𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋! | harry styles

𝐕𝐈

"Thanks," he says quietly as I lead him back out to the waiting room.

"My pleasure," I reply with a wink. "Good luck next week."

He's barely sitting before one of his friend stands, his hand in the air like a school kid. "Me next!"

Unfortunately, he's not quite the gentleman his friend is. When I push my ass back into his lap, his hands appear on my thighs.

"Watch your hands, handsome," I say, tucking them by his side again.

He apologizes, and I continue.

He watches with rapt fascination as I straddle his lap and press his head between my breasts. It's not my favorite thing to do, but it tends to keep his kind placated for a while. Of course, this isn't enough, and as soon as his head pops up again he grabs a handful of my ass. I stop dancing and grab his hands with mine. His eyes widen.

"Last chance, buddy," I warn, sounding a whole lot more direct than I did a moment ago. "Keep your hands to yourself, or there'll be trouble."

He nods vigorously. "Okay, sorry. Sorry."

He's got about five minutes left, but he's really pushed his luck, so I slide right off his lap and continue the dance in front of him, just out of reach. As he said he would, he keeps his word and his hands to himself.

Until he doesn't.

Figuring he can get one grab in before I leave the room, he attaches a sweaty hand to my right breast.

"Hey!" I yell, slapping it away. "Mike!" The curtain is whipped aside in half a second, and Mikey-a six-foot, two hundred-pound bouncer-steps in.

"Hands," I say, pointing at the guy, who's suddenly not so cocky when faced with a pair of fists the size of dinner plates.

Without so much as a word, Mikey rips the guy out of his seat by the back of his shirt. He stumbles and pleads, but it falls on deaf ears. "You were told not to touch," is all Mikey says as he drags him through the waiting room. He points a meaty finger at the bunch of guys, including the shocked groom.

"All of you," he booms. "Out."

I don't need to follow them to know what happens. I've seen Mikey toss men a good eight feet out the side door and onto the bitumen.

"You good?" he asks when he returns.

"I'm fine," I say, patting him on the bicep that's the size of my head. "Thanks."

You'd think guys like that would rattle me, and at first they did. I'd spend the rest of the night jittery and upset, scared that every guy after that would be the same. But now, after being at Blush for almost six months, I've seen it all. It's become part of the job, par for the course. Do I like it? No. But it happens. The alcohol we so readily ply them with turns some guys into heroes, into cavemen, or just into idiots. The fact of the matter is, no matter how big they think they are, or how tough they think they are, there's always someone bigger and tougher on the other side of the curtain just waiting for the opportunity to beat a little sense back into them.

The rest of the night is uneventful. I make decent tips, and Nick is actually happy, which means that the girls are happy, which means that everyone is happy.

Shut-out rolls around quickly, and even though I should know better, as I'm packing up I can't help but wonder if there will be a car waiting for me tonight.

The ride home the night before had been quiet except for the purr of the engine and the low hum of the radio.

"You didn't have to pick me up," I'd said, smiling at him in the grey light of early morning.