Page 7 of Felix

“Hey, Christian. Could you cover my table?”

“Which one?” I ask Noel, adjusting the skimpy-ass booty shorts that are trying to ride up my ass.

“Ten?”

I look over at the table of rowdy men my friend-slash-coworker is talking about and groan. “Noel…”

“I know, I know. But please?” he says, hands held together beneath his chin. “You’re so much better with them than I am.”

I capitulate easily, knowing it’s not Noel’s fault he got stuck with the group. Some customers are going to be trouble; you just know it. And Noel, well… He’s not the best at fending off trouble.

“I got it,” I assure him, giving his shoulder a pat as I pass. Pasting on a big smile, I approach the men in business wear.

As a club that boasts the finest boys on The Strip, you don’t come to Knee Highs for the music. You come to ogle half-naked men dancing in cages or those serving overpriced drinks. Tonight? I’m the latter.

“Hey, boys,” I greet, cocking a hip as I reach the table. “What can I get for ya?”

The guy closest to me eyes me up and down. “Well, shit. How about one of you?”

The rest snicker, and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Sorry. Not on the menu. How about a hurricane? The bartender makes it strong.”

The guy isn’t deterred. “Aw, c’mon now, sweet thing. Give us a twirl?”

“If you want to see the back of me,” I reply shortly, grin in place, “that can be arranged. But then you’ll be left without a server. Order or not. Your choice.”

He huffs but asks for a bourbon. I go around the table, nodding at each drink order, not bothering to write them down. I have a weirdly good memory for these sorts of things. Mission accomplished, I turn to go.

I wish I could say the slap to my ass is a surprise. It’s not.

Spinning, I grab Asshole Number One’s wrist, applying enough pressure that he leans forward to reduce the strain.

“You touch without permission again, and you’ll meet the bottom of my boot,” I tell him, flashing my pointy heel his way before dropping his arm.

He rubs his wrist, laughing it off. “Oh, this one has claws.”

“And teeth,” I say, snapping them together before turning and walking away. Fucking alphahole.

“Shit, you okay?” Noel asks as soon as I reach the bar.

“Fine,” I tell him, waving off his concern as I start inputting orders. Unfortunately, that sort of behavior isn’t uncommon here. Even worse is that our boss turns a blind eye to the way his employees are treated inside this club. Another alphahole, if I do say so myself.

Max, my favorite bartender, catches my eye and lifts a brow. He’s a good guy, and I know he’d gladly step in if needed, but I shake my head. I can handle it.

Finished at the touchpad, I give Noel’s arm a squeeze and get back to work. Most of my tables tonight are polite. They’re here for the show and to enjoy drinks with their friends, and they don’t give me any trouble. Table ten, though…

“Another beer, pretty?” That was Asshole Number Three.

“Pretty moody is more like it,” Number One says.

I flash a toothy smile. “A beer. You got it. Anything else?”

A couple other guys place orders, attention shifting between the dance cages and Asshole Number One, who just looks like he’s biding his time for another crack at me. I try to edge away before he has the chance, but his hand whips out, grabbing my arm.

I blow out a slow breath. Violence was not on the agenda today.

“Come on,” he cajoles. “What would it take to get a real smile out of you?”

He tugs me closer, forcing me to take a step lest I lose my balance.

---