Page 116 of The Contract

Apparently, all that humility he practiced on Decker has vanished—evaporated faster than yesterday’s viral TikTok.

“Sure, you are,” he says, like he’s heard it a million times tonight.

Gritting my teeth, I yank out my phone. “I’ll just call them.”

Which I would—if it would actually turn on.

Ugh.

A wave of groans and muttered curses rises behind me, pressing into my spine like the muzzle of a loaded gun.

When the only thing standing between Chicago’s most exclusive sin-fest and an angry mob who’ve waited hours for their depravity fix is me, my odds of survival plummet straight to fuck-all.

With a sheepish sigh, I shove my paperweight of a phone back into my purse, exhale slowly, and plaster on a honey-dripping smile.

Then I bat my eyelashes for all they’re fucking worth.

“I swear, I’m with them,” I coo, charm dialed up to eleven.

The bouncer’s smirk spreads slow and deliberate. “You are?”

“Yup. Just ask Decker Callihan.”

His smirk deepens. He leans in, thumb and finger pinched tight, voice a cruel whisper. “Ooh, so close. But that’s not his name.”

Shit.

“Keegan. I meant Keegan.”

“You mean Keenan?”

Oh, goddamnit.

“You’re gonna need to move it along.” He waves me off.

I stay rooted to the spot.

Not out of bravery, but because Mila’s trapped inside with Creepy McCreeper, and I will not leave her.

Mistaking my fear of surviving the night for pure stubbornness, his voice dips lower. Quiet. Dangerous. “Don’t make me get rough with you, sweetheart.”

Rough with me? And…Sweetheart?

Is he fucking kidding me?

As if it’s not bad enough having Mount Kilimanjaro’s homicidal cousin looming over me, ready to erupt—now he’s patronizing me too?

Officially the second asshole tonight to call me sweetheart.

Somehow, I doubt losing my shit on him like a chihuahua snapping at a linebacker’s ankle will do much good.

Fine. If at first you don’t succeed…

I switch tactics, snatching the first excuse that crashes through my panicked brain.

“I’m a dancer,” I blurt out.

“A dancer?”

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