Streetlights shimmer across the damp pavement outside of Penthouse, and fog escapes with my breaths as salsa music pumps out of the entrance behind me. For a Tuesday night, there’s a line wrapped around the building, and the women look like disco balls in their sparkly dresses, ready to slay the dancefloor with their salsa moves. 

Jimmy is working the door with me. He’s not as tall or built as me, but if some asshole attempted to sneak past the velvet ropes, Jimmy has the reflexes of a ninja. On several occasions, I’ve witnessed him body slam a few creepos into the ground for getting pervy with the ladies in line.

Number one rule: no touching the women without consent. It’s the quickest way to get banned from the club.

With the new tablet in hand, I’m checking names off the VIP list when I spot Jackson dressed like a stud in black slacks, a navy blue button-down shirt with the sleeves cuffed to his elbows, and his famous black ostrich skin shoes. If I didn’t know him, I’d say he looks like a wealthy social media influencer, with Alma and Angie draped on his arms like candy. 

This is the first time I’ve seen Alma in anything revealing, and I’m glad she’s showing off her legs because poetry should be written about them as they peek-a-boo from the slit in her leather mini-dress. Jackson is a lucky fella. No wonder Gino refused to sign divorce papers. Yet, despite how gorgeous she looks with her sleek black hair swept across one bronze shoulder, I can’t take my eyes off Angie. 

Blush pink was made for her, as a sequence dress swathes her curves. It’s strapless, with a sweetheart neckline showing off some cleavage. However, it’s not excessive, like some of the deep necklines on the women in line. No, Angie looks classy, with just the right amount of skin showing. 

Blowing out a breath, I rub the back of my head and think about Mindy.

Mindy, Mindy, Mindy. 

My sweet Mindy.

“Are these your friends?” Jimmy nods in their direction.

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’ll look the other way while you let them pass,” Jimmy says, then pretends to occupy himself with the tablet in his hands. 

“My man!” Jackson steps forward, and we slap hands, then bump knuckles. 

“Alma.” I nod. “You look lovely.”

“I know.” She does a hair toss with one hand on her hip. 

“Angie...” I flash a glance her way, then back to Jackson and Alma. “Have fun in there.”

Stepping aside, I part the velvet rope, allowing them to pass, and I wish I could follow, but I’ll have to figure out an excuse to see them later. So I focus on crossing out names on the VIP list, checking IDs, letting some people in, and sending others away when their names don't appear on the roster. Some even try slipping money into my pocket, thinking I’ll hustle a reserved area for them or comp their drinks, but they're dead wrong. I'm not their pal.

I’ll never understand the audacity of waving money in someone’s face, thinking they’ll bend to your will. It reminds me of the night Richie’s arrogant ass pulled three hundred dollars out of his wallet and told me to buy a clue because I didn’t know who the fuck he was. 

So I take pleasure in sending assholes like that to the back of the line, and when they push back, I don’t let them in at all. Thankfully, Jude always backs me up when a complaint is made.

After an hour of holding the line, I bump Jimmy’s elbow. “Mind if I take a little break?”

“Nah, man. Things are chill right now,” he says and switches spots with me. “I’ve got the line. You go do your thing.”

“Cool. You’re the best!” I toss him a peace sign and disappear into the dark corridor.

Salsa music pulses with trumpets and percussions sizzling the air as I make my way, and when I enter the lobby, I'm whipped with a wave of heat. For a Tuesday night, the place is packed with every inch of space on the dancefloor covered in swaying bodies. Cocktail waitresses squeeze past guests with trays of mini taquitos held high above their heads. Their faces are painted like sugar skulls, making it hard to tell them apart, and each of them has a rose tucked behind their ears to match the red lipstick on their lips. 

And I must admit, tonight's theme turned out to be badass.

Somehow, through the thicket of people, I spot Jackson twirling Alma, her dark hair whipping with each spin. There’s a gigantic smile stretched across her face, but not as big as the glistening smile that catches my eye a few feet away. A guy has Angie pressed against him as they sway to the beat while laser lights zig-zag across them, and I'm suddenly gripping the staircase railing. So I begin walking down to find out who this guy is because I don’t recognize him, and he's dancing with my girl.

Fuck.

No.

Not my girl.

Yet I don't turn back.

By the time I shove my way across the dancefloor, sweat drips down my face as if someone splashed their drink on me. It’s a damn sauna in here. How can anyone dance comfortably with swamp-ass? 

“Can I cut in?” I tap the guy’s shoulder, and when he spins Angie to get a look at me, I have to stop myself from snorting.

The guy looks like a weathered version of Johnny Depp, which says a lot, and he’s wearing eyeliner with his shirt unbuttoned down to the navel. It shows off his hairy chest draped in a cheesy gold chain. Puke. Pirates of the Caribbean called—they want their stunt double back. Angie could do so much better.

“Sure, after this song,” he says, then spins Angie away from me. 

Oh, hell no.

I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “No. I’m taking her now.”

“Wait your turn!” He smacks my hand away, but to my surprise, Angie unravels herself from his arms.

“No, we’re done,” she says.

“What?” 

“We’re done,” she repeats to him. “It was fun dancing with you, though.”

The Johnny Depp wannabe’s mouth gapes open, his brows furrowed as he looks from me to her. “Bitch.”

But he doesn’t get to say another word. I kick his legs out from under him and slam him to the hardwood floor. The crowd gives us space as I crouch over him and point my finger in his face.

“Apologize to the lady.”

“Fuck you,” he attempts to get up, but I push him back down and grab a fistful of his collar.

“Apologize, or I will have you banned. Understand, Captain Sparrow?”

“Is there a problem, Miguel?” Jude, the head of security, says, and when I look up, he’s standing beside Angie.

“Yeah.” I get to my feet. “This asshole called my friend a bitch, and we don’t speak to women like that in this club.”

“No, we sure don’t.” Jude folds his arms. “I’ve got this from here, Miguel.”

Pressing my hand against the small of Angie’s back, I guide her towards the bar. Meanwhile, her gaze burns the side of my head as we weave through the crowd. But I don’t acknowledge it, and it isn’t until we exit the perimeter of the dancefloor that she says something.

“So, we’re friends now?”

“Huh?” 

“You told your coworker I’m your friend,” Angie explains. “And here I thought you despised me.”

“Why would I hate you?” 

“Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been nothing but an asshole to me since the last time we were here.” Angie arches a brow.

We edge up to the side of the bar, where I reach over to swipe two tumblers and the soda gun. “Yeah, I guess I have been a dick.”

Angie gasps. “So you admit it!” 

“When I’m under stress, I get snippy.” I hand her the water. “Truce?”

“Maybe.” She takes it from me and shrugs.

“Maybe?”

Raising her chin with arms folded, she stares me down despite how much shorter she is than me. “Get me a shot of something expensive, and I’ll consider it.” 

“Done.”

Turning to Gerard, the head bartender, I shout, “Hey, my friend here wants the most expensive shot on the shelf.”

“A shot?” Gerard laughs, shaking up a drink. “Nah, what you want is the most delicious. I’ve got something for you that will taste like sex wrapped in candy.”

A smile glimmers in Angie’s eyes as she looks at Gerard. “Sex wrapped in candy, huh?” 

“Yes, ma’am. Prepare to get your panties wet!” Gerard winks then steps away to whip up whatever magic he has planned for Angie.

“This is going to be fun.” She grins and pulls her curls into a high ponytail with little ringlets framing her face. 

“You look beautiful,” I say.

 “Wow. First, you defend my honor, then call me your friend, and now a compliment. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to get me naked, Miguel.” 

“No,” I chuckle. Although, that pink dress would look great on my bedroom floor.

Fuck.

Mindy, Mindy, Mindy.

“I'm just stating the obvious," I continue. "You look pretty. Pink is your color.” 

"You being nice to me is weird."

"Hey, it's weird for me too, but the last time we were here, I said some awful things. You didn't deserve it, and I'm sorry for hurting you."

"Handsome, you're not important enough to hurt me," Angie scoffs, but I'm calling bullshit.

"I saw you wiping away tears as I drove away."

"Oh, please." She rolls her eyes. "I had something on my cheek."

Stepping closer, I place my palms on the bar top, caging her in, which forces her to tip her head back to look at me. So I bring my face so close to hers that I can feel her breath. "Drop the tough act, Angie. You're a beautiful woman who deserves love and someone who will protect you instead of hurt you. So, I apologize for the nasty things I said. Especially about your scars."

"I..."

But I press my finger to her lips, cutting her off. "I'm sorry for treating you like shit, and from now on, I'm going to be kinder to you."

As the lights flash to the beat of the salsa band, they flicker across Angie's face, exposing the conflicting emotions knitting her brows. I brush away the sweat freckling her bare shoulder, and the smoothness of her skin sends electricity up my fingers. Our gazes meet with a wave of flutters zipping through my chest and into my stomach. Maybe it’s the fact Angie’s history has me seeing her in a different light, but as we stand here, she’s doing all sorts of things to me that I didn’t expect to feel tonight.

But then Angie breaks eye contact, stealing this moment from me as a blast of air conditioning sweeps between us. The warm exchange turns cold as she turns away and faces the bar to rest her elbows on the glossy wooden surface. 

"So, where's Mindy tonight?" she asks.

"At home. She had a long day of work."

"Ah, yes, with the Sisters. The enemy of my enemy is my friend..."

Leaning an elbow against the bar, I study her. "Is Mindy your enemy in this scenario?"

"Mindy means nothing to me. Fucking you was fun, but I can always find another dick. Evan is kind of hot." She shrugs.

"Evan?" I laugh.

"Yeah, Evan." She looks at me, and the flashing lights capture her sassy grin. "I've got a weakness for blue eyes, and he's nice."

I'm not one to pound my chest like some gorilla claiming territory, but this Evan talk has me clenching every muscle in my body, including my ass cheeks. "I doubt Evan can make you come like I can."

"Then I guess I'll just have to find out." Angie shrugs.

"Sure, go ahead. Go find out. But Evan doesn't look like the kind of guy who can make you squirt."

Angie narrows her eyes and taps her chin. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous."

"Never."

"Listen, Handsome. You don't get to sleep with Mindy and then get jealous when I talk about wanting to bang Evan. Make up your mind about what you want, and if it's Mindy, then leave me the fuck alone."

Turning away, she continues to watch Gerard fix her drink. The bar is jam-packed, so he's got hers going while mixing other orders. Everyone thinks he’s hot with his Henry Golding doppelganger looks, so I bet Angie is salivating at his deep Southeast Asian tan and dark hair like all the other women trying to get his attention.

If only she would stare at me that way again.

Fuck.

What am I saying?

Mindy, Mindy, Mindy. I pinch the bridge of my nose.

And Angie is fucking right. I can't claim I'm all in with Mindy, but then be here, admiring the curve of Angie's tits in her dress or wishing she would look at me the way she's smiling at Gerard.

But my mantra is cut short when Angie inhales a sharp gasp that cuts through the salsa music like a spear.

“What’s wrong?” I place my hand on her lower back.

“I gotta go.”

“Why?”

“I just gotta go!” she pushes past me, and for being so short, she makes impressively large strides to get away.

“Angie, wait!” I hurry after her, and she halts, but not because I asked her to.

Instead, she’s frozen, staring up at some forty-something-year-old dude with ash blond, slicked-back hair, and hazel eyes as piercing as supernovas. He stares her down, a shit-eating smirk across his thin mouth. 

“Angie,” he says.

But she doesn’t respond. Rather, she steps back, bumping into my chest. So, I place my hands on her shoulders and stare him down.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I'm Angie's ex-husband. Who the fuck are you?”

Well, hot damn. It looks like I’m beating some ass tonight.