Page 11 of Worth the Risk

Chapter 4

BELLA HURRIED WIPINGdown the table for the waiting party of four then lifted the tray of empty glasses. “It’s all yours. I’ll be back in a minute to take your drink order.”

“No need,” one of the men replied, shouting to be heard. “Bring us all Coronas with lime.” He scanned the crowd before adding, “When you can.”

She smiled her thanks at his understanding then, with a death grip on her tray, made her way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd to the bar. The two previous nights were busy, but nothing like this. She blamed the petite brunette with the intricate tattoos she’d seen Master Dex making out with on her first day.

Elena Russell was not only the master dom’s submissive, she was married to him, and was the lead singer of the band performing tonight. In a word, she was amazing. The four-man group backing her up was awesome, too, and played everything from rock to country to some original songs as good as anything on the radio. It explained why it was standing room only in the bar, lounge, and on the dance floor.

As she dropped off a tray of empty glasses and slid them through the window to the guy who had the hot, steamy job of washing them all, Ben waved her over.

He leaned on the bar and shouted as close to her ear as possible because Elena was in the middle of her Pink tribute and the crowd was going insane.

“After you deliver these to the head table, run to the supply room and grab another box of cocktail napkins, would you?”

“Sure thing.” Bella nodded as she shouted to make sure he knew she understood.

Ben had the tray ready. All she had to do was get the pitcher of margaritas and eight salt-rimmed glasses through the mass of writhing, frenzied fans all the way up front, near the stage, without spilling the sticky stuff all over herself and anyone in her vicinity.

Piece of cake.

As she maneuvered through the crowd, she watched as the icy liquid in the filled-to-the-brim pitcher came close to sloshing over. She only had about ten feet to go when Elena yelled into the microphone, “What do you think, nitty-gritty dirty freaks, are you ready to rock?”

Those in the crowd lucky to have a seat leaped up, adding to the chaos. One bouncing, jiggling, half-dressed fan lost her balance and fell sideways, right into Bella. Although it wasn’t her fault, as she’d feared at the outset, the glasses tipped over and fell like dominoes, crashing to the floor one after the other. But the bright-green sugar-and-tequila concoction did far worse. It didn’t slosh over the rim; it shot out like a geyser, and all she could do was watch in horror as it dowsed the man who had the misfortune to be in her path.

It plastered his hair to his head and soaked his shirt through, and, despite the sticky cocktail dripping off his nose and chin as he looked at her in shock, she couldn’t keep from noticing how handsome he was.

“I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, wanting to help but unsure how, with her hands full and sticky.

Too engrossed in the live show and singing along at the tops of their lungs, no one else seemed to notice the disaster that had occurred, even the instigator who’d righted herself and, without a word of apology, went back to screaming and dancing and jiggling.

“I’ll go get a towel,” she declared, spinning toward the bar.

His fingers curled around her upper arm, turning her back.

“We better see to the glass on the floor first before someone gets hurt.”

She nodded. He was right, of course, but she didn’t move, staring instead like a fool. Maybe it was his voice, deep and resonant despite the near-deafening cacophony of shrieking electric guitars, pounding drums, and screaming fans. Or it could be the way his wet T-shirt molded to a really nice set of pecs or that he towered above her, making her feel petite, which was a feat with her 5’ 8” rather round frame.

It also might have had something to do with the black armband around his biceps with DM emblazoned on it in bright orange. In her brief tenure, she’d learned that dungeon monitors at a kink club were like bouncers on steroids. Big, strong, and ever watchful, with the authority to kick anyone to the curb if they got out of line. One of the other waitresses told her they were also expert dominants who knew the signs of a scene going south or if restraints were applied wrong or too tight.

“What’s your name?” he asked in a follow-up.

“Isa—” she began, at the last second catching herself. “Um...I’m Bella.”

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