Page 8 of Worth the Risk

Going from bright sunshine to the dimly lit lobby, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. When she could see, it was rather a letdown. The bland beige walls, tile floor—also beige—and the plain counter were nothing like the elegant, stately exterior. The only point of interest was the three doors looming in front of her, each occupying a wall, not including the entrance behind her. One was marked private, another was just a random ordinary door, and the third was a magnificent piece of architecture. Its size, roughly hewn dark oak, and wrought iron hardware made it look like they’d snatched it from a medieval castle.

As she stood there, alone, at a loss over which entrance to use, a man appeared from behind the private door. He was tall, well over six feet, with unbelievably broad shoulders. Dressed in jeans and a fitted black T-shirt, both molded to his big muscular body. She had to check herself to keep from staring—and drooling.

“Bella?” he asked.

“Yes. Just Hired sent me about a waitress job.”

“Sean O’Brien. I’m one of the owners and the operating manager.”

He looked her up and down. Nothing new there. It happened at all the bars she’d worked at. He was probably sizing her up for a skimpy uniform.

“We’ve got your preliminary background check. Nothing of note there, but it isn’t much. Am I going to find any surprises when the full report comes through next week?”

“No, sir. I try to stay out of trouble.”

He let out a huff of laughter. “That will be a breath of fresh air around here.”

“Excuse me?”

He waved off her question. “It’s nothing. Any triggers or past trauma I need to know about?”

“Uh...” Except for being raised in a crime family, getting shot by the boss, and then being hunted for a year by hitmen? But she didn’t ask that and instead shook her head. “No, sir.”

Bella couldn’t help but wonder what kind of club this was. She’d worked a lot of jobs in the past year, several as a cocktail waitress, but no one asked about triggers. There seemed to be more to Club Decadence than met the eye.

He stared at her a moment, intently, as if he could see into her head, then he nodded once. “If Mistress Anne from the agency sent you over, that’s good enough for me.”

“You mean I have the job?”

“It’s yours if you want it after you sign our confidentiality agreement. Anne mentioned it, I’m sure.”

“Yes, sir.”

He motioned her over to the counter and set a clipboard with papers on top with a pen. “Read it. Initial the highlighted sections, and sign at the bottom of the last page.”

He folded his arms and waited.

“You mean now?”

“Yep. No one gets through the doors without signing. Our members are very protective of their privacy.”

It was three pages, had a lot of legal terms she only vaguely understood, and took her several minutes to get through.

When she set the pen down and looked up, he took the clipboard and reviewed the document.

“Can you start tonight?”

“Yes! Thank you, sir. You won’t be disappointed,” she gushed, giddy with relief at the opportunity and knowing she could eat and have a roof over her head for the foreseeable future.

He smiled for the first time, his teeth flashing brilliant white and making him even more handsome, which she didn’t think possible.

“I like your enthusiasm, Bella. Welcome aboard. And call me Master Sean,” he corrected her then pointed at the plain door. “Through there is the lounge. I’ll tell Ben, our bar manager, you’re here.”

And with that, he disappeared behind the private door.

Rather taken aback by the strange encounter—she had never been interviewed in a lobby, and what did he mean call himMaster Sean? Master of what? She glanced at the enormous oak door and wondered if it was a medieval-theme club with cosplay like at a Renaissance fair.

“That might be fun,” she whispered as she crossed the empty lobby.

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