Conceit (Se7en Deadly SEALs Book 1) by Alana Albertson Page A

friends?
    “No, I am not in those type of the movies. Sorry, you are wrong.”
    His grip tightened on my jean skirt. “I’m never mistaken, bitch. I’ve fucking seen you somewhere before. Maybe I’ve even fucked you.” His finger moved up my thigh and hooked the lace trim on my panties. “Quit the virgin act. Go dance for me or something.” His words shot off like rapid fire, and he forced my hand against his cock.
    I considered screaming, but the blaring music would’ve drowned out my voice. What was wrong with this man? With all these arrogant sons of bitches? I was in some alternate bizarro reality, where these men I’d always looked up to as honorable, steadfast heroes of character were exposing themselves to be misogynistic pricks.
    But I knew this asshole from all of April’s late night, tearful phone calls. Mitch loved a challenge; I was just shocked at how disrespectful he was toward me. I squeezed him hard, his cock already rock solid in his jeans. “Ah, you are right. We did fuck. But you did not last. Better luck to you next time.”
    His mouth raped mine, and I was too blindsided to resist. My lips numbed; a bitter, metallic taste filled my mouth.
    Holy shit! Mitch was high as a hot air balloon. Was it cocaine? I’d heard about some SEALs in Aruba who were arrested for smuggling kilos of coke. Was this connected to Tiffany and Joaquín?
    I shoved his hands off me, recoiling from his touch. The last time I’d felt this disgusted had been that night years ago, when I’d been young and careless—the night that I had ruined my relationship with Grant forever.
    He laughed and knocked back his beer. “I like you. You’re a feisty bitch. Most of the strippers here don’t put up a fight. You’re a wildcat. Tell you what, when Grant gets sick of you in a few weeks, which he will, you can come suck me off. Let me get your number.” He took out his phone.
    I steadied my nerves, desperate not to screw this chance up. “Let me put it in your phone.”
    He didn’t hesitate to hand it to me. He scanned the room for Grant, and I knew I had to be quick. I stroked my long hair while his eyes were averted and I popped the tracing chip, which Roma had given me, from my hair clip. As I typed my contact info into Mitch’s phone, I pressed the chip in the back under the leather case, praying it would work.
    I handed him back the phone, and he winked at me. What a creeper. I wanted to shove my fist up his coke-filled nose, but before I could do anything Grant appeared, holding my drink, a jealous scowl on his face. I fought the desire to dump vodka and cranberry juice over Mitch’s head. For all I knew, that chip could lead to texts, phone numbers, some type of clue about what had happened that night. Maybe he’d come on to Tiffany after Joaquín had slept with her, and she had rejected him. He could’ve become pissed off and choked her.
    “Everything okay here?” Grant studied my lips, then glared at the lipstick stain on Mitch’s face.
    “Never better. Hey, man”—Mitch sniffled—“I’m pretty fucked up. You guys gonna fuck upstairs? Can I watch?”
    I expected Grant to just laugh it off. But he shoved Mitch against the wall using a chokehold.
    “You have ten seconds to unfuck yourself, Mitch. If you ever talk to her like that again, I’ll slit your throat. Got it?”
    The rancor alerted some of the other guys, but none of them approached Grant and Mitch. “Relax, man. She’s a fucking stripper.”
    Grant removed his hand from Mitch’s neck. “Get the fuck out of here.”
    Mitch let out a laugh and walked away.
    “Sorry about that, babe. He’s a jerk. You okay?”
    I blinked back fake tears. “Yes. Thank you. Is there a bathroom?”
    He pointed upstairs. “First door on the left.”
    “I come right back.”
    Away from Grant, I let out a deep, gratifying sigh. This was actually working. No one knew who I was.
    I pushed back the door to the bathroom and saw the girl Grant was looking at