Page 25 of The Demons We Hide

His lips quirk in amusement, but he takes the drink from me. “No, it’s not,” he admits. “But it’s been a while, and I don’t ever remember seeing you here.”

Letting my hand drift down the bulk of his bicep, I lean towards him conspiratorially. “It’s actually my first night hosting,” I whisper as if it’s a confession rather than the truth. “Have pity on me and join me at my table?”

His smile is all straight white teeth. “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I denied a beautiful young woman that,” he says, still holding the drink. His eyes flick to it. “But I’m afraid I’m not much for … what is this?”

“Goddess’ Ambrosia,” I answer. “And you don’t know until you try it, but if you prefer, I can order you something else.” I let my gaze rove the tall, broad length of him before returning to his face. “You strike me as a whiskey guy.”

The man’s eyebrows arch up. “You’d be correct.” He hands me back the glass, and I slip it as well as the second one I’d grabbed for myself onto the tray of a passing waitress before asking her to deliver a bottle of Jane Black.

The waitress doesn’t even wait to hear if my guest will argue and flits away to do the work. “Jane Black?” he asks. “That’s bourbon.”

“It’s a blend of bourbon and whiskey,” I correct him, and it’s in the range of a couple hundred. Expensive but not too insane. Judging by the fabric of his clothes, though, and the Rolex on his wrist that is a damn good imitation if it’s not real, he can more than afford it. Growing up around people with money has its perks, I guess.

Still smirking, the man gestures to the rounded booths where several other hosts are already seated, chatting with their own guests. He’s handsome enough that I wonder why he’d even bother to come to a host club. He’s got one of those faces that would have been popular in movies—strong, square cut jaw and high cheekbones. The gray at his temples and streaks of silver through his closely shaven beard do nothing to detract from his hotness.

“I like the way you think,” he murmurs. “Please, lead the way.”

So, I do. I lead the man down into the club and to table five which is more like a low glass coffee table surrounded by comfortable black leather lounges. The leather creaks beneath my ass as I take a seat and he does as well.

“Ma-Ri has moved up in the world if she’s able to hire girls like you,” he comments, “but I worry that she might be robbing the cradle if she’s in need of a host so young.”

I stiffen before remembering the advice Margo had given me when she lent me the dress. Never let them see you uncomfortable. Always act intrigued by anything they say. Forcing my shoulders to relax, I toss him a confused smile.

“What do you mean by that?”

Dark eyes trail over my blue hair and down to the top of my breasts. To my utter surprise, though, they don’t flare with heat or attraction. He doesn’t shift in his seat as if he’s turned on by all of the skin I’m showing. Instead, he merely crosses one leg over the other and lifts a hand as the waitress returns with the bottle I requested and the glasses, though she gives me a bit of the stink eye as if to tell me not to press my luck and that the second is just for show.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to the girl. I sit forward, grabbing the bottle before he can reach for it. I uncap it and pour him a hefty two fingered dose. His eyes lock on me. “You were serious about this being your first night as a host,” he comments as the waitress leaves and attends to the next table—a group of rowdy businessmen in loosened ties and white shirts.

“Did you think I would lie about it?” I ask, curious.

He takes the blend of bourbon and whiskey as I offer it to him and shrugs. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had. It’s a marketing tactic for women in this industry.”

I tilt my head to the side. From where I’m sitting, I can see the entrance to the club, but this stranger is distracting me from my purpose, and there’s no sight of the Scorpion Kings yet.

“You expected me to lie,” I guess, redirecting my attention to the man. He’s seated closer to my side, with his back to a wall, but all of the club in his sights. “Why?”

The man takes a sip of his drink and sighs, the sound one of pleasure rather than disappointment. “Because you seemed far too confident in yourself at first for this to be your first time,” he finally answers me, lifting his gaze to meet mine. “Then we sat down and I called you out on your age.”

“Age is just a number, or is that not what men like to say?” Twisting on my seat to face him more fully, I drape one leg over the opposite and lean forward.

His eyes don’t even bother lowering to my breasts which I know are practically on full display. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve watched Margo and the others do this a thousand times by now and all they have to do is twirl their hair, do a little giggle, and shake their tits in a man’s face to have him panting and throwing down their black Amex cards. Am I cursed or something?

“Honey, if I was all that concerned with age, then I wouldn’t be married.”

My lips part, but no words escape. I shouldn’t be surprised by the admission. No doubt, most of the men here probably have wives at home. Bored, lonely housewives with their little pink vibrators to keep them company when their husbands are out dropping hundreds on expensive hookers or hosts. But something about the easy way he says the words has me leaning back once more, straightening my spine so the neckline of my dress doesn’t hang as low anymore.

“My wife is younger than me,” he continues, taking another sip of his drink, “but she keeps me on my toes.” The words are spoken without the annoyance that I’m used to from men. All of my dad’s friends, when talking about their wives, had taken on a tone of irritation that they collectively appeared to commiserate in. Not this man. This man almost seems… in love.

“If your wife is so interesting,” I murmur, aware that I’m probably about to make a taboo as a host, but unable to help myself nonetheless. “What are you doing here?”

Gray eyes flick back up to meet mine, reminding me of Lex’s for some reason. “I’m here to meet someone,” he hedges. “I hear he visits this place regularly, though he lives in Silverwood.”

Silverwood.I swallow roughly. Despite the fact that the Dionysus Lounge is a good half-hour drive fromSilverwoodwhen not taking the bus, it’s no surprise that someone would want to meet here versus one of the watering holes there. The types of places that businessmen meet at on the northside all cater to a higher clientele. Whereas the Dionysus Lounge offers a darker setting for men of various backgrounds. In essence—the Dionysus Lounge caters to well-dressed criminals.

“Have I stunned you into silence, little one?” I blink when the man’s question drags me out of my head.

“What—I mean, no.” I shake the cobwebs of my thoughts away. “No, of course not. I’m surprised you’re fromSilverwood. So am I.”Am I supposed to admit that? I don’t think so, but it’s too late now.“I’ve never seen you around.”

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