Jack has a problem at the door.
Jack Ferguson stood at the door. The place was full. The air was blue with cigar smoke and shouted conversations full of profanity. Vigilant, Jack was oblivious.
He felt a touch on his arm. Jack looked down at it. It was removed.
Looking up, he drowned in a pair of blue-green eyes. Swallowing, he addressed the apparition of loveliness gruffly.
“You aren’t allowed in here.”
Fluttering her fiery lashes, she replied:
“But I was invited!”
If Jack hadn’t been so flummoxed, he’d have laughed. As it was, he just repeated the ban.
“Ma’am, this is a men’s club! Ladies aren’t allowed.”
“I’m not very social with ladies. I was invited,” she said as she tried to push past.
Jack stood firm, all three hundred pounds of muscle and sinew braced. A sharp poke in his ribs startled him. He grabbed the parasol she was trying to use to move him and bent it double.
The woman opened her mouth. Jack covered it with one large hand.
“No need to cause a scene. Who are you?”
He removed his hand.
“Fern Scotia, if it’s any of your affair,” she muttered as she struggled against his grip.
He released her. Jack had never seen her before, but he knew who she was. The boss’s new girl, a singer from the Cha-Cha Lounge. He followed her to the head table.
“Ah, Fern, me darlin’! I expected ye long before this,” the boss said, giving Jack the stink eye.
“Just a little misunderstanding, your man was most obliging when he understood,” Fern said coyly, ignoring Jack.
He melted away like he was trained to do and returned to the door.
“That was a close one,” he muttered as he wiped his brow. He’d almost blown his cover.