by K. A. Tucker
Holy shit.
It’s Cain.
What is he doing here? Crap . . . my application. I gave him this address. I didn’t think he’d use it.
I jump back as his fist rattles the door with another knock, followed quickly by, “Hi, Charlie.” There’s no inflection at the end, so he knows I’m standing on the other side of the door. He must have seen me move past the peephole.
“Uh . . . just a minute!” I call out, my eyes frantically scouring the apartment, my heart—already racing—ready to explode. I catch my reflection in the closet-door mirror.
“Shit!”
I don’t have a stitch of makeup on and my hair is a straight, matted mess after my shower last night. He’ll see exactly what I look like, with the added bonus of dark circles under my eyes. I don’t want him to see the real me. He needs to see Charlie. Confident, well-put-together twenty-two-year-old pole-dancing diva Charlie Rourke from Indianapolis. But I also can’t leave him standing out there for half an hour while I hide myself behind a mask of smooth curls and heavy kohl liner.
I can at least get dressed, I note, taking in my thong and tiny white tank top. Not that he hasn’t seen me in less. Throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a more presentable tank top, I take a second to hide the assortment of wigs I use for drops under my sheets. With one last cringe at the state of my apartment, I finally open the door.
Damn. Cain looks different. Not that he didn’t look good before, but he looks younger today—more relaxed—dressed in dark blue tailored jeans and a white golf shirt, untucked, made of that thin material that hangs so nicely off curves and muscles. And Cain has a lot of nice curves and muscles. His hair is combed back but a little messier, with wispy ends circling out around his neck.
I can’t peg his age. He’s one of those guys who could be twenty-five . . . or thirty-five. There’s a hardness in his jaw and sharpness in his gaze that you don’t get with youth. Plus, he’s a successful businessman who runs a popular strip club. He has to be in his mid-thirties.
Whatever age he is, Cain is hot.
Sam was twenty-five years older than my mom when she married him. He didn’t look anything like Cain does, but she certainly found something extremely appealing in him. Hopefully something aside from his money. I have only faint memories of my mother, but I do remember her smiling a lot after Sam came into our lives. I wonder if she’d still be smiling. I wonder if I’d even be in this situation, had she not died.
I’ve never been attracted to an older man before, but I think Cain is the kind of “older guy” I could be with. Dating Cain is not on the table, though. Right now, I don’t know if having Cain as my boss is even on the table.
I am certainly not on the table, given my need to stay under the radar until I can vanish in a few months.
I need to stop thinking about Cain and tables.
I can feel his stare at me from behind those sunglasses. I can only imagine what he’s thinking right now. I know I look completely different. Younger. I hope he doesn’t start questioning my identity . . .
Shit!
My eyes. I forgot to put in my contacts.
I exhale ever so slowly. It’s too late to do anything about it now. Maybe he won’t notice. He is a guy, after all.
Cain slides his sunglasses off and settles those coffee-colored eyes on me, offering a warm smile. The first one I’ve seen from him. “I hope you don’t mind me swinging by.” Lifting the Starbucks tray he’s carrying, he adds, “Cold and hot options. Ginger said you were a caffeine junkie?”
He’s certainly much less intense than he was the first night I met him. His voice is softer, too. And it’s sweet of him to ask Ginger about my preferences. I can’t help but be suspicious that this coffee buffet is his way of lessening the blow that I suck as a stripper and don’t have a job. That I’ll be heading back to Sin City or some other seedy club to perform lewd acts for management. Ginger confirmed that Rick’s not the exception in the sex trade industry. Maybe Cain would still let me bartend, at the least.
Regardless, I can’t keep him standing here while I play mute. My tongue—temporarily frozen—starts working again. “Yes. I am. Please,” I clear my throat and step back. “Come in.”
He edges past me through the door and I catch that fresh woodsy scent that I first inhaled in his office. It’s pleasant. More pleasant than mine, probably, given that I just spent the night in bed, perspiring. “I’m sorry. The air-conditioning unit broke down and the landlord hasn’t fixed it yet. It’s kind of hot in here.” “Kind of hot” isn’t the right description. It’s stifling.
Cain’s eyes roam over my space as if taking inventory. There’s not much to catalogue. I rented it furnished, which entails a simple two-person folding table, a puke-orange love seat made of a weird vinyl-like material, and a bed that’s called a double but is more like a twin. I’m not the neatest person in the world but, aside from a few shirts strewn over a chair and a hamper of washed but unfolded laundry, everything’s put away. My kitchen is spotless. Not a crumb. That’s more a necessity of survival than tidy habits. It’s me against the roaches, and one open bag of bread will secure their victory. I’ve even strategically placed a can of Raid on my counter as a warning to them.
It’s not really working.
Cain’s focus settles on my hastily made bed for a moment and a thought hits me. Is this where he gives me the “if you want the job . . .” ultimatum that the dirtbag from Sin City did? Maybe that’s his M.O.—in the privacy of my own apartment instead of his place of business? Maybe he lives by that “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy.
Could I do it?
Unable to help myself, my eyes roll over the defined ridges of Cain’s back, visible through the clingy shirt. I don’t think it’s simply his physical appearance that catches women’s attention. The way his body moves radiates a strength and control that many women would find sexy. I imagine he’s quite demanding, maybe a touch aggressive. The type to take a woman up against the wall because that’s what he felt like. I doubt much emotion ever plays into Cain’s motives.
Still . . . I have to admit, sleeping with Cain for this job wouldn’t exactly be comparable to, say, a public flaying. It would be sordid and completely physical, but just thinking about this man on top of me on my bed right now stirs a need in my belly, one I haven’t felt for months.
But . . . no!
What the hell am I going to say if that’s what he intends? Fresh beads of sweat are rolling down my back. And my superior improv skills? It’s as if they never existed. Confident, witty Charlie Rourke has left the roach-infested building, leaving a wooden pawn in her place. I need to pull myself together. If I can do it for drug dealers, then I can certainly do it for a strip club owner.
Cain turns to regard me again and I fight the urge to fidget. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “A girl like you shouldn’t be living in this area.”
By his authoritative tone, I can’t help but feel like Cain is scolding me, and my cheeks heat slightly with embarrassment. I give a one-sided shrug. “It’s not so bad.”
That might have been convincing if not for the sudden screams of “skank bitch!” and “festering dick!” through the wall.
Silence hangs in the air as Cain regards me with an even stare, likely waiting for my response to that. There isn’t much that I can say, short of trying to make light of it. I give him a sheepish grin. “Ike and Tina are getting awfully creative with their pet names.”
He doesn’t return the smile. Clearly, he didn’t find that funny. I wonder if he finds much funny. I can only imagine the kind of place Cain lives. He’s so well put together, from his wavy dark hair down to his stylish but masculine shoes. If he only saw the kind of house I grew up in, maybe he wouldn’t be looking at me with such pity now. Or maybe it would be ten times worse, because he’d be wondering how I fell so far from my privilege
d life.
“Here.” He holds the tray of drinks toward me, his eyes locked on my face. “There’s an iced latte, a Frappuccino, and a regular coffee—cream and sugar on the side.”
“A caffeine overdose. Exactly what I need right now,” I muse, tucking my hair back behind my ear.
Finally, that one earns an amused upper lip curl. “I’m sorry I left before you finished last night. I had to . . . ,” he sighs, his eyes hooded for just a flash before returning to normal, “. . . to go.”
Busying myself with the lid of the iced latte, I wordlessly await the ruling. Will it be pole-dancing topless and bartending at the best strip club in town or . . . worse? Much, much worse.
His low voice breaks the silence. “So, how many nights could you work?”
I stop fumbling with my cup and look up to find that unnerving gaze still on me, “Do you mean . . . do I have a job?”
Cain’s head bows once, as if in assent. I catch a hint of something like conflict flash through his eyes, but when he’s facing me dead-on again, the look is gone, replaced with a completely unreadable expression. “You can dance on the stage and bartend with Ginger. Working the floor will have to wait.”
A burst of relief floods my chest as my escape moves one step toward reality. Shocking myself with a rare, uncontrolled reaction, I leap forward and throw my arms around him. “Thank you, so much! I mean, I didn’t think you would hire me! I thought I wasn’t good enough. I . . .” The overwhelming relief has taken over all instincts and suddenly I’m babbling like an idiot, all the while my arms are wrapped around my new boss’s neck and his body has gone rigid under my touch.
Oh God. Did I just break the record for quickest firing after hiring?
I rush to pull away, smoothing my shirt down. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. I’m . . .”
To my surprise, Cain begins to chuckle. It’s such a lovely sound. “It’s fine.” I’m still probably standing too close to him but he’s not moving away. I notice for the first time the golden flecks within his dark brown eyes and a scar above his left eyebrow.
I also notice that the tattoo on his neck, behind his ear reads “Penny.” My heart throbs. She was obviously someone very important to him. He must have loved her. Where is she now?
Clearing his throat, he adds with an easy smile, “I’m used to a lot worse than a hug, Charlie. A hug is fine.”
Okay. Maybe Cain isn’t so intimidating all the time. I reach for my iced latte, which I can now enjoy with ease. Except . . .
“So, I guess my boss at The Playhouse had good things to say about me?” I try to sound as casual as possible.
“Still validating your references, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and let you start tonight,” Cain confirms quietly.
“Awesome.” So, I could still get fired. Or maybe I can impress him enough before then that he’ll let it slide. “How many nights can I work?”
“As many as you want.”
“Really? And everything I did was fine? I mean, the outfit and—”
“It was fine.”
“Are you sure?” I swallow, not wanting to offer what I’m about to offer. “I could probably lose the shorts if you want me—”
“I don’t,” he cuts me off, his tone suddenly cutting.
“Okay,” I force out between pursed lips. And we’re back to stern Cain. If the dress incident and this reaction tell me anything, he has issues with the dancers doing things for him. Or maybe just me doing things for him. That’s fine. The shorts are staying on!
Taking another glance around my apartment, his jaw muscles visibly tightening, Cain mutters, “I know of a better apartment building to live in. I could make a call—”
“It’s fine, really. You’ve done enough for me already.” The last thing I want to be is a charity case for Cain.
With a reluctant twist of his mouth, he inhales deeply through his nostrils. “Okay, well, I guess . . . I should go.” I’m sensing that he’s not pleased. His hand slides over his neck, over that tattoo. He does that a lot. I wonder if he even knows that he’s doing it.
Lifting the giant latte up in the air in a sign of cheers, I offer him a smile and begin to thank him for the coffee and the job, only the shriek of, “Get out! Get out of my life and never come back!” cuts me off, followed by a piercing scream, a loud bang, and the sound of crashing glass inside my apartment.
Before I can figure out what just happened, Cain’s strong body plows into me, pulling me to the ground, sending my drink out of my hand to splash all over the wall nearest us. His arms wrap around my body protectively, his palm cradles my head, and I can feel his breath against my cheek, he’s that close to me.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
When I don’t say anything, one hand lifts to my chin. He gently turns my face so we’re head on, and he’s a mere inch away. “Charlie. Are you okay?”
All I can manage is a nod and a swallow. I should be focusing on figuring out what the hell just happened in my apartment but instead, I’m inhaling that delicious mixture of soap and cologne, hyperaware of my body being pressed against his and each beat of his heart, its rhythm faster and harder than my own. Being this close to Cain is paralyzing. He could easily keep me like this all day long.
Unfortunately, that’s not happening. “Okay. Stay down,” he growls before leaping up and tearing out my front door, his shoes crunching over something as he passes. It takes me a moment to process that my mirror is shattered. A glance to the opposite wall shows me the small hole.
Those lunatics have a gun.
And, by the shouts I’m hearing, Cain just charged in there, unarmed.
chapter nine
■ ■ ■
CAIN
Charlie almost got shot.
Right in front of me, as I lingered there like a horny teenager—looking for an excuse to talk to her for a little bit longer, maybe persuade her to move—Charlie almost got shot.
And I’d just stood there, only seconds away from being shot myself.
The first thing I see when I step through the already open door of this shitty apartment in this shitty building in this shitty neighborhood is a scrawny white guy in a stained tank top and ripped cargo pants, with a trickle of blood running down the side of his face. His red, glossy eyes alternate between me and his hands, which are fumbling with a handgun. It’s jammed, clearly, or I’m sure the strung-out ass would be firing bullets like Yosemite Sam right about now.
This fucker could have killed Charlie.
I can feel my nostrils flaring as I stand in the doorway, like a bull about to attack. My hands automatically tense—a natural tendency, dating back to my fighting days.
I need to get that gun out of his hands.
And then I’m going to beat the scumbag to within an inch of his life.
I’m halfway to him when I suddenly hear a scream and feel a weight land on my back. Someone starts thumping my shoulders like a chimp gone rabid. It’s got to be his woman.
I don’t have patience for women who defend men trying to kill them. I twist and spin, reaching up to dislodge and throw her a few feet away. She lands on her skinny ass beside the couch, without injury. Any additional injury, that is. Based on the nasty gash across her forehead, it looks like she’s already been hit once.
In my peripheral vision, I catch Charlie standing in the doorway. I’m about to yell at her to get away when I hear a click, followed by bang and a howl of pain. I turn to find the guy crumpled to the floor, his hands wrapped around his left foot. Blood is already beginning to trickle out.
The idiot just shot himself.
I’d laugh if there weren’t a loaded gun lying on the floor beside his writhing body. I need to deal with that first. My rage has all but defused now—he got exactly what he deserved. Instead of punishing him further, I simply march over and kick t
he weapon under the couch.
And then I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking the situation under control.
“Cain!” Charlie screams a second before something heavy cracks me across the back of my skull. It’s not enough to knock me out, but fuck if it doesn’t hurt. Wincing and ducking, with my arm in the air to avoid further attack, I spin on my heels to find the crazy bitch back on two feet and the brass vase that she launched at me lying near my feet. She’s frozen, those hateful eyes—red and glassy like her husband’s—shifting between me and the gun pointing at her head.
Charlie’s gun.
“Calm down or I will shoot you. Do you understand?” Charlie says with an impressive degree of composure, slowly stepping into the apartment. Her hands aren’t even shaking.
The woman has enough sense to realize that Charlie isn’t bluffing. She edges back and around me—giving me a wide berth—until she reaches the moaning, writhing idiot on the floor. Dropping to her knees next to him, she starts sobbing as she presses her lips to his head, her arms loosely around his body. “I’m so sorry, babe! Are you going to be okay? I love you! I’m so sorry!”
Sirens sound in the distance. Someone has called the cops. “Charlie.” My eyes land on the gun in her hand. “You should go back to your apartment. I’ll take care of it from here.”
I don’t have to ask her twice. She tucks the piece under her shirt before she steps out, hiding it from any curious witnesses.
■ ■ ■
A few hours and a barrage of questions from the cops later, I’m facing a very quiet Charlie in her sweltering apartment once again.
“Here, take this.” She holds out a bag of ice for me. But I don’t take it. All I do is reach out and touch her delicate hand, attached to her delicate arm, attached to her delicate body, which would have crumpled to the ground had that bullet sailed only a few inches to the left.