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had taken half in the divorce and now spent most of her time doing Pilates or shopping on Fifth Avenue. I saw her on occasion when I was on the other coast. She was one of a handful I had fucked more than once, but only because her idea of commitment was as nonexistent as my own. There was nothing wrong with Madison from the perspective of a quick fuck, but it did require dealing with a noxious sense of entitlement that permeated her entire being. In other words: she was impossible to be around for any longer than a quick fuck.
    Maybe I was truly getting old, but I was beginning to feel a yawning, cavernous emptiness around Madison and those like her. No question—I was a rich asshole. But at least I didn’t attend charity galas just to be seen, only to spit on anyone who might actually need charity themselves.
    I watched Cassia Flynn for the rest of her shift. Such as strange girl. The only times she let her guard down coincided with her brief interactions with the bartender and the enormous bouncer. She managed to spill an order—cheap well drinks that would probably come out of her tips—even though she looked like she was walking on eggshells with every step she took. When she bent down to clean up the fallen drinks, her short plaid skirt rose up enough to expose the slightest hint of her creamy, round ass.
    It was like a lightning bolt straight to my dick. The splash of cold water came when I saw the middle-aged deviant watching her with the same avid interest, both his hands under the table. I watched her serve a few more rounds. Then she ducked behind the bar and said something to the bartender before disappearing into the employee area.
    She didn’t return, and when the creep a few tables up from me stood and started walking for the exit, I followed. Before I had made it more than a few steps, the main-stage bottle-blonde with the orange tan stepped in front of me.
    “You lookin’ for me?” she purred, clutching onto my arm with bubble-gum colored talons. On another night, I probably would have been. But not tonight. “Buy me a drink? I get off at two.”
    Up close, her penciled eyebrows were distracting at best, nauseating at worst.
    “Maybe another time,” I smiled as I disengaged her arm from mine.
    I walked faster as I approached the exit. Stepping outside, I pulled up the hood on my sweatshirt. Last night I had been in a suit after a long week of travel. Tonight, I looked like a college jackass in a hoodie and jeans.
    Scanning the parking lot, I cracked my knuckles. If I was wrong, then Cass Flynn was sitting in the employee locker room on her break, but if I was right … then shit was about to go sideways fast.
    I made a left and walked quickly to my car, where I took the Luger from the glove box. By the time I had turned the corner to the back of the club, the prick had one hand around her throat and the other over her mouth as he dragged the girl, her legs kicking uselessly behind her, toward a shitty Pontiac.
    I didn’t bother wasting time—or risking her life—by trying to either reason with this douchebag or take a shot at him in the dark. I walked up very quietly on his blindside and knocked him cold with the butt of the gun. He dropped like a stone. I put the gun in my waistband and caught her as she tripped. Gasping and crying, she stared down at the unconscious dirtbag at her feet.
    “Let’s go,” I said as I began pulling her toward the car.
    I took out my phone and snapped a picture of the scumbag’s car.
    “ Go ?” she hiccupped.
    “Do you want to wait around here for him to wake up?”
    Her eyes widened.
    “Oh god. Bob’s so going to fire me.”
    “That guy just tried hauling you off to his killing shed, and that’s what you’re worried about?”
    Jesus. This girl. When the shithead on the ground groaned, she jumped.
    “No arguing,” I snapped.
    I grabbed her around the waist and put her over my shoulder, acutely aware that I was doing the same as the shithead who had