Page 114 of The Contract

He winks.

I gag.

This. Right here. This is exactly why guys like him push me to thermonuclear levels of irritation.

The place requires a membership, yet he claims he’s never been. Tonight’s VIP-only, yet he can magically waltz us right in.

So which is it, Decker? Never been here, or a member? VIP, or just full of shit?

But before I can open my mouth and unleash my outside voice, two women dressed to kill slink right in front of us.

Their satin, braless tops gleam under the streetlights, baiting every hungry gaze on the block.

Especially Decker’s. Shocker.

One of them tilts her head, lips curving into a sultry, shy-but-definitely-not smile. “We’re dancers,” she purrs, voice dripping honey—a faux apology for cutting the line.

Decker diligently frisks them for concealed weapons. With his eyes.

“See you inside,” he murmurs, blatantly eye-fucking them from head to ass as they glide past.

The enormous bouncer doesn’t even blink. He calmly checks their names and faces against a photo roster, then lifts the velvet rope and lets them through.

And Decker—fucking Decker—has the audacity to skim his hand along one dancer’s bare back as she sashays by.

My eyeballs nearly pop straight out of my skull.

I yank Mila aside, my voice low and lethally sharp. “You are the queen of interrogation. So why, for the love of God, aren’t you crawling straight up this guy’s ass and calling his lies bullshit?”

She leans in, whispering urgently, “First of all—eww. And second, we, queens of the circus monkeys, deserve an amazing night out. He’s our golden ticket.” Her eyes widen dramatically, hands clasped beneath her chin. “Please?”

My glare begins to soften. Just a fraction.

My gaze catches on a scar etched into Decker’s hand—deep, jagged, painfully intricate. I lean in slightly, curious, because it almost looks deliberate, like a design, when?—

He squeezes Mila’s ass.

My irritation flares like herpes at a Vegas bachelor party.

I’m about to unleash holy hell on him when?—

“You’re not on the list, sir,” the bouncer says flatly, his massive six-foot-nine frame looming ominously above us.

Decker flashes his black card.

Of course he fucking does.

King Kong remains thoroughly unimpressed. He shifts his tone from barely polite to absolutely zero-fucks-given. “I don’t need your card, sir. I need your invitation.”

“Right.” Decker pulls out his phone, swipes to something, then flashes the screen at the bouncer.

And now I’m curious—what could possibly be on that screen?

Oh, right. Probably the membership card belonging to Mr. Innocent Church-Boy who’s supposedly never stepped foot inside this place.

He also volunteers with the Chicago fire department, bottle-feeds orphaned puppies, and is a card-carrying ‘V’, saving himself for “the one.”

The bouncer barely glances at Decker’s phone before his entire demeanor flips.

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