She swallowed, fighting the urge to ball her hands into fists. She didn't want to give away any more of her feelings than she already had. “How nice do I have to be?”
Benedict shrugged, running his hand over his thinning hair. “I mean, you know the rules here, honey.”
Sure she did. The rules said private dances were hands-off. The rules said customers had to accept it if a girl turned them down for a dance for any reason. The rules said girls shouldn't give out their real names or their contact information. Those were the official rules, at least, framed and hanging in the lobby in bold, black letters for everyone who entered to see.
But there were other rules, Freya had quickly learned. Unofficial, unspoken rules that girls like Miki operated by. And according to those rules, men didn't have to keep their hands off.
So was Benedict talking about The Rules or the rules? His tone betrayed nothing, and his stupid wolfish grin was the same one he wore whenever he talked to any of the dancers.
So she could feign ignorance, right?
She dropped her defensive posture, loosening her shoulders. Paying a little extra attention to Sammy's friend couldn't be that hard. And if he tried to push it further, she'd...well...She'd deal with it. Somehow. She bit her lip, afraid of something she couldn't – didn't dare – put a name to.
“Sure,” she said, pressing her hand to her churning stomach. “I know the rules.”