Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
I won’t screw up. The reoccurring thought is a banging gavel in my head.
I’m not channeling a deep confidence. I’m just so afraid of being the one to mess up an entire con. It’s as if every cell in my body resists the idea of failing. Like failing equals death, and self-preservation will kick in before that happens.
“We’re not selling by glass tonight!” Hailey shouts over the music to a VIP table, a pen and pad in her hand. “Just by bottle!”
I try to concentrate on familiar voices, not the hands roaming up and down my hips. Meaty hands. I hope he washed them. I intake a tense breath and force a sultry smile, leaning only a little closer. The mark is named Henry Something-or-Other.
It’s not that important for me to remember. He’s mid-forties and here for “business” as a consultant to tech firms.
“Like Google,” he’s said five times already. Must be some amazing company, considering all of his business buddies are already sloshed in our VIP section of leather couches. They’re salivating over the cute redhead shimmying against a pole on a circular platform. One businessman mimes grabbing her boobs, and I restrain the urge to glare and simultaneously eye roll.
I grind lightly against Henry’s lap.
“Bottle girl!” his friend shouts loudly at me, the one who just squeezed the air. Basically a breath away from biting his knuckles and coming in his pants. “Come here, baby!”
I flash a flirty smile. “I’m with your boss.”
He laughs. “He’s not my boss!” This prick is a little younger. Thirties, maybe. Henry Something-or-Other is supposed to be my mark. He’s the one I’m positive has loaded pockets. All the VIP tables have a ten-thousand-dollar bottle service minimum. And that’s before the markup.
Two days ago, Trevor Tinrock swiped Henry’s ID when he exited a high rollers lounge at a nearby casino. Trevor even placed the wallet back into Henry’s pocket, all without Henry knowing. He’s been cleared. Background checked. No connections to anyone too powerful. No one that could come after us. And it didn’t take much influence from Everett to persuade Henry to come to the club.
Most of tonight’s revenue is coming from him. And he has no idea yet.
“I’m not his boss,” Henry confirms with a grin. “We’re coworkers. Why don’t you show him a good time, too, yeah?”
Shit.
While straddling Henry, I slowly run a finger down the nape of his neck and drink in the trail I draw. “Shouldn’t he find his own bottle girl?” I lean closer and murmur against his ear, “I want to be yours.”
I feel his dick harden against my thigh.
I’m nothing, really. Weightless. Floating. Hoping he wants me, even if that kind of yearning for him is gone inside of me. Faded into oblivion. Impossible to reach.
He’s grinning. “You’ll have to find another girl, Reece.”
“Hey, hey!” Reece waves toward a male server, but Hailey is quick to answer and beelines for my section. Her slim-fitting black dress is much classier than the red lace panties and bra I’m wearing. My getup is considered “an outfit” but let’s be clear: it’s lingerie.
“Can I help you with something?” Hailey asks him. “Another—”
“A bottle girl. The best you have.” He snickers with his friends and downs a flute of champagne.
She jots down on the pad. “Right away.” The way she says it, I know she’s never going to bring anyone out to him. They’ll wait and wait and still be charged.
Henry’s warm breath heats my ear now. “You available for a private show, sweetheart?” His drunken, half-lidded eyes meet mine.
“One more bottle?” I coax.
He waves quickly at Hailey. “Another one of these.” He points to the ice bucket before she turns away. It’s a thirty grand three-liter bottle of Dom Pérignon. Triple the price of its retail value. But it’s not a particularly unique year. He was sold earlier on how this case of Dom we just got imported is one of the most exclusive champagnes in the world, and that is true. About the rosé.
This’ll be his third bottle of overpriced Dom.
After another scribble on her notepad, Hailey dashes away.
Henry’s hand traverses down my thigh, inching closer and closer to the lace of my panties. I slide backward, off him, but playfully smile while showing off my ass. I do the Legally Blonde thing—bend and snap.
“You like that?” I tease.
“Love it, sweetheart.” He winks a drunken, oozing wink.
I’m floating into nothingness. And as I turn my back to Henry, I see another couch that faces ours.
I see him.
My pulse hitches.
Paddles jolt my lifeless insides.
Rocky has an arm over the black leather couch, a cigar burning between his fingers, and glass of iced bourbon in his hand. In his demeanor alone, he looks born from rare champagnes of the world and worth more than the oxygen everyone is breathing.
And he’s staring right at me.