The Million Dollar Virgin

Chapter Two - Stevie

Stevie darted in between the chairs and table of the main bar area, easily dodging Pax's sad attempt to catch her. The man was big and he was strong. He was used to chasing down unruly drunks. But two things he definitely wasn't? Lithe. And a waitress at Spangles. Stevie was accustomed to dodging those same unruly drunks, and a hundred other hands-y customers who didn't think twice about trying to cop a feel. And she knew the layout of the club better than she knew her own shitty apartment.

Left.

Right.

Right again.

Slide out a chair, and...boom. She was behind the bar with a paring knife in her grip. Stevie lifted it threateningly.

"How big are your nuts, Pax?" she asked. "Bigger, or small than the limes I usually cut with these?"

It wasn't until the words were out of her mouth that she realized they weren't alone. Like, really weren't alone.

Five of the regular dancers stood on the main stage in varying states of dress. Or undress, if Stevie was being accurate.

Lee's big, familiar form dominated a space in the corner booth of the roped off VIP section. His mouth hung open, a pen poised over stack of paperwork that he had spread out in front of him.

In front of the booth stood two other men. Who had – judging by their dark glasses, stiff suits, and ear pierces – clearly taken their fashion advice from Bodyguards Are Us.

But it was the fourth man who commanded Stevie's attention. He sat at the table, too, straddling a chair and holding an unlit cigarette between his lips. He was dressed in artfully ripped jeans, a classic rock T-shirt, and unlaced boots.

Echo. Fucking. Hardman.

A rock star with a rock star name. And a rock star reputation. Who lifted the sunglasses and fixed Stevie with a rock star stare.

"Crap." It came out as a croak, and seemed to be a call to action.

The bodyguards – 'cause, yeah, they had to be real ones, 'cause yeah, Echo fucking Hardman – leaped toward her. In some kind of pre-planned, two-man attack, one dove at her knees, knocking her to the sticky floor. The other bent down, squeezed her wrist, and snatched away the teeny, tiny, probably-dull-anyway knife.

For a second, Stevie tried to get it back. It proved to be impossible. They were far too slick. Far too practiced. Clearly, the not-so dynamic duo had done this before. Probably with a rabid, teenaged Echo Hardman fan. Which Stevie was most definitely not. But apparently they didn't care.

The first took the knife from the second, while the second flipped her to her stomach, secured her hands and ankles with a zip-tie that came out of nowhere, then yanked her to her feet.

And – of course – that was the moment the silver-eyed guy from outside chose to make his entrance.

"You can put her down," he said, his voice as cool and dry as ever.

The bodyguards obeyed.

Seriously?

Stevie shot Snug Pants a furious look. What the hell gave him all that power anyway? His stupid pants?

But he seemed indifferent to her vicious glare. "You gonna say thank you and walk out of here?"

"I would," she snapped back, "But my boss owes me money and my feet are tied together."