Merciless (Playboys In Love Book 3)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Gina L. Maxwell. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact authorkatyconnor@gmail.com.

  Published by One-Handed Reads

  Edited by Liz Pelletier

  Cover art by Heather Howland

  Cover photography by Wander Aguiar, featuring Shane Williams

  ISBN 978-1-949038-00-2

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition May 2018

  For every woman who has saved herself at one time or another. I wish you the happiest of HEAs.

  Chapter One

  Emi

  I’m a professional dancer, classically trained from the time I was five. I’ve danced on more prestigious stages than I can count for audiences who watch me in rapt silence. But tonight will not be that. Tonight, I’ll be performing on a stage speared in the middle with a single chrome pole, for an audience of rowdy drunks. For a few precious minutes, I won’t be a ballet dancer…

  I’ll be an exotic dancer.

  Cardinal Sin is a strip club with two floors—male strippers above and female below—and on the first Friday of every month, they host an amateur night when just about anyone can show up with a costume and song choice and try their hand at shaking their ass for cash. And for the past six months, I’ve been doing just that. It allows me to shed the name I’ve built for myself and the pressures that come along with it and just…be. No rules, no judgment, no legacy to uphold.

  Here, I’m not Emmélie DeLuca, only daughter and prodigy of the internationally renowned French dancer Mirabelle Bissett. I’m just Raven, woman of mystery and amateur stripper. And I love every minute of it.

  Smoothing my hands down the chin-length electric blue wig that hides my long black hair, I check my finished appearance in the lighted mirror. My eye makeup is bold, with metallic blues and greens covering well under my lower lashes all the way up to my eyebrows and streaking across each temple. The extreme design acts like a masquerade mask, disguising my identity on the off-chance someone in the audience could recognize me.

  “Oh my God, I’m so nervous I think I might barf.”

  My gaze shifts to the brunette with big doe eyes on my right. She’s dressed like Britney circa “…Baby One More Time” with knee-highs, a tiny pleated skirt, and white button-down shirt tied under her chest. Her hands are shaking so bad she can’t get her fake lashes on properly.

  I remember what it was like my first time, too. Not even the fact that I’ve been performing on stages my whole life had been able to keep the nerves away that night. Turning on my stool to face her, I smile and offer to help. I’ve been putting falsies on since I was ten, so it’s second nature to me.

  “Thanks,” she says with a relieved sigh. “I’ve never worn fake lashes before. I’m more Baby Spice than Posh Spice.”

  “I can tell.” I nod at her outfit. “A fan of ’90s music, I see. Same here.”

  “A great love of the ’90s is all I really inherited from my mother. I’m Raquel, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Raquel, I’m Raven.”

  “Ooh, that’s pretty. Is that your stage name?” she asks as I take both strips of lashes from her.

  “Yep. What’s yours?” Raquel watches as I carefully reapply the glue and blow on it lightly.

  “I have no idea. All I can think of is Candy, which I know is ridiculously cliché, but it’s like my brain stopped working when I walked through the backstage door.”

  Oh no. Maybe Raquel isn’t doing this because she wants to. Maybe she has someone forcing her to take her clothes off onstage. Cardinal Sin is a far cry from a seedy strip joint—in fact, it’s extremely high class as far as these sorts of places go—but it isn’t uncommon to hear about a girl being strong-armed into dancing to pay off debts or for their asshole boyfriend who knows the kind of money this gig brings in.

  Fire burns in my belly that someone might be taking advantage of this sweet girl. Lowering my voice, I stare into her light brown eyes so I can gauge her reaction. “Raquel, are you being forced into this?”

  Her eyes widen for a split second, and I think she’s about to confirm my suspicion when she breaks into a laugh. “No, not at all. God, that’s probably what it seems like with how nervous I am, but no. This is on my bucket list of things to do before I turn twenty-five. I totally want to do it, I swear. I have a group of friends in the audience waiting to cheer me on and slip me some singles in case no one else does.”

  She laughs at herself, and it loosens the knot in my chest, but it’s replaced with a twinge of jealousy. I’ve never had a group of close friends. Growing up, all my free time was spent training and performing. I didn’t mind the demanding work—I was doing what I loved, after all—but now that I’m not as entrenched in the lifestyle as I was when I was still performing, I feel like I’ve missed out on an important part of life.

  “I think it’s great your friends support you.” I lightly touch the glue on the lashes, checking to make sure it’s tacky.

  “Well, most of them do, anyway,” she mutters.

  “Oh?” I prod, mostly to distract her from the underlying nerves, but partly because I can be a bit of a curious cat. “Close your eyes for me.”

  She does, and I fit the strip to her natural lash line, holding it for a few seconds to make sure it secures well. “Ironically, my best friend, Liam, thinks I should do something more bucket-list-traditional like bungee jump or skydive. He doesn’t like the idea of me stripping, even for one night.”

  “Keep your eyes closed,” I say and repeat the quick process with the other strip of lashes. “And I think what your friend feels is understandable. Not everyone is comfortable with the idea of people taking their clothes off for money.”

  “Did I mention he’s a male stripper?” she adds wryly.

  “Oh, well…um…” I’m not sure what to say to that. I mean, I have my suspicions as to why he might have a problem with it, but I don’t know Raquel well enough—or this Liam at all—for it to be my place to say anything.

  “Whatever,” she says with a wave of her hand. “He just has to deal. This is a one-time thing for me, and whether I’m a huge flop or a raging success, I’m going to embrace the experience and have fun.”

  “That’s honestly the best attitude to have. And the nerves will go away once you’re up there. Just focus on the music and you’ll be fine. The lights are so bright that you can’t see past the first row anyway. Okay, let me see.”

  Raquel’s lids flutter open as she gets used to the weight and feel of the false lashes. “Well, how do I look?”

  “Fantastic,” I say honestly. “You have that whole wide-ey
ed innocence thing going for you. They’re going to eat it up.”

  Raquel gives a little squeal with a few claps, her giddiness pulling a laugh from me to join in her sudden excitement. “Thanks, Raven, you’re really sweet to help me like this.” She glances around us at the other half a dozen girls applying makeup, curling hair, and squeezing into tiny costumes while spewing back-handed compliments to each other in a passive-aggressive manner to rival the high school students at my studio. “Are you one of the regular dancers?”

  The club alternates the amateurs with the regular acts to keep the audience interested and the money flowing. The manager has offered me a permanent position several times since I started doing this, but I turn him down every time. My life is wrapped up in running my mom’s dance studio, in my students. This is just to give me a taste of the forbidden. A tiny morsel to feed the dark fairy I keep locked deep inside me.

  “No, but I got over my stage fright a long time ago.”

  “Raven, you go on in three minutes,” Erin, the stage manager, says as she rushes over with her ever-present clipboard and pen. “And your friend here is after you. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  Raquel turns her gaze to me, silently asking for help. If I thought her eyes were big before, the fake lashes have rocketed them to adorable-cartoon-animal proportions, giving me an idea. Grinning, I say, “Her name is Bambi.”

  A wide smile breaks across her face and she nods at Erin. “Yep, that’s me. Bambi.”

  “Bambi it is.” Erin scrawls the name on her paper as she starts to move on. “Raven, hop to it, girl.”

  Raquel grabs my hands and squeezes. “I’m usually a hugger, but I don’t want to ruin your makeup or anything. Thanks again for the help. Hey, if you ever need a massage, you come find me at North Crest Spa Resort in Glenview. I’ll give you the works, on the house.”

  “Sounds great. Good luck, Bambi. Knock ’em dead.” I return the affectionate squeeze, weave my way through the dressing area to backstage, and stand in the pitch black to wait for my cue as the girl on stage finishes her number.

  Taking a deep breath, I release it slowly and begin to tune out everything around me. The catcalls and whistles of the men in the audience become muffled, like being filtered through ten yards of cotton. My focus narrows down to the gleaming pole anchored in the center of the stage that for a solid four and a half minutes will be the center of my world. A world where Emi is left behind and Raven—the persona I think of as my dark fairy—emerges to play in the lights and bask in the sordid desires I don’t dare entertain outside of these dances.

  I pretend this is all an act, but in reality, Raven is a slice of my truth that I’m too scared to acknowledge in the light of day. For the duration of my song, I’ll give her free rein. But afterward, I’ll lock her back in her cage, and I’ll once again be the Emi my mother groomed me to be.

  Raucous cheers from the crowd swell at the sound of my name, punching a rush of adrenaline through my veins that pulls my shoulders back and nudges my chin higher. The first notes of my song mix with the men’s lascivious appreciation; it coaxes me from the shadows into the warm embrace of the spotlight, my heels striking the stage along with the beat. And with every cell in my body, I recognize only one thing…

  It’s showtime.

  Chapter Two

  Austin

  Arms folded, I watch with mild interest as a woman wearing nothing but a white G-string and angel wings spins around a pole while men of all ages toss dollar bills onto the stage. In a word, the atmosphere of the lower level of Chicago’s popular strip club, Cardinal Sin, can be described with my stripper name: Rowdy.

  Yes, I’m a stripper, and no, I don’t work here.

  In fact, I don’t work in any club. I’m what we call a personal stripper, the kind you hire for bachelorette parties, birthday parties, retirement parties, or just-because-it’s-Tuesday parties. Although I own Playboys 4 Hire with my two friends, since graduating college the stripping has been more of a hobby and easy means for extra cash, since my full-time job doesn’t exactly have me rolling in dough.

  Despite my dad wishing I’d choose something safer, I followed in my old man’s footsteps and became a Chicago firefighter. My motto for both jobs is Find ’em hot and leave ’em wet, and I’m damn good at what I do.

  “Hey, Rowdy,” a sweet voice says loud enough to be heard over the music. I swing my gaze to the left where the stunning blonde is seated next to me, dead center in front of the main stage. She bats her eyelashes and holds up the garnish stick from her chocolate martini with an impish smile. “Want my cherry?”

  “No, he fucking does not.” That growl comes from her boyfriend, Roman Reeves, who also happens to be one of my best friends. Before they got together, Addison used my mouth and a maraschino cherry to make him jealous enough to finally make a move. It worked. “Keep it up, wildcat, and you’ll get more than you bargained for when we get home.”

  Addison Paige sighs dramatically and drags the cherry off the stick with her teeth, tucking it into her cheek. “Promises, promises.”

  “Aw, what’s the matter, Addie-girl?” I ask, injecting my words with the Southern drawl I pull out at will. “Old Roman here not doin’ the job anymore?”

  Roman leans forward to glare at me from Addison’s other side. “Cut me some slack, asshole. I’m trying to enjoy myself.”

  “All work and no play makes Ruthless a crabby boy,” Addison says, rolling her eyes at me. Ruthless is Roman’s stripper persona. When he’s not in his Armani suits and running his law firm with an iron fist, he can be found in torn jeans, a wife-beater, piercings, and black guyliner.

  “Breaking your own rules, amigo?” I ask him.

  “The firm can’t afford to lose this case, so yeah, it’s been rough. I haven’t had a night off in weeks and it’s not making me a happy fucking camper.”

  “True story,” Addison said with a pout. “If this case doesn’t kill him first, I just might.”

  Draping my arm across the back of her chair, I smile wide, launching the full arsenal of my dimples. “If you need me, darlin’, you know I’m always willin’ to pick up his slack.”

  “Why don’t you use that Southern charm on someone who’s available, asshole?” Roman picks Addie up by her waist and sets her in his lap possessively. If the satisfied grin on her face and the way she twines her arms around his neck is any indication, that had been her plan all along. In seconds, they start kissing like teenagers at a drive-in.

  “Hey hey hey, knock it off. No one wants to see that shit. Where the hell are Chance and Jane? I need them as a buffer. It’s bad enough I have to deal with Liam sulking over here like a damn two-year-old.”

  Liam O’Donnell pries his left arm out from where it was crossed in front of his chest long enough to show me his happy middle finger. Completely oblivious to the naked woman on stage, his gaze is pinned to the back where the performers enter. His body is tense, and his jaw muscles clench in agitation. The kid needs a drink, but he’s refusing anything but water tonight because although he hasn’t admitted it, he’s afraid of losing his shit.

  We’re at Cardinal Sin for two reasons tonight. One is for my role in the P4H business. Since my mother was a professional ballroom dancer and I was exposed to different styles of dance growing up, the guys put me in charge of recruitment—not that any of that has to do with the kind of dancing you do while taking your clothes off, but whatever. My job is to seek out new talent and offer them unique contracts that ensure their privacy and anonymity. P4H is perfect for those who enjoy the job but don’t want to advertise it. Any time we have open positions, I check out the guys on amateur night on the upper floor, which is where the men perform.

  Chance Danvers is my other best friend and P4H business partner. He’s currently upstairs talking to the two guys we thought had potential. Jane Wendall, his girlfriend and Addison’s best friend, is with him. Normally we don’t bring the girls with us to the strip joint, but they’re here for the second
reason we’re here tonight.

  Liam’s best friend, Raquel, is performing as one of the amateur females for her birthday bucket list. I think it’s great and can’t wait to cheer her on—I brought a roll of fifty singles just for her—but Liam is not happy about it. “Cheer up, O’Donnell, it’s just one night.”

  “And what if she likes it and decides to make it a regular thing?” he asks, glaring at me.

  “So what if she does, Mr. Hypocrite?”

  Yeah, Liam’s a stripper when he’s not attending school. The ladies go crazy for his Irish looks with the red hair and fair skin. He’s a handful of years younger than us, and he’s like the little brother none of us had.

  “It’s not the same, Massey. If I have a client who becomes obsessed with me, I simply decline the business, or we send someone else. This place might not be a shithole, but if some guy gets it in his head that she’s his, that could be dangerous.”

  He’s right, of course—men are pigs, and the real bad ones are entitled pigs who feel like they’re owed something from the world, including a girl he might like—but Liam’s looking too much into this. I really think this is just a bucket-list thing for Raquel.

  Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I give him a squeeze of brotherly support. “All I’m saying is stop putting the cart before the horse, man.”

  “Yeah, all right.” He lets out a resigned sigh, but the tension in his body doesn’t go anywhere. Nothing I say is going to change that; he has to work out his issues on his own. Or better yet, with Raquel.

  The stripper-angel finishes her number to cheers from the audience and a shower of dollar bills that she quickly gathers up before exiting in the back, blowing kisses to her fans. I remember her being announced as a regular, which means the next couple will be amateurs.

  “Listen up, gentlemen,” the MC says into the microphone in his radio DJ voice. “Next up is one of our favorites here at Cardinal Sin. She’s been with us for several amateur nights, and we’re so damn glad she keeps coming back.”

  The crowd gets noticeably louder, apparently knowing who’s about to perform. Raquel didn’t tell us her stage name, but since this is her first time, it’s definitely not her. Mild curiosity at the audience’s reaction has me focusing my attention to the shadows where Liam’s been staring for the last hour.