“Describe him, then.”
“Tall. Really tall. Grey eyes. Beard. Wearing all black. He ordered a gin and tonic but hasn’t touched it yet. Oh crap, he’s leaving.”
I turn, but only catch a glimpse of his back as he slips through the door to the packed outdoor patio. “Oh well. I missed one.”
“You never miss,” she reminds me.
I hold up my huge drink. “I also never had one of these before.”
“Boo-hoo,” Luke teases me. “Cry me a river.”
“She doesn’t cry, remember?” Trish says. “Which means I’ll have to.”
She’s right.
I cried hard for four days when I was seven. It started on the night I saw my parents murdered right in front of me, and it ended on the day of their joint funeral. I shed a lifetime’s worth of tears, and then I told myself I needed to be strong, and I stopped.
All the tears and prayers and wishes in the world wouldn’t bring them back.
Tears wouldn’t save me either. That’s why I put all my energy into my survival.
Grams was sure that the people who took my parents’ lives would eventually come back for me. I never saw anyone’s face that night. I just remember the fear, and all the blood. But Grams grew up in a different reality. She was a paratrooper nurse during the Vietnam War. A tough cookie, my father used to say. She saw a hell of a lot and lived to tell the tale. Thank God for her. I don’t think I’d be alive if I didn’t have her.
She walked away from her entire life to protect me. Gave up friends, sold her house. She changed both our names and moved us out of state to get away. Then she taught me the five rules she lived by.
Don’t trust the system.
Always watch your back.
To survive, you have to be ready to die.
Always have an out.
A friend you share your secrets with can be an enemy waiting to happen.
The last time I cried was on my sixteenth birthday. Grams took me to meet her trustee to go over her will, and to review everything my parents left to me. It was the first time it hit me that I might have to live in a world without her in it. That evening when we got home, I sobbed for the entire night.
“You’re off your game, young lady,” Luke muses, pulling me from my thoughts.
“What’s with you two? Is it tag-team Rose into a corner night?” I shake my head, but I’m not taking them too seriously. This is how we are whenever we get together.
Trish shrugs and relaxes into Luke’s shoulder, turning a bit somber. “You’ve never shed a tear in the entire time that we’ve known each other.”
“Cut me some slack,” I tell them, thinking about whoever it was that was watching me. It bugs me that I didn’t notice that one person. For the rest of the evening, I have an uneasy feeling that won’t leave my gut.
I can’t afford to miss one.
One wrong move and it can be all over for me and Grams.
5
Rose
“There’ll be no window cleaning for you,” I say sternly to Grams when she pulls out her hand-held window wiper from under the kitchen sink. She’s been on a serious cleaning bend lately, which is all well and good except for when she turns her focus to all the windows in our turn of the century Victorian home. Grams gets dizzy sometimes. The last thing I want is for her to fall off the step ladder and end up breaking a limb while she’s tackling something as trivial as washing windows. “I’ll do it over the weekend, all right?”
“It’s no bother at all,” Grams insists, tucking a few strands of her curly gray hair behind her ear. “Remember, I need to stay active in my old age. Keeps the muscles limber.”
“True, but not when it comes to anything that requires you stepping up off the floor. I’ll do it. It’s not safe for you to climb that step ladder, especially when I’m not around.”
“Oh, all right. Quit your lecturing,” she says in that cute chuckling voice that makes me smile every time. She sets down the window wiper then looks up at the handcrafted chalet style cuckoo clock hanging above the windows at the sink. “What time do you have to be at work tonight?”
I check the time. My shift at the Speak-Easy Gentleman’s Club starts in under an hour, but I’ll need time to change into my uniform and put on makeup. “In about half-hour.”
“You should take a jacket. The temperature’s going to drop overnight.”
I look down at my clothes. My cream V-neck t-shirt, black yoga pants, and red zippered hoodie will be more than enough for whatever weather comes. After all, it’s practically summer.
“I think I’ll be fine, Grams,” I answer.
“You can never have too much to wear,” she says, wagging her index finger at me, her bushy gray eyebrows knitted together for emphasis.
“And that’s my queue.” I pick up a dinner roll off my half-eaten plate and grab my purse, getting up. “Promise me you’ll leave the windows to me.”
“Oh, all right.”
“See you in the morning, Grams,” I say and hug her briefly, then I snag the window wiper from the counter and put it behind my back. I’ll need to stash it in the trunk of my car. Grams can be pretty stubborn at times.
“Be safe, love,” she answers.
“I always am.”
Giving her a wave from the kitchen door, I hurry to my Chevy Cruze. As I’m putting my things in the back seat, the hairs at the back of my neck stand on edge. I’ve been having this weird feeling like someone’s watching me for a few days now. I’m used to trusting my instinct, but I can’t see how anyone can have eyes on me in the spot where I’m standing. Our house is set back on a large, wooded four-acre lot, well beyond the outskirts of the city’s subdivisions. We have no neighbors for at least a mile. The only house we can see at all is an abandoned house on the other side of the street, a place I know like the back of my hand. And that’s the thing. The only direct view from our home is in the rooms at the back of the house, on the second floor.
Putting it out of my mind temporarily at least, I get in the car and drive to work. Grams doesn’t much like that I wait tables at a gentleman’s club, but I don’t mind. It’s one of the tamer strip clubs downtown, it pays the bills, and I get to keep my days free to be with Grams while she’s doing her thing around the house and out in the garden.
“Look who’s cutting it close to starting time.”
I follow the voice just in time to see the back door of a late model Jeep Wrangler as it opens.
“Hey, Bex,” I reply to one of the strippers I made friends with. She’s one of the sexier, sassier, mouthy types, but she’s a straight shooter, and I always know where I stand with her. I scan down her body and see she’s wearing her two-piece stars and stripes cowgirl stripper’s outfit. “Oh, you’re super early. Already dressed, I see. Good for you, doll.”
“Got my priorities straight, as always,” she answers, lifting out a pair of white, high-heeled cowboy boots from her trunk. “I forgot these back here. Hey, how’s Grams?”
Bex is the only coworker I’ve hung out with outside of work. We have a couple of things in common, but they’re the types of similarities that are so deeply rooted that they forge faster, stronger bonds. She also lost her parents as a kid. They died in a car accident. And we’re both natural redheads. I don’t easily admit that we’re both mouthy. I’d like to think I’m the quieter, less outgoing type, but whatever. We hit it off my first day on the job, and although we’re not besties or anything like that, there’s mutual respect between us.
“She’s great, thanks.” I grab my purse and we walk in through the back entrance together.
“Tell her I said hi.”
“I will. How busy is it on the floor tonight?”
“Pretty quiet, but I’m sure that things will heat up in the next couple of hours, and then it’ll be a nuthouse until closing.”
“That should be good for tips, at least,” I tell her as we enter the change room.
“Hell yeah.” Bex opens her locker and dumps
her keys on the top metal shelf inside. “Oh, that reminds me. Try to stay on Jeff’s good side for the next little while. He was complaining about having to move up the start times for some of the wait staff on weeknights.”
“Yeah? Why?” I ask and take out my uniform. It’s a skin-tight minidress with straps across the deep V back. This getup is ideal for someone slender or athletic or tall, but not for a short, curvy girl like me. It shows off my thick thighs and barely covers my ass. Still, I do what I can to make up for my size with spiked heels when I’m on shift. Tonight, we’re wearing hot pink. We alternate between, black, red, midnight blue and hot pink, depending on the night of the week. With my bold, bright red hair that falls down past my back, I get a lot of comments from the patrons on hot pink night. Most of them are harmless, but there’s always one or two with grabby hands to go along with the sexual innuendos. Thankfully, we have almost as many bouncers as dancers, to keep the patrons in check.
“He’s still pissed about the new Hooters that opened down the street.”
“That’s weird. They haven’t really eaten into the late shift traffic here.”
“True, but they’re killing it for happy hour. He’s thinking of opening at four from Monday to Friday to give them a run for their money.”
“Jeez,” I answer, scrunching up my nose as I strip off my hoodie and t-shirt, and unclasp my bra. All I can wear under this body-hugging dress is some push-up boob tape for my big tits, and thongs. “I don’t want to have to fight my way through rush hour traffic to make it here that early.”
“Nobody does.”
I roll down my yoga pants and step into the dress, muscling it up my body. “Well, thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep my head down around the boss. You know me.”
“Hey girls.” Cece, one of the other strippers enters the locker room in a fuchsia glow-in-the-dark thong bikini and sky-high see-through pumps. Cece is our resident down-home, girl next door stripper, as sweet and naturally innocent on the inside as she is gorgeous on the outside.
“Hi, Cece,” Bex and I answer at the same time.
“Oh my God, Jeff’s on the hunt tonight,” Cece whines, pulling a black feather boa from her locker.
“Are you sure he doesn’t need to get laid or something?” I ask. “He’s usually so easygoing.”
“What, are you volunteering?” Bex jokes.
“Me? Um, no way!” I answer a little too forcefully, tying on my little black four-pocket apron before closing my locker.
“We should set up a get-Jeff-laid jar at the bar or something,” Bex suggests, flashing her bright white smile. “He’ll have a kick out of that.”
“He just might. Have a good shift, ladies,” I say and head to the door leading to the bar area so I can start my shift.
Jeff is one of the reasons most of the girls work here and not in one of the more seedy, raunchy dives around the city. He’s a nice guy with a laid-back attitude. He runs this club with class, and he treats the women who work here like real people, not things to be gawked at, groped or objectified. We know his style probably makes it harder for the club to turn the kind of profits that other places do, but most of us prefer moderate tips than being forced to deal with the low-brow pricks who frequent the other clubs.
“Hi, Rose. Good, you’re here.” I hear the deep timber of Jeff’s voice from behind me and smile, turning to face him. They weren’t kidding that he’s all charm tonight. When I first started working here straight out of high school, I had a little crush on Jeff. How can any straight woman not be a bit drawn to a tall, successful, mild-mannered, well-dressed man with a perfectly chiseled face and a body to match? I think he’s always known I was into him. Thankfully, I never acted on my attraction to him, and neither did he. A man like him is smart enough to know not to shit where he eats. Mixing business with pleasure is rarely a good idea in most workplaces. And at a strip club, it can get really ugly.
“Hi, Jeff,” I answer. “Why, what’s up?”
He reaches across the counter and slides over a tray of drinks that Lou, the bartender just prepared. “Can you do me a favor and take this over to table eight? We’re short staffed tonight.”
“Oh, that’s all?” I ask, letting out a girlish giggle.
“Why? What have you heard?”
“Do you even need to ask?” I joke. He of all people knows that gossip spreads faster than a wildfire around here.
He gives me a crooked smile. “I take it you heard about earlier starts times for shifts during the week.”
“I did. Not liking the prospect of sitting in gridlock, but whatever you need, I’m there.” I don’t mean that in any suggestive way. Jeff is probably the most understanding boss on the planet. He’s been flexible and accommodating for all of us at one point or another. The least I can do is be there for him if he’s in a crunch.
“I might have to take you up on that offer. So, table eight?”
I grab the full tray and lift it to one shoulder. “Sure, no problem. Who’s missing tonight?”
“Allison,” he says. “Her little boy’s got the flu.”
“Sorry to hear.”
“Think you can handle quadrant two and three?” he asks.
“I think so.” I waggle my eyebrows playfully. “And my bank account can handle the tips too.”
“Thanks, Rose.”
“I don’t mind, really.” I can tell he’s a bit more amped up about something tonight, so I give him a brief wave and head over to deliver the drinks.
That eerie tingle from earlier this evening creeps up my back again as I’m on my way to serve another table. Someone’s watching me, and I’m not talking about my boobs or my hemline. This can’t be a coincidence. I look around the club nonchalantly, but the place is dimly lit as usual. The only spot that has bright lighting is the stage at the center, and the three bars at the back. If someone here is really tailing me, it’ll take me hours to be sure who it is. Hours that I don’t have, as I’m on the job now.
I swallow the nervousness forming a lump in my throat and keep working. When I find out that a second waitress is a no-show tonight, I promise myself I’ll get to the bottom of it in my own way. The tragedy I experienced during my early years has been a big influence on every aspect of my life. Whoever it is that’s watching me, he doesn’t know I have other skills to, that I’ll fight like an animal to make sure no one can ever get close enough to hurt me. I’ll make damn sure of it.
The next time I bump into Cece, I ask her to borrow the red wig she wears every Wednesday night like clockwork. She swears that she pulls in double her tips when she wears the damn thing, which, I hate to admit, looks a lot like my natural hair. I’m counting on that similarity for the scheme I’ve hatched. With a few ideas in the works, I push it out of my mind. I get into waitress mode. Before ten o’clock rolls around, the place is packed solid. We don’t close up shop until three in the morning, and the way the crowd is looking, it’s going to be a long night.
6
Thorne
I need to know who this girl is.
She knows that she’s being watched. Since I started this assignment, I’ve seen her stop dead in her tracks when I have eyes on her. She freezes like timid prey does in the wild when something vicious is stalking them. Just like I’m stalking her. But she’s not timid. She moves like a predator. Her schedule, her routines and patterns are precise and well thought out. She has a damn good sense of her surroundings, a sixth sense whenever I’m watching. Considering her age, she’s too young to have been trained as a soldier. Cadets, maybe, or military school. All I know is I can’t let my guard down with her, now that she knows.
The day after she has dinner with her friends, I make my move. I’ve already memorized her routine, walking the grounds several times before, researching the best vantage points from the woods. Tonight, my goal is to gather and assess every scrap of information I can find in her bedroom. There’s not much to her grandmother. She gardens, cooks, and cleans, then it’s bedtime when ei
ght o-clock rolls around. Simple enough. Rose, on the other hand, there’s a lot more to her.
Once Rose has punched the clock at her job at the Speak-Easy, I break into her house through a second-floor window to find my own intel. It’s not common for my employer to provide a detailed file on surveillance targets, so I wasn’t concerned when I didn’t get one for Rose and her grandmother. It’s the first time I wish I had more than just my eyes and ears. This is not a run of the mill gig. No one’s ever sensed me so quickly before. If I’m not careful, Rose will beat me at my own game. I can’t afford to underestimate her. Not again.
Her bedroom door is closed when I climb in through the window. I study every detail under the fading evening light, but I can’t deny there’s a lot more than professional intel gathering going on. The second I saw this girl, I was drawn to her like nothing else. She’s fucking gorgeous for starters, but there are so many layers beneath her tough exterior, all of them begging to be peeled away, exposing the mystery of who she really is.
Looking around the room, I know she’s meticulous. The simple eggshell walls have no portraits or picture frames, nothing to give me insight into her. Her bed is made, pillows smooth and not a crease in sight. There’s a computer on her study desk, and an e-reader, but no books, and again, no family photos of anyone, not even of her or her grandmother. The clothes in her closet are hung neatly, sorted by color. Nothing is out of place.
Even the clothes in her laundry hamper are folded.
I see the dress she wore out to dinner peeking out from under the t-shirt she wore to bed last night. I’m instantly hard from the image of all those curves, that tiny waistline, her big tits, and the shock of thick red hair swinging behind her, drawing even more attention to her ass and hips. She has a body built for a man like me, but that’s the other reason I need to stay focused. The woman turns me on like nothing I’ve ever known.
But she’s off limits.
Not on the menu.
Wolf (Tall, Dark and Dangerous Book 2) Page 4