Trey
For a second, I do. I watch the show, and fates help me, I love it. Sheridan’s slim fingers peel down the stocking, revealing a perfect leg. She removes one, then the other, balls them up and stuffs them into the toe of the broken shoe, straightening to shoot me a triumphant glance. “If you’re not willing to discuss things like a reasonable person, this conversation is over.” Barefoot, she pivots to leave. No f*****g way is she walking barefoot across the club—my club—the floor covered in broken glass and dirt and f**k knows what.
Hips swaying, she takes one step out the door.
“Not so fast.” I grab her around the waist and hoist her easily over my shoulder. She struggles, shouting, legs kicking helplessly as I secure her in a fireman’s hold.
“What the heck,” she squawks, but I’m a
