He could ignore the loud incessant thump of the bass through the speakers. He could ignore the women on stage grinding against a pole, making f***-me eyes at his brothers. He could ignore the writhing blonde on his lap―dressed in nothing but lacy scraps the masses called lingerie―as she tried to coax a reaction from him by rubbing her barely contained tits on his crotch, her ass up in the air. He'd rather shove her off than let her burn his d*** off with all that friction against the denim. He could ignore the bumbling waitress dressed in that tight little skirt and fishnet stockings, wearing heels that made her like a newborn foal. He would've. Really, he would've but then her heel snapped and she came crashing down. Down onto his lap. Down onto the desperate blonde―stilling her. Finally. His lips ticked up in the beginning of the first smiles all week.