Page 18 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
Beck’s expression doesn’t change, but his tone sharpens by a degree. “Typical. Keep the tip.” He angles his head a bit, as if considering something. “What did the note say?”
“Um,” I lick my dry lips, but before I can form a sentence, he speaks.
“Throw away the note.”
I don’t like his tone. I mean, there’s no way in hell I was considering calling Grant King. And I would have tossed it in the garbage as soon as I got home, but still. What the hell gives my boss the right to order me around like that?
I lift my chin, more than a little curious, and try to ignore the way my heart is beating. Fast and hard. I can only hope he doesn’t notice. “Why is that your business?”
If he’s shocked, angered, or annoyed by my response he doesn’t show it. In fact a small smile plays around his mouth. “It’s not. But King’s not a man who understands boundaries,” Beck says evenly. “You encourage him—even by accident—it gets messy. Messy isn’t good for you, or for the club.”
There’s no malice in his tone, but I know it’s not a suggestion, it’s a request. An instruction. Even though I want to tell him that I’m a grown ass woman who can take care of herself I don’t. I stay quiet. I need the job.
I nod once. “Understood.”
His mouth curves—not quite a smile, more like quiet satisfaction. “Good. Go home to your…” His eyebrow shoots up. “Boyfriend? Husband?”
I feel as if we’re circling something and more importantly, that I should know what that something is. But I suppose it’s a reasonable question.
“Bob,” I say with, looking him square in the eye.
“Bob,” he repeats, questioningly.
I know he wants more but I’m not in the mood. I turn toward the door, relief loosening my shoulders, but pause when his voice follows.
“Jules.”
I glance back. His gaze is steady, unreadable.
“This job can be a good thing for you,” he says. “Just… remember the rules. And you’ll be fine.”
Something about the way he says it feels less like reassurance and more like a warning.
“I will,” I murmur, then step out into the hall. The soft click of the door echoes behind me as I disappear into the elevator, the weight of his eyes lingering long after I leave the suite.
I step out into the night, the air crisp and damp from a drizzle that must’ve passed while he was upstairs. The street is quiet, the only sounds the hum of a distant cab and the soft hiss of tires on wet pavement.
I tuck the envelope into my bag and pull my jean jacket tighter around me, the chill biting through the fabric. My feet ache, my shoulders are tight, but at least the cash tonight makes worth it.
As I head down the block, I pull out my phone and tap Shells’ name. She picks up on the second ring.
“Tell me you survived night two,” she says by way of greeting, her voice teasing but with that undercurrent of concern she always has.
“Barely,” I say, exhaling a laugh. “VIP is… different. The people up there live in another world.”
“Feel familiar?” she asks lightly.
“Yes and no. I’m so far from where I used to be that it’s all like a blur, you know?” I pause. “Grant King was there. Again.”
Shells groans dramatically. “The football guy? The one who already hit on you last night? Such a tough gig you have.”
“He left me a tip that was way too big—and a note. With his number.”
“Okay, so… hot athlete wants to buy you things. What’s the problem again?”
I pause at the corner, glancing back at the club’s shadowed facade. “Cassidy warned me about him. And Beck… told me to throw the note away.”
Shells’ voice sharpens. “Beck? As intheBeck? Your boss?”
