Twisted Games (Twisted, #2)(6)

Now here I was, stuck with a charge who barely tolerated me, and vice versa.

You’re a goddamned idiot, Larsen.

But as infuriating as I found Bridget, I had to admit, I liked seeing her the way she was tonight. Big smile, glowing face, eyes sparkling with laughter and mischief. None of the loneliness I’d spotted in the headshot Christian gave me.

She threw her hands in the air and swayed her hips to the music, and my gaze lingered on the bare expanse of her long, smooth legs before I tore it away, my jaw tightening.

I’d guarded plenty of beautiful women before, but when I saw Bridget in person for the first time, I’d reacted in a way I never had for my previous clients. Blood heating, cock hardening, hands itching to find out how her golden hair would feel wrapped around my fist. It’d been visceral, unexpected, and almost enough to make me walk away from the job before I started, because lusting after a client could only end in disaster.

But my pride won out, and I stayed. I just hoped I wouldn’t regret it.

Jules and Stella said something to Bridget, who nodded before they left for what I presumed was the bathroom. They’d been gone for only two minutes when a frat boy-looking type in a pink polo shirt beelined toward Bridget with a determined expression.

My shoulders tensed.

I rose from my seat right as Frat Boy reached Bridget and whispered something in her ear. She shook her head, but he didn’t leave.

Something dark unfurled in my stomach. If there was one thing I hated, it was men who couldn’t take a fucking hint.

Frat Boy reached for Bridget. She pulled her arm away before he could make contact and said something else, her expression sharper this time. His face twisted into an ugly scowl. He reached for her again, but before he could touch her, I stepped in between them, cutting him off.

“Is there a problem?” I stared down at him.

Frat Boy oozed the entitlement of someone who wasn’t used to hearing no thanks to Daddy’s money, and he was either too stupid or too arrogant to realize I was two seconds away from rearranging his face so thoroughly a plastic surgeon wouldn’t be able to fix it.

“No problem. I was just asking her to dance.” Frat Boy eyed me like he was thinking of taking me on.

Definitely stupid.

“I don’t want to dance.” Bridget stepped around me and stared Frat Boy down herself. “I already told you twice. Don’t make me tell you a third time. You won’t like what’ll happen.”

There were times when I could forget Bridget was a princess, like when she was singing off-key in the shower—she thought I couldn’t hear her, but I could—or pulling an all-night study session at the kitchen table.

Now was not one of those times. Regal iciness radiated from her every pore, and a small, impressed smirk touched my mouth before I squashed it.

Frat Boy’s ugly scowl remained, but he was outnumbered, and he knew it. He shuffled off, muttering “Stupid cunt” under his breath as he did so.

Judging by the way Bridget’s cheeks pinkened, she heard him. Unfortunately for him, so did I.

He didn’t make it two feet before I grabbed him hard enough he yelped. One strategic twist of my wrist and I could break his arm, but I didn’t want to cause a scene, so he was lucky.

For now.

“What did you say?” A dangerous edge bled into my voice.

Bridget and I weren’t each other’s favorite people, but that didn’t make it okay for anyone to call her names. Not under my watch.

It was a matter of principle and basic fucking decency.

“N-nothing.” Frat Boy’s puny brain had finally caught up with the situation, and his face reddened with panic.

“I don’t think it was nothing.” I tightened my hold, and he whimpered in pain. “I think you used a very bad word to insult the lady here.” Another tightening, another whimper. “And I think you better apologize before the situation escalates. Don’t you?”

I didn’t need to spell out what escalates meant.

“I’m sorry,” Frat Boy mumbled to Bridget, who blinked back at him with an icy expression. She didn’t respond.

“I didn’t hear you,” I said.

Frat Boy’s eyes flashed with hate, but he wasn’t stupid enough to argue. “I’m sorry,” he said louder.

“For what?”

“For calling you a…” He shot a fearful look in my direction. “For calling you a bad name.”

“And?” I prompted.

His brow creased in confusion.

My smile contained more threat than humor. “Say, ‘I’m sorry for being a limp-dicked idiot who doesn’t know how to respect women.’”

I thought I heard Bridget choke back a small laugh, but I was focused on Frat Boy’s reaction. He looked like he wanted to punch me with his free hand, and I almost wished he would. It would be amusing to see him try to reach my face. I towered over him by a good eight inches, and he had shrimp arms.

“I’m sorry for being a limp-dicked idiot who doesn’t know how to respect women.” Resentment poured off him in waves.

“Do you accept his apology?” I asked Bridget. “If you don’t, I can take this outside.”

Frat Boy paled.

Bridget tilted her head, her face pensive, and another shadow of a smile ghosted my mouth. She’s good.