Page 62 of Counting On You

We fight our way through the crowd, past the bar until we stop in front of another bouncer guarding the entrance that says “VIP AREA.” I expect him to inspect our wristbands. Instead, he shifts in front of us and asks in the kind of tone that makes me want to run as fast as I can, “The password?”

“If life is a party, don’t waste it by asking stupid questions,” Kade says, unfazed.

My heart gives a jolt.

What sort of answer is that?

Is hetryingto get our asses thrown out or whacked or whatever it is this guy does to annoying clientele?

Holding my breath, I turn to the bouncer, expecting to see a red face and veins popping out. But he just nods and steps aside, making room for us.

We ascend the narrow stairs. Only when I think we’re safe do I ask the obvious. “Thatwas the password?”

“Yeah. Cash has a penchant for the theatrical. I think you two would get along.”

“Maybe,” I say, even though I highly doubt it. From the looks of this place, Cash is a very rich man, meaning he and I probably have nothing in common.

The top floor is even better than the other levels combined with its own bar area, a lounge area, and a gaming room. On the west side is a huge veranda that overlooks the people below, their bodies writhing to the rhythm of the music. Near the bar, dancers sway their half-naked bodies around poles.

“That’s his style, too?” I laugh and shake my head.

“Those aren’t strippers, if that’s what you’re implying.” Kade’s eyes remain glued to one of the girls with her breasts almost spilling out of her corset. A double D, without a doubt. “They’re dancers. Real professionals who get jobs in music videos and tour with pop stars.”

I snort and when one of them does a split, I say, “The only thing they have in common with dancers is that they do love an audience.”

I know I sound bitter, but I can’t help myself. They’re gorgeous and sure know how to use their perfect bodies. I can’t blame Kade for gawking just as much as I can’t blame them for gawking at him.

As if on cue, a stunning blonde heads straight for us, balancing on six-inch stilettos that make her almost as tall as Kade. Her flowing hair brushes the front of her top, emphasizing the generous cleavage that can’t possibly be natural.

She is a beautiful woman with a confidence that stems from getting plenty of male attention. As she joins his side, her hand settles on Kade’s shoulder, resting there naturally as she pulls her leg up, brushing the front of his pants.

The movement looks straight out of a Robin Thicke music video.

It pisses me off for no reason.

As she struts her way to another guest, I realize Kade’s gaze is glued to her. I don’t like the look.

His expression is hooded, lips parted, and I realize he wants to fuck her.

“It didn’t take you long to get our newest star’s attention,” a voice says.

I spin around and stare up at the guy dressed in a suit. And not just any suit. Thanks to my sister’s obsession with fashion magazines, I’m pretty sure he’s wearing this season’s Armani. Judging from the gold Rolex clasped around his wrist, the two meaty bouncers guarding his left and right, and his hot but arrogant features, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a celebrity or someone important.

“How’s it going, Cash?” Kade draws his friend into a brief hug.

This is Cash?

The nightclub owner?

I’ve seen my fair share of beautiful men but have never fallen in love with one. Those two are out of this world with the kind of brashness that screams hot sex. Even though Cash screams luxury designer clothing and Kade looks kind of boyish rugged in his jeans and a shirt, both share that something special that seems to draw every woman’s look to them.

And they’re all staring—the dancers and the guests alike.

Even I find myself staring. Their faces as exquisite, their bodies chiseled to perfection as though they’ve been Photoshopped. But it’s their attitude that pulls you in, fills you with the wish to find out more about them, and makes you want to touch them.

I bet every woman in the club would want to take at least one of them home.

I can see that now. I can see it from the way they flick their hair back, push their breasts out, lick their lips, stop their conversations—and just stare.

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