Rather than answering, I distract myself by taking a lay of the land. This is the type of dimly lit establishment my father would loathe. I find myself appreciating the swanky lounge atmosphere from that fact alone. The air is saturated with an upscale quality, like it costs a small fortune to even consider stepping inside. A long inhale grants me a whiff of supple leather, the char on an expertly grilled steak, and the tang from a ripe ego. That last tendril might be all me.
This booze palace could almost be misconstrued as seedy with its shadowy booths and dark alcoves. The clientele appears to be mostly male, which only feeds the gentleman’s club reputation. Jordan’s suggestions from earlier make a screeching reappearance as I take another slow look around.
“Why’d you bring me to this place?”
His gaze follows the trek of mine. “What’s wrong with The Lair? Figured a posh dude like yourself would appreciate the bold concept.”
“That’s one way to describe including exotic dancers and happy endings on their menu.” This isn’t my first rodeo. The night never ends with a mere striptease.
Jordan chokes on his drink, beer dribbling from his chin. “The fuck?”
Maybe I’m reading the situation wrong. I flick a glance to the framed artwork displayed on a nearby wall. The candid photographs seem innocent enough. “I wasn’t sure what sort of entertaining company you were planning to deliver.”
His booming cackle breaks the silence ballooning across the room. “And you think prostitutes would be a wise choice? I said this was my treat, but I’m not paying to get you laid. Nice try, Winters.”
The man sitting beside him snorts into his crystal tumbler. Brance Stone, Jordan’s buddy from work, is parked on a stool in the corner. The thunderous expression hasn’t left his face since he sat down. “I wouldn’t risk my marriage on this joint if that were the case. You can trust me more than Hughes. His wife would probably like the thrill.”
A grunt of my own tickles the back of my throat. Whipped much?
His friend is most likely bent out of shape due to the platinum band strangling his ring finger. Lord knows marriage—when obtained by standard vows—is a soul thief. Just one more reason I’ll never allow myself to fall victim to such a charade. Witnessing the dumpster fire that was my parents’ union is enough to deter me indefinitely, even if the arrangement is in my best financial interest.
Fiona Winters—Mother Dearest—is straddling her fifties like the good trophy wife she was groomed to be. Since my father’s passing, she’s been using the mourning widower status to her advantage. Finding comfort in her hired help was more natural than a trip to the plastic surgeon. Last month was the pool boy, but I believe she’s recently taken an interest in her tennis instructor. Not that I blame her. She was shackled to my father—thirty years her senior—at the ripe age of twenty-five. I should probably call her soon. But checking in on Mom of the Year can wait.
Jordan swivels toward Brance, the movement effective in dragging me away from my mental detour. “This doesn’t involve you, Stone.”
He couldn’t look more bored if I paid him. “The fuck it doesn’t. You called a mandatory happy hour.”
“Sure did, and I appreciate your participation. This guy,” he hitches a thumb at me, “needs a lesson in taking a load off.”
“I don’t need shit from either of you,” I retort.
Jordan rolls his eyes. “Just pretend to enjoy our company until the whiskey kicks in.”
I sip from my glass, but not because he told me to. “I’m not sure why I let you talk me into this.”
“Because you’re lonely,” he provides.
“That’s not a word in my vocabulary.”
“Don’t be such a surly bastard. You need to escape your gloomy cave every now and then.”
“You’re beginning to sound more scratched than a broken record.” Real mature, I know. This little outing is doing wonders for improving my mood.
Brance mutters something under his breath that makes Jordan chuckle. “I’m well aware it sounds familiar.” Then his gaze returns to me. “What did I tell you?”
“I see no resemblance,” I grumble. Other than his pressed suit, there are no traits I want to have in common with him.
Brance is staring at me with such blatant scrutiny that I almost feel violated. Invasively. “What’s got your panties in a knot?”
A comment of that dickish variety would usually roll off my back with a humorless chuckle. Not today, after Vannah fucking Simons had her way with me. And there I go again, picking at the festering wound until it oozes.
It’s been nearly a decade since I’ve allowed a woman to have such a visceral hold on me. Not that Vannah has the strength to expand on this minor slip. I won’t allow my mind to stray to such unsavory topics after deciding how to proceed. Compartmentalizing is a skill I’m fluent in. I’ll bury this incident with the other useless crap that manages to cling a little too long. There’s much to resent on the surface where flaws can be exposed and used against me. I wouldn’t waste a penny betting against the odds that Vannah plans to do precisely as predicted with her newfound information.
Seeing the she-devil again can be easily avoided. All it takes is a simple phone call, or severing contact with her firm through an email. But I refuse to run scared. She can’t chase me off with the mention of a haunting memory. Fuck her for trying, whether she meant to or not.
In any case, Brance doesn’t know me from Adam. Who’s he to judge my sour attitude? I shift on my stool, not bothering to mask a sneer. “Not sure what you mean.”
He’s ready and waiting for my rebuttal, of course. “You can’t bullshit a lawyer, especially one who specializes in divorce.”
“She’s not worth mentioning. Just a thorn in my side.” For the love of anything holy, I need to move the fuck on.
“A woman?” His chuckle is pitch black, even to my standards. “You’re fucked, man.”
Another mouthful of whiskey goes down the hatch. I return my glass onto the bar with a smooth motion that contradicts the fury bubbling inside me. “I have it all under control.”
Even with Jordan smashed between us, his scoff slaps me in the face. “I guarantee you don’t.”
“What the hell do you know of it?”
He points at himself. “You’re looking at a man who survived the experience.”
“Do you want a medal?”
The first sign of emotion ticks at his lips. “Give it to my wife. She’s the real winner.”
Jordan releases a hoot. “I’m gonna tell her you said that.”
Brance nods at his friend. “Please do. Her forms of punishment are more like my rewards.”
Bile churns in my gut, the bitter taste rising up my throat. I gag while attempting to swallow the putrid image he paints. “I didn’t order rancid cheese with my booze. Keep the sweet sentiments to yourself.”
Jordan nudges me with a laugh. “You have no idea, Winters.”
I scrub over my mouth, making sure there are no actual traces of vomit. “That was more than enough to turn me celibate.”
His shaking head denies my claims. “Nah, you’ve got it all wrong. Getting hitched is a blessing. Finding your optimal match makes you a better man.”