Angel let the door slam behind her. I did not just see that. I did not just see that. She focused on breathing, in and out. Peace. Namaste. Baby kitties. Then she threw back her shoulders. She did not have space in her head to deal with that crazy scene. Angel pushed the mess into a dark corner of her mind, shook her head, fluffed her ponytail. Baby needs a new pair of shoes.

Lastly, she plumped up her cleavage. If everyone was going to leer at the twins, might as well put the girls to work. Her uniform, besides the high heels and skinny jeans, was a purposefully ripped tank top that screamed “The Peacock” across the breasts.

Frank, who usually had tight white pants covering his ass and wore a red velvet blazer, thought it was hilarious, his employees dressed in glam rock trash while serving forty-five-dollar apps to Richie Rich. The hipster customers liked it, thinking the owner was being ironic. The Wall Streeters liked it because they thought it was intended to mock the poor. And the letches liked it because the tanks were an easy window to the mandatory push-up bra.

The hostess was the only one who didn’t have to wear the cheesy top, because, apparently, she was willing to wear nothing at all.

“You’re late!” One of the many anorexic blonde servers yelled over the top of the loud house music, gesturing to the long list of drink orders sitting on the back bar.

“Yeah? The boss didn’t have a problem with it.”

A cougar dressed in Prada reached over the bar and waved a hand between Angel and the other bartender. “Hey, you,” she said from between pouty duck lips. “Make me a Moscow mule.”

“Can’t you see we were talking—”

The other bartender interrupted Angel. “Can I suggest using our new gin, the Nolet’s Silver, instead of the well liquor?” She gave Angel a quick glare as she held up the bottle.

The middle-aged woman tapped a Day-Glo orange nail on the bar. “Why are you asking me? Isn’t that your job, to know how to make cocktails?”

Angel didn’t bother telling either of them Moscow mules were made from vodka; instead, she turned her back and grabbed a knife. Hacking limes into wedges, she swallowed hard, choking on a lump of anger that had been growing since that morning and didn’t look to be dissolving anytime soon.

It had been a long day. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Four

Aaron got them a table in a dark corner of the club, which annoyed the hell out of Duke.

The ballplayer dropped onto one of the couches. He started to take off his hat, but Aaron put a hand on him, saying, “Keep that on.”

Duke leaned back with his hands behind his head and stared down his agent.