That does it. I dive forward out of their grasp and drop to my knees and throw up over a subway vent, the hot air rising from the grate making me feel worse and prolonging the whole sorry affair.

“Look, I’m not a creeper—scout’s honor,” he tells her, doing the weird finger salute thing. “But your friend—”

“Robyn,” she interrupts.

“Robyn looks like she really needs to get home. Either you can struggle by yourself with her, or I’ll help you. I promise I won’t chop you up or wear either of you, cross my heart.”

It’s quiet as Lucy contemplates his offer. I’m considering lying down where I am just as she thrusts her hand under my arm and begins to lift me.

“Fine, but smile.”

“Huh?” he and I both reply in confusion as she takes her phone from her back pocket, still half holding me in my seated position, and takes a picture of him.

“I’m sending this to a friend. If we wind up dead, the cops will know exactly who to look for.”

“Okay, you’re strange,” he says before taking my other arm and lifting me up like I’m weightless.

“You think you can walk, Robyn?”

I groan. “Yes,” I lie as he looks back to Lucy.

“Where we headed?”

“About six blocks that way.” She points in the general direction of my home and he nods. We don’t take more than twenty steps before Zane sweeps me up and begins to carry me like a baby. In any other circumstance, a stranger carrying me through the streets of New York City in the dark would be equal parts weird and terrifying. I’d mace the guy the second he got too close, but I don’t see how my life could be much worse at the moment, so I can’t bring myself to care.

“We’re more likely to make it there by sunrise if I carry her,” I hear him say. My eyes drift closed against the worn leather of his jacket, the movement strangely soothing. My stomach begins to settle and right now I’m so comfy I don’t mind if he murders me later.

IF I WERE a smart man I’d be hiring a new dancer, because while Rae is undoubtedly talented and draws a decent crowd, there’s only so much longer she can work before customers start to notice she’s pregnant. I appreciate that a woman with child is a beautiful sight to behold, but a pregnant burlesque dancer will soon attract the wrong sort of clientele. Namely, the obscure fetish types, and although I hold nothing against them per se, I’d like to keep this place mainstream. I’m not a smart man, though, so I’m leaving it to my bar manager to deal with it because in all honesty, I don’t have the time. Besides, Zane loves to be involved in auditioning new girls.

We’re moving mixers from the cellar when I notice a graze covering the side of Zane’s face and frown. “Have you been in a fight?”

I wait as he places the crate he’s carrying onto the bar and looks back at me questioningly.

“What makes you ask that?”

I’m narrowing my eyes, trying to get a better look. “Your face, it’s scratched up.”

A shit-eating grin breaks out on his face as his hand brushes over his jaw and he laughs.

“Don’t tell me that was done having sex because holy shit, you must have been going at it rough.”

“Nah, it wasn’t. Although it did lead to some pretty fucking amazing sex.” He says, and winks.

I place my own crate beside the others and stand up straight. “Let’s hear it then.” I lean over the bar, grab two beers and hand him one.

“So, after my shift last night, I’m walking down West 89th minding my own business. The next thing I know some tiny brunette tackles me like she’s a fucking linebacker for the Giants. She took me out like I was a twelve-year-old girl!” I laugh, spitting my beer back into the bottle and sputtering. “It happened so fast I didn’t have time to react and I face-planted the sidewalk. She went down, too, and was out cold for a few seconds. She was completely wasted and thought she was grabbing onto a post or something!”

“Wait, you said you had sex last night, right?” I groan and wipe my hand down my face looking at him. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me it was consensual and this chick made a magical recovery to sobriety before you nailed her?” I’m promptly hit in the face with a dirty beer stained dishrag.

Nice.

“What the hell, Callum! I didn’t screw her, she was barely conscious—she couldn’t even walk. Call me old-fashioned but I’m not into narcoleptics,” he smirks. “I screwed her friend. I helped get the drunk chick back to her apartment and her friend didn’t want to leave her alone so she invited me in to stay for coffee,” he declares, doing air quotes over the word coffee.

“You should have seen this girl, Cal… she was a solid ten. Actually, they both were. So fucking hot. God bless America!”

I nod my approval and take a long pull of my beer. Zane’s a good friend; we’ve known each other a long time and he’s like family. We met in college when we were assigned the same dorm, and we’ve been friends ever since. His family moved from London for his father’s work. He’s a great manager; I can trust him with anything, which takes some of the pressure off me. In addition to being good at his job, it doesn’t hurt that he looks like a damn movie star. While it’s undoubtedly the girls that pull the guys into my club, it’s Zane that brings in the women, and he knows it. He hams it up, lays on the charm thick and fast with his Prince William voice, but he’s mostly all talk. He likes the Lothario image he projects, and so do the ladies. I wouldn’t say it to his face, but he’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing. I know that’s backwards, but in his case it’s the truth. Most guys play nice to cover up that fact that they’re asses, Zane acts the ass to cover up that he’s a good guy. I’m dammed if I know why, but I ain’t complaining. Each to their own, I guess.

His voice breaks me out of my thoughts.

“So you cool with that?”

“Cool with what?” I’m busy running a mental inventory of the places I need to be today, and what I need to collect from the store before I go visit my pops.

He shakes his head at me. “Setting up the auditions for Friday morning?”

“Yeah sure, whatever you think,” I agree, taking another pull on my beer. “Wait, Friday doesn’t work. I have appointments.”

“I can take care of it; you don’t have to be here unless you want to be. It’s not like you don’t get to see enough half-naked women every day anyway. I know what we need,” he says, tossing his empty bottle as he begins to unpack the crates. It’s quiet except for the clincking of bottles being unpacked. I scan the room, taking a second to enjoy the quiet; it’s a rarity in this place.

“You’re right, I don’t need to be here. Just don’t get excited and start hiring every piece of ass that walks in. We need a replacement for Rae, and an extra server, that’s it.”

“Yes, boss.” He mock salutes and I shake my head. There’s no fucking doubt in my mind that if a pretty face strolls in here with zero talent or credentials but has a nice rack, she’s getting a job.

Reveal has a high staff turnover rate. The girls are typically single when we hire them; it’s by no means a requirement, just how it is. As is life, they go on to start relationships, which generally means they won’t be here very much longer. As soon as any of them begin to get serious, their profession suddenly becomes an issue with their partners. I’ve seen it a million times over the years, always the same pattern.

I had one barman, Chris, who began dating one of the girls. They worked here, knew the score, knew that the dancers are here to dance, and that’s it. We’re a high-end establishment, not a titty bar. There’s no back room, no private dances, and no extras. Regrettably, it didn’t stop the green-eyed monster from rearing its ugly head in Chris. Some customer who’d had a few too many drinks heckled Chloe on stage. Chris snapped and punched him. It was a mess, and one that’ll never be repeated. I have a strict policy: staff members aren’t allowed to date each other, and it’s the number one rule.