Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(3)

For the better part of an hour, I don’t look up. The room is so dense the faces blur into a smudge of flesh, and all I do is pour and slide credit cards until I’m in a trance, barely aware of my actions.

The next time I check on Steph, it’s to see Richie Rich trying to persuade her to dance with him. She’s like a boxer, bobbing and weaving to get away from the dude. I can’t make out her exact words, but it’s easy to guess—I’m working, please let me get back to work, I can’t dance with you, I’m working.

She’s trying to remain courteous, but her blazing eyes tell me she’s fed up.

“Len,” I call, nodding toward the unfolding scene. “Gimme a sec.”

He nods back. We take care of our own.

I stride over, knowing I pose a menacing picture. I’m six two, haven’t shaved in days, and my hair could use a trim. Hopefully I look menacing enough to deter these bros from doing something stupid.

“Everything okay here?” I inquire when I reach the group. My tone says I know it’s not and he’d better stop or I’m going to toss him out on his ass.

“Fuck off, carnie,” one of them cracks.

The insult rolls right off me. I’m used to it.

I raise a brow. “I’m not leaving unless my colleague tells me to go.” I look pointedly at Richie Rich’s hand, which is latched onto Steph’s arm. “She didn’t sign up to get groped by rich boys.”

The guy has the sense to remove his hand. Steph uses the opportunity to clamber to my side.

“See? All good.” He sneers at me. “No distressed damsels requiring rescue.”

“Make sure to keep it that way.” I punctuate the warning with a sneer of my own. “And keep your hands to yourself.”

Steph and I are about to head off when a glass breaks.

No matter how loud a room, how full to the brim with sound-dampening bodies, a glass shatters on the floor and, in the immediate seconds after, you can hear a hummingbird’s wings flutter two counties away.

Every head turns. One of Richie Rich’s buddies, who’d dropped the glass, is blinking innocently when I meet his gaze.

“Oops,” he says.

Laughter and applause crush the momentary silence. Then conversation bubbles up again, and the collective attention of the bar returns to its previously intoxicated amusements.

“Fuck’s sake,” Steph mutters under her breath. “Go back to the bar, Coop. I got this.”

She marches off with an annoyed frown, while the douche crew dismisses us from their holy presence and proceeds to chat loudly and laugh amongst themselves.

“All good?” Lenny asks when I return.

“Not sure.”

I glance back toward the group, frowning when I notice their leader is no longer with them. Where the hell did he go?

“No,” I say slowly. “I don’t think it’s good. Give me another sec.”

Once again, I leave Lenny to man the battle stations alone while I duck out from behind the bar to find Steph. I head toward the back, figuring she went for a broom to sweep up the glass.

That’s when I hear, “Get off me!”

I throw myself around the corner, my jaw tightening when I spot Richie Rich’s pastel polo. He has Steph cornered at the end of the short, narrow hall where the supply closet is located. When she tries to dip around him, he steps in her way, grabbing her wrist. His other hand slides downward and attempts to cup her ass.

Nah, screw this.

I charge forward and yank him by his collar. A second later, I lay his ass flat out on the sticky floor.

“Get out,” I growl.

“Cooper.” Steph grabs me, even as gratitude shines in her eyes. I know she appreciates the save.

I shake her off, because enough is enough. “Get up and leave,” I tell the startled punk.

He’s yelling out angry curses as he climbs to his feet.

Because the restrooms are right around the corner about ten feet away, it doesn’t take long for his shouts of outrage to draw an audience. A group of screeching sorority sisters hurry over, followed by other curious bystanders.

Suddenly more voices fill the corridor.

“Pres! Bro, you alright?”

Two of his friends break through the crowd. They puff up their chests beside him, flanking their champion because if they get chased out of here in front of all these people, it’s going to be a long year of drinking alone at home.

“The hell’s your problem, man?” the groper spits out, glaring daggers at me.

“No problem anymore,” I reply, crossing my arms. “Just taking out the trash.”

“You smell that, Preston?” his buddy says to Richie Rich with a goading grin. “Something sure stinks in here.”

“Was that a dumpster outside or your trailer?” the other mocks.

“Please, take two steps closer and say that again,” I encourage them because, whatever, I’m bored and these dudes’ faces are begging to get smashed.

I assess my chances. It’s three on one, and they aren’t scrawny—each of them around six feet tall, about my size. They could be half a water polo team sponsored by Brooks Brothers. But me, I actually work for a living, and these muscles aren’t for show. So I like my odds.

“Coop, stop.” Steph pushes me to the side to stand between us. “Forget it. I got this now. Go back to the bar.”