Before Anne could even breathe, the same smoke-breathing creep slithered toward her with backup. Three of them now. Loud. Drunk. Entitled. They plopped down beside her like she was part of the club decor.
"Hey baby, you wanna dance for us?" one slurred, his breath laced with cheap whiskey and desperation. Another waved a handful of bills in her face—hundreds, maybe even thousands. "C'mon, we'll make it rain, sweetheart."
Tempting? Maybe. But no amount of cash could buy her pride.
She rolled her eyes and stood up, brushing them off like lint. "Not interested."
But they weren't done. One grabbed her wrist. Another blocked her path. The sleaze in the middle leaned in close, the money now stuffed right against her chest. "Don't play hard to get. We know your type. Dressed like that, you want the attention."
Her stomach twisted in fury.
