“Male or female?” the blonde asked.

“Male.”

“Perfect for a double date. Club’s that way—see you in a bit.”

The one with the beehive leaned up to his ear. “You think I look good now, wait’ll you see my work clothes.”

They hustled off through a door marked LADIES’ LOCKER ROOM, leaving him in the dark hall thinking that if they were changing into something smaller than what they had on, the pair were going to come out dressed in postage stamps.

As he started down for the club proper, a dark-haired working woman turned the corner up ahead and came toward him. He recognized her instantly as the one Vin had actually been staring at when Devina’s latex nemesis had been begging him for attention, and Jim was not happy to see who was on her tail: That pair of big, young guys were way too close, and they had looks on their faces like they’d chased her into this dim, secluded hallway because they wanted something she clearly wasn’t interested in giving them.

Jim glanced up and back. The corridor was a good forty feet long and about ten feet wide, and aside from a door marked OFFICE, which was way far down by the exit, the locker room was the only shot she had at losing them.

And the bouncers were already busy with some kind of disturbance.

Jim planted his feet and got ready to intervene…when from out of nowhere, Vin appeared in the archway at the club end of things, looking like he’d come to the same this-ain’t-right conclusion.

Striding down, Vin closed the distance fast, but the drama reached Jim first.

“I said no,” the woman snapped over her shoulder.

“Your kind of female doesn’t get to say no.”

Okay, so the wrong thing to say, right there. Jim stepped into the path of the guys and spoke to the woman over his shoulder. “You all right?”

As she turned to him, it was clear by her hard face and her terrified eyes that she was keeping it together by force of will only. “Yup. Just taking a break.”

“Why? Is your mouth tired already?”

Jim faced off at the guy who’d spoken. “Why don’t you back the fuck off.”

“Who are you? Another one of her pimps?” The SOB reached around and grabbed her wrist. “Why don’t you let her do—”

Vin diPietro, who had closed the distance, moved like the street was still in his blood. Before Jim took action, he was on the unwelcome contact, catching the biceps of that arm and breaking the guy’s hold on the woman by snapping the kid around. He didn’t say a thing. Didn’t have to. He was ready to pop the motherfucker, gray eyes no longer cool, but volcanic.

“Let go of my goddamn arm!” the punk yelled.

“Make. Me.”