Free The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) by J.P. Sloan

interior design business a few months ago in an attempt to escape the Club, and I’d hired her to take a crack at my upstairs. I owed her photos, but my mind had been everywhere but décor.
    She snapped her fingers at me. “You on another planet or something?”
    “Sorry. I’ve been… well, I’m sort of seeing someone.”
    She blinked furiously and took half a step back. “You’re kidding.”
    “No. Actually not kidding about that.”
    “Jesus, Dorian!”
    “Right?”
    “Is she… does she work here?”
    I deserved that. “No. She’s not in the trade. But, I might bring her here next weekend. You can meet her.”
    Her face stumbled through shades of shock and mirth. “You’re seriously bringing her here? You sure about that?”
    “Yeah, why not?”
    She shook her head before tapping the front of my suit with the back of her hand. “Better go see Ben before he hears you flirting with me.”
    I moved on down the hallway and into the main room. Clutches of settees, couches, and wingbacks speckled the enormous space, separated by columns and potted palms. The crowd tonight was definitely the shirtsleeve set. Sundays were typically “business over drinks” night at Druid Hill. The working girls didn’t push as hard, and those that did tended to sit on armchairs most of the night. Sunlight still spilled through the last of the French doors lining the exterior wall, sending orange hues slicing through the palm leaves. The stripes of sunset light bounced off the back bar mirror as Big Ben Setleigh poured a martini for a man easily in his eighties.
    “Ben?” I called once the octogenarian had returned to his embarrassingly young escort. “I think I’m going to have to find a new entrance to this joint.”
    “Kim giving you shit?” he asked, his broad face glistening with more sweat than was called for.
    “Yes, and you should have her fired immediately.”
    “I have a feeling I’d be doing her a favor. So what’s your pour tonight, Dorian?”
    “Let’s start with an Argentine malbec and see where it goes?”
    He nodded and reached for the lattice wine rack behind him.
    “Still got your Glenny if the mood strikes.”
    “I’m good.”
    “The whole point to owning an expensive Scotch whiskey is to drink it from time-to-time, you know?”
    “Just wine.”
    He pulled the cork and poured me a glass. “So, a man in my position comes to notice a thing or two when he’s doing little else but pouring drinks and listening to worthless assholes like you complain all night.”
    “Do tell?”
    “And a man like me would notice that you haven’t been patronizing our club to its fullest potential.”
    “I’ve been busy.”
    “How are you and Bright doing lately?”
    “Again, busy.”
    He lifted a brow, and I wilted.
    “It’s been better.”
    “Honeymoon’s over, huh?”
    “We went straight to our bitter golden years, but thanks for asking.” I added after taking a sip, “No, it’s just we both have eyes on our own specific prizes.”
    “What, you got a new job?”
    “Not that kind of prize.”
    Ben pulled a stool from under the bar and settled his girth upon it. “I knew it!”
    “Jesus.”
    “Who’s the lucky girl?”
    “Lucky isn’t the first word that comes to mind.”
    “Shut up. Name.”
    “Francesca.”
    “Local girl?”
    “Not really. She’s in college.”
    His brow lifted.
    “What?” I spat.
    “Nothing. You’re, what? Thirty-five?”
    “How do you know my age?”
    Ben gave me a smug, tight-lipped grin.
    I shrugged. “The age difference isn’t that significant. I mean, it won’t be when we’re both in our forties. At least, when she’s in her forties.”
    “Going to bring her here?”
    “Saturday night.”
    “Wow. Must be serious.”
    “It really isn’t.”
    “You’re bringing her to this place, Dorian. That’s like bringing her to meet your parents, and you know it.”
    I leaned back on the bar stool and took another long quaff of wine. Ben gave me a warm,