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?”