way he looks.”

Thomas’s voice comes back in my ear, and I see he’s on the other side of the club, easing his way over. “He came in while you were taking a break. Had sunglasses on but took them off once he sat down. No clear visual, but no red flags.”

Thomas is okay. He knows how to handle himself, but he’s not the best at faces or at spotting fake IDs. Twice, I’ve cleaned up behind him when he’s let in underage kids. “Thomas, man . . . sorry, but can you come back and cover the door for a second? I wanna get a closer look.”

Thomas is quick on the reply, which I appreciate. “Sure, no problem. On my way.”

I see Thomas coming and then look back at the hoodie guy to see Meghan has approached the table. Twenty-eight is just on the edge of her zone, and obviously, the girl working that area has given up on Mr. Hoodie.

Meg seems fine, her usual smile on her face as she greets him to take his order, but then I see her face fall as she steps back. Before I can even take two steps, the guy’s hand shoots out to grab her wrist, and I’m reacting, sprinting for her.

I sweep between them, my hip forcing the guy’s hand free as I use my left arm to sweep Meghan behind me, and I’m struck with déjà vu as I realize hoodie guy is actually the parking lot fucker.

“Miles Jacobson,” I growl, my right fist clenching, “I told you that you were banned. In fact, I told you that your own mother wouldn’t even be able to recognize your body if you showed up here, but yet, here you are.”

He looks at me, clear-eyed and sober and spoiling for a fight after the beatdown I gave him. “I just wanted to apologize, but this stuck-up bitch wouldn’t even let me.”

He leans to the side, trying to make eye contact with Meghan, spitting out words quickly. “Sorry I scared you the other day. I was drunk. Just didn’t want to be banned. I bring clients here, you know.”

He sounds like that should mean something. It’s almost comical. I resist the temptation to bend down to his level—it would compromise both Meghan’s security and mine—and instead grab him by the front of his hoodie, pulling him to his feet. “Correction. You used to bring clients here.”

Before he can react, I twist his arm up behind his back at the same time I shove him belly-first into his table, bending him over and knocking the wind out of him. “Agh!”

“Exactly,” I growl as I yank him up, applying a half-nelson to his other arm to walk him toward the back. I’m trying to not make a scene on the floor, but a few people are applauding already, and I just have to trust that Thomas will have already activated our standard protocol for unruly guests. I know I’m right when Logan meets me by the door to the back.

“Boss will be down any second. What’s the plan?”

I don’t bother answering him, knowing I’ll have to explain again when Dominick arrives. Speak of the devil. Just as I push Miles through the doors, Dom emerges from the private staircase he has to his office.

“Shane, what seems to be the problem with our guest?”

Meghan, who’s been nearly glued to my back, answers before I can even open my mouth. “It’s him. The parking lot guy.”

Dominick looks to me for confirmation, and I nod, jerking Miles’s head up to face Dominick. “You fucking assholes! I’m going to call my lawyer!”

Wrong fucking answer. Instead of laughing, Dominick’s voice drops to a silky, amused tone, his cadence slow and clear. If you don’t know any better, he sounds civilized, maybe even casual. But if you pay attention, you can hear the coldness, the lack of fucks he gives about whatever shit Miles is spouting “Ah, Mr. Jacobson. Yes, I do know your name, as well as your address and vehicle information. Since I don’t take my girls being accosted in the parking lot of my place of business lightly, I took it upon myself to get to know your business too. By the way, how is your hedge fund going? You seem to have hit a rough patch, isn’t that right? It’d be a shame if your whole deck of cards came falling . . . falling . . . down.”

Dominick’s creepy menace permeates the room, and I can feel Miles’s skin getting clammy under my hold as he begins to realize just who and what he’s messing with. He stammers, and I swear he sounds like he’s on the edge of crying. “Look, I’m sorry. I just wanted to apologize and hoped to not be banned because of a misunderstanding. I can see that was a mistake. I’ll just go.”

Dominick strokes his chin, but there’s no doubt or softness in his eyes. “Yes, I do think we should go . . . out the back, perhaps?”

Dominick’s eyes meet mine with his judgment and sentencing of Miles complete. I nod, understanding, but gesture behind me with a lift of my chin. We’ve got company, and he doesn’t want to say more.

Dominick follows my gesture, his face softening instantly as he spies Meg’s blonde locks. “Oh, Meghan, I’m afraid Shane casts such a huge shadow I lost sight of you for a moment. Are you okay, honey?”

She seems more angry than fearful, her voice tight. “Fine. Thank you.”

Dom smiles, charming as ever as he comes around, taking her hand and patting her on the shoulder. “Very well, then head back to the floor and resume covering your tables. We’ll escort Mr. Jacobson out.”

Her eyes dip to the floor, but she lifts them instantly. “Uhm, Dominick? Can I ask you a favor?”

He’s a dangerous man to ask that question, but I’m curious what she’s going to ask. He inclines his head, the curiosity on his face too. “You may ask.”

“Can I have a word with Mr. Jacobson before you throw him out?”

I can see the smile on Dominick’s face as he motions with a wide sweep of his hand for her to proceed. She steps in front of Miles, all five foot nothing of her puffed up and standing tall. Curious to see what she’ll say, I lean my head to the side, making sure that my grip is still strong. She meets Miles’s eyes with no problem, and I’m damn proud of her.

“I wish I’d had the chance to do this before,” she says before her right fist flashes out pretty damn quickly in a straight punch that smashes perfectly into Miles’s nose. I might be able to dodge it, but most people would have no chance, especially since no one would see it coming from an angel like Meghan. The crack is unmistakable as Miles squirms in my arms, cursing a blue streak as blood streams from his ruined nostrils. “Fucking bitch. You’ll pay for that. Let me go!”

Dominick puts a gentle arm around Meghan’s shoulders, guiding her again toward the door to the club. “Well done, I must say. And quite surprising, which is a rare occurrence for me. We’ll take it from here.”

She nods, shaking her hand a little as she heads back to the floor. As soon as the door swings closed, Dominick turns back to me, all the polite softness gone from his face. “Now, shall we go outside? I hate to get blood on the tile back here. The cleaning staff tends to gets rather upset.”

Logan opens the door, and we scan for any cars in the dark rear parking area, knowing that there won’t be any but always checking to be safe.

I heave Miles through the doorway and out into the dirty backlot. It’s closed in on three sides between the building and two sides of chain link fence. It’s perfect for what I need to do, especially when Logan stands sentry at the backlot entrance, ensuring our privacy.

“Now. I was polite inside,” Dominick says as he unbuttons his jacket, “but let’s be clear now. You’re not going to forget this fucking lesson. You will not come here. You will not come to this neighborhood. Shane, make sure those lessons stick.”

I step forward, my boot flicking out to catch Miles just above the kneecap. His leg hyperextends, and he gasps in pain, dropping his hands so that I can punch him in the temple.

“How dare you fucking touch her? You’re not good enough to even lick the floor she walks on, asshole,” I growl as I follow up with a big uppercut that catches Miles right in the teeth. I feel my knuckle split, but I don’t give a shit as he rockets nearly straight, his hands blindly flying out.

“Excuse me, Shane,” Dominick says as he steps forward. He’s rolled up his sleeves, his sinewy forearms rippling as he grabs Miles by the ears and drives him backward. Dominick’s not as formally schooled as I am. He learned his techniques from the streets, and he fights dirty.

“Shane’s nice,” Dominick says as he knees Miles in the balls. “Sometimes, too nice. So let me continue. If I hear that you’ve been within a half-mile of this club, or within a half-mile of Meghan, this is going to seem like a walk in the fucking park. If I decide to let you live, you won’t leave the hospital for a long fucking time. Do you understand me?”

By this point, Miles is sobbing. “Y–y–yes,” he blubbers, tears mixing with his blood. “Please.”

I’m disgusted by this piece of shit. Begging for what? Mercy? Like he would’ve given any to Meghan if he’d gotten her alone in his car? He’s weak, preying on a woman when she’s defenseless. Although, after that jab to Miles’s nose, maybe she wouldn’t have been quite the meek mouse he expected. The thought gives me a hint of satisfaction.

Miles continues to cry, his pleas to stop peppered with threats of lawsuits, still not understanding that we don’t handle things like that at Petals. Dominick looks offended at Miles’s breakdown and winds up, kicking him in the stomach hard enough that I’m pretty sure Dom missed his calling as a field goal kicker. “Shane, before Miles leaves us, make sure he’ll be jacking off left-handed for the next two to three months.”

“Certainly, sir,” I reply, stepping forward again. Miles tries to fend me off weakly, but I grab his right hand without a problem, goose necking it before punching him in the ribs just for fun. “This way, asshole.”

It’s harder to lead Miles out to his car, mainly because he’s taken so much of a beating his legs can’t really support him. It takes both me and Logan to get him across the lot.

Finally, we reach his car, and I twist Miles’s wrist a little more, making him whimper. “Keys.”

Using his right hand, Miles finds his keys, holding them out to me. “Unlock your door.”

He pushes a button, and I open the door, looking into his teary, fear-streaked eyes. “I’m not a bad guy,” he whines. “I just wanted to say sorry.”

“I’m sure. But you know what?” I ask, lowering my voice. “Now you understand fear. Now you understand what she felt when you grabbed her wrist tonight. How she felt when you came at her in this parking lot. Now you understand that for all your macho bullshit, you’re just five seconds away from being someone’s little bitch. Put your hand in the door.”

The realization of what’s about to happen clears away some of the haze in his eyes, and he starts shaking his head, a whine coming from deep in his chest. “No! Please, no—”

I force his arm out, slamming the door on his fist. There’s a crack, and he cries out, dropping to his knees. “My hand!”

“You have until I count to twenty to be out of the parking lot . . . or else, your neck is next,” I say, picking him up and heaving him into the driver’s seat of his car. “One. Two. Three.”

I’m bluffing about the neck part, but it does the job. He leaves as quickly as he can, running over the curb as he pulls out just as I reach twenty.

Turning, I head around to the back door of the club to report to Dominick. As I walk, I know that on some level, I should be bothered by what I did tonight.

A two-on-one beating that left a man broken, bleeding, and with only fate to decide if he lives through the night should give me pause.

But the fucker deserved it for what he did to Meghan the first time. And the fact that he showed back up to intimidate her again?

A part of me hopes he does die, all snug in his fucking bed tonight, choking on his own blood. And if he doesn’t die, he spends the next week pissing dark brown and looking like he picked a fight with a steamroller, because if he shows his face near the club again, I will kill the son of a bitch. Consequences be damned.

Whatever it takes, because Meghan deserves to be treated with respect.