Page 15 of Hitch
“I’m done waiting,” he hisses.
I open my mouth, but Duane stands from the bench so slowly, it’s almost as the world is adjusting to him. The club falls to silence. The DJ even turns the music down as every customer and stripper gapes in our direction, waiting to see what Duane will do.
“This has nothing to do with you,” the Mortician says to Duane.
A coldness more vicious than a glacier pulses through Duane’s demeanor as he locks his thumbs into his belt loops.
Duane almost choked me out in the open, and I’ve got the feeling he’s going to hurt the Mortician more than that.
“It’s not a big deal,” I whisper to Duane. “He’s just messing around. He always spanks me. It’s a joke.”
“Not a joke I’ll accept,” he says. He looms over the Mortician. “Apologize,” Duane demands. The Mortician quirks his brows together.
“I’m not doing that,” the Mortician says plainly.
My heart clammers in my throat, drumming through each vein. I have to stop this before it gets out of hand.
“It’s fine,” I say, touching Duane’s arm to calm him down. “Really—”
“No, it’s not,” Duane says. “I don’t tolerate disrespect. And neither should you.” He wrenches back to the Mortician. “Apologize to the woman.”
“She owes me,” the Mortician snaps. He drunkenly pushes Duane, but Duane immediately pulls the Mortician’s arm behind his back, rendering him defenseless. The Mortician cries, falling to his knees.
“Okay. Shit,” the Mortician shouts. “I’m sorry, Secret. I’m sorry for spanking your ass.”
“Apologize for disrespecting her,” Duane snarls.
“I’m sorry for disrespecting you!”
Duane shoves the Mortician to the ground, and the Mortician wails like a wounded dog. Eventually, the Mortician finds his feet. His eyes are wild with panic, roving over everyone on the main floor.
“That fucker hit me!” he shouts.
Todd emerges from his office. “We saw who pushed who first. Now get the fuck out.”
The Mortician stumbles, a trail of curses exploding behind him. My head pounds.
Men do stuff like that all the time at the strip club. If we don’t want their money, we throw them out. We can take care of ourselves.
So why did Duane defend me like that?
Duane pours over me, his dark blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction. Like he knows how deeply he’s gotten to me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest to hide my shaking limbs. “I don’t need anyone to protect me.”
Duane’s gaze burns icy holes into my skull, sending pangs of anticipation across my brain until it’s dripping between my legs.
It’s a lie, isn’t it? Idoneed someone to protect me.
From him.
“I don’t do anything I don’t want,” he drawls, his southern accent thick with his words. “It’s best that you learn that before you find yourself in real trouble.”
He bows his head, then exits, as if to follow the Mortician out. For a split second, I imagine the possibility that Duane might kill the Mortician too. For disrespecting me.
But that would be crazy. Why would Duane kill someone for me?
Right as Duane disappears, the DJ calls me to the stage. I force those thoughts away. I can only control my own actions right now.
