by Sybil Bartel
Viking spared me a glance. “Get dressed.”
I crossed my arms over my tits. I wanted inside that dressing room so bad I could taste it, but I wasn’t about to let Viking think he could tell me what to do. “No thanks, I’m enjoying the side show.”
One of his nostrils twitched.
Davie looked between us. “Hey. This some kind of lover’s quarrel? Because that shit stays outside the club.”
Viking slowly turned to Davie and let out one word like he was the fucking Terminator. “Leave.”
Davie puffed his scrawny chest out and because he had no self preservation, he stuck his foot in his mouth. “If you’re harassing one of my girls, you can get out of here right now before I call security.”
Viking took one step toward Davie. “She is not your girl.”
Davie’s hands went up and he backed up so fast, his ass hit the wall. “Easy there killer, I wasn’t saying that she was mine. I was just saying—”
Viking took another step.
Davie turned and ran. Actually ran down the hall.
I stared after him. “That’s a first.” I’d never seen the little weasel run before.
“Two minutes. Put clothes on.”
I looked up at Viking and my stomach turned traitor. “Are you telling me what to do?” Stupid butterflies.
His penetrating gaze caught mine. “Yes.”
My nipples hardened and a rush went through my body. “Wow.” Part of me, the survival instinct part, told me to run like hell. The other part, the traitorous female part, wanted to launch myself at him. “Does that usually work for you?” If he wasn’t so hot, I think I’d be shitting myself right about now.
“Yes.”
Arrogant jerk. “So that’s why you’re here? Out of all the strip clubs in Miami, you came to this one so you could push me around?”
He didn’t respond and his silent stare made my knees tremble.
“Fine.” I managed to huff. “I was getting dressed anyway.” I walked into the dressing room and went to slam the door behind me, but it hit a distinctively solid mass. I spun and let loose. “Show stops when my ass leaves the stage. Get out.”
With one step he caught my chin. “Why are you still working here?”
He smelled amazing. Like heat and spice and musk and bad decisions. “It’s called a job.” My stupid voice wavered.
He studied me like he could see right through my bullshit. “You have a job.”
Answering phones for his friend’s security firm wasn’t making me rich. What I made in one night stripping, took me a week to make at Luna and Associates. And I needed cash—a lot of fucking cash. I pulled out of his grasp and turned away from him. “You can wait in the hall.”
The door slammed shut but his scent didn’t leave the room.
Shit. “You’re still here.” I didn’t bother looking. I knew he was standing there like you knew when a hurricane was coming. The air snapped, your skin crawled and the pit of your stomach refused to settle down.
He didn’t answer and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of verbally squirming. Ignoring him, I put my tips in my purse and pulled out my next outfit. Hands shaking, my back to him, I stripped off my G-string. I’d been naked so many times in front of men, I’d lost my self-consciousness about it years ago, but this? This felt like I was stripping down to my fears and revealing my soul. Insecurities I thought I’d buried long ago floated to the surface as I tried to step into a white thong without giving him an eyeful.
Pissed that I was letting a man get to me, I yanked up the stupid underwear, pulled on the short white skirt and put on the white lace bra. It wasn’t until I had one arm in the tight nurse’s top that he stopped me.
His huge hand cupped my nape and his breath touched my ear. “You are not wearing this.”
I shivered but my voice thankfully came out defiant. “Yes, I am.”
Without touching my skin, his other hand dragged the top off my arm. His voice lowered and his accent got thicker. “Take your skirt off.”
Goose flesh sped across my skin. “I’m gonna. In about five minutes.” My heartbeat in my throat, I turned up the attitude. “If you go get a seat and pull your wallet out, you can watch the whole damn show.”
His hand still on my nape, the heat of his body still at my back, the air shifted. His scent got stronger and he reached around me to slap a wad of hundreds on the makeup counter. “Take it off.”
My stomach lurched and bile rose. I stared at the money and Conner’s sweet face swam into focus as I bit back tears. “I’m not a whore.”
His body stiffened behind me and I braced myself for the worst. Then slow, as if he sensed my fear, his thumb dragged up the side of my neck and his voice took on a gentle cadence. “Have you had sex since you were attacked?”
My shoulders went rigid and all the air left my lungs. Panic crawled up my spine and I fought for control as I shoved the memory from last spring out of my head. “Get out,” I spat, throwing his arm off me.
“Get dressed.”
I grabbed the money off the counter and spun. My hand and the cash hit his solid chest. “I don’t know why the fuck you’re here or who the hell you think you are, but you can keep your damn money!”
His fingers wrapped around my wrist and he pulled. I stumbled in my five inch heels and fell into him as his grey-blue eyes turned to ice. “You’re taking the money, you’re getting dressed and we are leaving.”
I pushed away from him. “I am not your fucking slut, you don’t get to tell me what to do!”
His voice dropped to a deadly calm and his accent enunciated his words with tight control. “I already told you what to do. Put clothes on.”
My hand on my hip, my tits covered by scraps, I stupidly taunted him. “Or what?”
Everything about him went still. “Test me.”
Two words. That’s all he needed. He didn’t even have to finish his sentence by saying and find out, or see what happens. He was that intimidating. I was pretty sure no one ever defied him. Which made me even more curious as to why the hell he was standing in my dressing room. I’d met the man two times and he’d never said more than a handful of words to me and those words had been just as disapproving as the ones he was dishing out now. Screw him and his warning and his stupid big muscles. He wanted me to test him? Fine. “Go home, Neil.” Two strides and I yanked the door open.
A hand larger than my face hit the old warped wood and slammed it shut. His body heat crawled up my back and his deep, quiet voice settled over my frayed nerves.
“I will give you a choice.” His huge palm slid down my arm like hot sand paper. “Go back on stage…And never see me again. Or come with me right now.”
Every author, at some point in their career, gets stuck. Maybe it’s on a word, or a scene or a plot arc, but it’s inevitable. I’ve had a lot of these moments but I am fortunate enough to have amazing friends and readers and other authors as my support team. Writing TALON was no exception. Without my amazing friends, this book wouldn’t be what it is today!
A big thank you to author Rebecca Paula for her superior blurb editing skills, (you need to read her books!) and author Adrian Hale for that same pesky blurb problem (you need to read her books too!) and Nikki Wooten, reader extraordinaire, who rearranged my messy words! And a big thank you to author Cherrie Mack (you must read her books!) for listening to me every single time Talon acted up and giving the best advice ever! Thank you, ladies!
And my cover! A huge thank you to Michael Stokes for his amazing photography skills, he is simply incredible—I wish I could write a book for every one of his photos! And I have to tell you how much fun Clarise at CT Cover Creations and I had while she designed the cover. Clarise - #ItsAllAboutTheNinja!
And to my readers, thank you, so very much!!! Without you, I wouldn’t be here! XOXO
Sybil grew up in Northern California with her head in a book and her feet in the sand. She used to dream of becoming a painter but the heady sce
nt of libraries with their shelves full of books drew her into the world of storytelling.
Sybil now resides in Southern Florida, and while she doesn’t get to read as much as she likes, she still buries her toes in the sand. If she’s not writing or fighting to contain the banana plantation in her backyard, you can find her spending time with her handsomely tattooed husband, her brilliantly practical son and a mischievous miniature boxer.
But Seriously?
Here are ten things you really want to know about Sybil.
She grew up a faculty brat. She can swear like a Sailor. She loves men in uniform. She hates being told what to do. She can do your taxes (but don’t ask). The Bird Market in Hong Kong freaked her out. Her favorite word is desperate, or dirty, or both, she can’t choose. She has a thing for muscle cars. But never rely on her for driving directions, ever. And she has a new book boyfriend every week—don’t tell her husband.
To find out more about Sybil or her books, please visit her website, www.sybilbartel.com, or like her Facebook page. You can also join her Facebook Reader Group, Book Boyfriend Heroes for advanced information on her books, exclusive excerpts and fun giveaways.
And if you really want to know what she’s thinking, you can follow her on Twitter, @SybilBartel.