by K. A. Tucker
“Huh.” I don’t doubt that she worked there. The way she dances, she knows what she’s doing. “Okay, good.”
“Why . . . you tapping that?”
“John . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.” His disbelief annoys me. “I’m gonna be in Miami in a few months, I think. I’ll swing by. Enjoy a show or two.”
“You do that. Ask for Mercy. Your fat, old ass will have a heart attack.”
The responding roar of laughter makes me shake my head and smile. John is in his early fifties and, if he’s as I remember him, he’s still living off black coffee and greasy burgers. “It’d be good to see you again, my friend.”
Hanging up the phone, I flip through the stack of papers with Charlie’s scrawled handwriting. So, she’s been off the grid for four years. She would have been crashing at friends’ places. Guys’ places. Taking jobs under the table to make ends meet. I guess that’s why there’s no record of her. No gas bills, no credit cards. Nothing.
Maybe she was afraid of being found and that’s why she laid low. Or maybe she found out that her dad is in jail for life and figures she’s safe, so she’s come out of hiding.
Speculation. That’s all I’ve got.
That she refused Rick Cassidy’s demands tells me she probably wasn’t making ends meet in alleyways. I find myself breathing easier over that knowledge. But she’s got the designer shoes and clothes. And the brand-new car that she got from a supposed inheritance. I find that detail hard to believe, especially now.
I rub my chin slowly as I ponder this riddle. There’s an excellent possibility that Charlie was getting paid for sex, but if so, with a very wealthy clientele. A sugar daddy, even. But then, where’s all the money? Where did it go? Why no bank account until a few months ago?
It doesn’t matter, I decide, with steely resolve. If she’s here, she must be trying to start over. And it’s time that I stop avoiding her because, just maybe, I can help.
If she’ll trust me.
And if I can control myself around her.
■ ■ ■
Blasts of music hit me as I stroll out to the floor. Ben’s face splits into a wide smile when he sees me, and his mouth starts moving as he says something into his earpiece to all the bouncers. I have a good idea what it is, because Nate filled me in on the rising chatter. I just shoot him a severe look and keep walking. For years, I made a few laps around the club each night. But the customers started getting on my nerves, and watching my employees flaunt their bodies has never been my thing. So I stopped coming out about two years ago, unless there was an issue that security couldn’t handle.
And yet, every night for the past two weeks, when the hands on my wall clock approach eleven, I find myself wandering out with glass of cognac in hand to lean against the rail.
Like Pavlov’s dog.
Only there’s no juicy bone at the end of the road. Just a gorgeous dancer and mounting frustration.
I’ve become a masochist. The affliction seems to have developed overnight. The night that Charlie started working here, to be precise. And each night after that, as I came out to watch her strip.
For me.
It’s very clearly, very obviously, for me.
The tension between the two of us is palpable and growing at an alarming rate into a heady, and highly risky, intimate connection. I’m addicted. There’s no way in hell that I can sit still in my office while Charlie’s up here on my stage anymore. Worse . . . I’ve started coming out to the bar later in the night. I have enough common sense to stay away from her, killing the time by having conversations with Nate, some of the other dancers, and the few regular customers whom I don’t want to choke.
But the electric charge between us keeps intensifying.
I find Nate standing in his stationary spot—with the best view of the floor—and slap him over the shoulder. He knows better than to comment about my timed appearance. “How’s it going? Crammed again, I see.”
With a grunt, he reports, “Tossed two guys out, but it’s been pretty tame so far.”
“Good.” My eyes drift over the floor, mentally calculating how much an average girl will take home tonight with this big a crowd. A solid amount, thankfully. A glance at the stage shows me that Cherry is nearing the tail end of her show.
She’s up next.
Nate’s attention shifts to his earpiece for a moment. With a scowl, I hear him announce, “Kinsley and China are at it again. Ben’s heading into the dressing room now to break it up.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “What am I going to do? One of them is gonna have to go if this keeps up.” It will have to be Kinsley. The girl is putting herself through college with this job, but I’m not as worried about her making the kind of stupid, desperate decisions that China might make. She’d end up back somewhere like Sin City if I fired her.
“Maybe you should go and talk to them,” Nate suggests.
“Maybe you should,” I throw back. The last time I went into a dressing room to break up a catfight, it ended in tears and two sobbing, naked women rubbing themselves up against my sides and pleading with me to forgive them.
“Hell, no. I take care of security. Find a manager to deal with that shit.”
“Sure thing! Just introduce me to someone who won’t rob me or treat my employees like whores.” Twice in the past, I hired managers because I knew that I needed help running a club this size. I caught the first one skimming from the late-night deposits, while trying to pin it on the bartenders. I caught the second one in a private room, demanding lap dances in exchange for better time slots onstage. The idiot didn’t even have the sense to turn the cameras off. When I played it for him, his only response was a shrug and, “I thought you were kidding about that.”
I shake my head. “I need a female manager to handle this shit.” Ginger already takes care of most of the female staff shift scheduling. She offered to take that on years ago, after one of the dancers handed me a sheet of paper with her menstrual cycle dates to plan around. I’m good at lining up apartments and chasing off deadbeat boyfriends. I’m not the guy who keeps track of hormonal schedules.
“And an onsite shrink,” Nate pipes in, earning my grunt of agreement.
Terry’s voice booms over the sound system as Ben sidles up next to me. “All sorted out. For now.”
“How?”
Ben runs his hands up and down his chest. “I told them they don’t have to fight over me. I’ll gladly take both of them out after work, tonight.”
“So you threatened them . . .”
Ben chuckles softly. After a moment’s pause, he casually asks, “What are you doing out here, boss? Oh, wait.” Glancing at his nonexistent watch with a mock frown, he announces, “Is it eleven already?”
“You can wipe that shit-eating grin off your face anytime now, Morris.”
It only gets wider.
“When do those bar results come back?” I keep my voice flat as I turn back to watch the stage.
“Why?”
“So I can fire your ass for real.”
“September.” He smirks, not in the least bit worried. “So . . . she’s still single, from the sounds of it,” Ben remarks as the first chords of a hard song come on. Every one of Charlie’s picks is different from the usual pop dance tunes. The songs are fast-paced and energetic, but with an edge, much like her on that stage. It’s as if she transforms into another person.
By the twinkle in Ben’s eyes, I know he’s egging me on. “No idea.” That’s a lie. I do have an idea. I’m pretty sure she’s single. Tanner hasn’t seen anyone coming in or out of her place, from what he’s told me.
And of course, I’ve asked him to keep an eye out.
“She’s something else,” Ben murmurs, standing straight as the curvy figure stalks out in a new outfit—a short, pleated skirt and torn-up tee—and
dives right into a fancy, spinning move as her eyes graze over mine. “Shit, did you see that look she just gave me?”
“That wasn’t for—” I bite back the rest of my response. Fuck, I took the bait and Ben knows it, but he doesn’t call me on it. He only continues being an ass.
“Quiet and calm. Focused. Not annoying and whiny. Just so . . . mysterious. I could see myself with her.” I feel my teeth grinding together as Ben leans in toward me. “You’ve got a little while longer to grow a pair, but when I leave here . . . I make no promises. Except one.” His brow arches. “She won’t turn me down.”
“Get to work, Morris.” I’m ready to knock a few of his pretty-boy white teeth out of that arrogant mouth. But mostly, I want him to go away so I can focus all my attention on my girl.
Shit, not my girl.
Ben leaves with a triumphant grin on his face. I don’t know if he’s just goading me or if he’s not kidding about going after her. With Ben, you never really know. But what if the cocky bastard’s right and she doesn’t turn him down?
Ah, fuck.
I turn back to watch Charlie’s hips roll in a provocative twist, the tiny bikini bottoms beneath her skirt reveal enough ass to stir the all-too-familiar throb between my legs. She doesn’t even have to be naked for that to happen. She’s drop-dead beautiful, fully clothed. I’m kind of glad that she does herself up the way she does onstage, with the curls and the heavy makeup and the contacts. It means the crowd doesn’t get to see her as she is. The real her. What I got to see.
And maybe that’s what she’s hiding.
“She’s as good as Penny was.” Those words feels like a punch to my gut. Nate never brings Penny up. In fact, he hardly ever refers to this place by its name. It’s always just the bar, or the club.
“She is.” Maybe even better. The crowd loved Penny. She was beautiful and sweet and, despite working the VIP rooms, she still somehow maintained that air of innocence. I think she was just looking for someone to love her. Using her body as enticement was the only way she thought they might.
“Is that what all this is about?” Nate prods. “She reminds you of Penny?”
I run my tongue over my teeth, deciding what I want to say. Nate’s not a guy I brush off. Not after everything we’ve been through together. Not when he brings up Penny. “No. I mean, she looks like her and dances like her, but . . .” Charlie doesn’t seem so innocent. And where Penny was bubbly and sweet and transparent, Charlie is reserved and impossible to decipher. I don’t think she’s devoid of emotion; I think she just internalizes it more than most. But why?
“She seems to have her head on straight, from what I’m hearing. And she can’t keep her eyes off you.”
Here we go. This is what I’ve been putting up with from Ben and Ginger. Apparently, now I’m going to get it from Nate. “I don’t know when this place turned into a fucking high school cafeteria at lunchtime, Nate.”
He ignores me. “You know, everyone here would be happy if you’d make a move.”
I peel my focus off Charlie’s muscular legs looping around the pole to look my giant confidante straight in the eye now. “Oh, yeah. They’d be really happy to watch the boss exploit the fresh twenty-two-year-old stripper,” I mutter, my voice full of sarcasm. Nate’s voice turns rough as he crosses his arms. “Yeah, they would, Cain. Well,” he adds, “maybe not China, but she’d get over it.”
My eyes roll. China’s had a thing for me for years now. While she’s respected my insistence that we keep our relationship platonic, I’m no idiot. I know her interests have lingered.
“My point is that you’ve proven your point. You’re not in this for the ass or the money or a power trip. You’re not a fucking criminal.” He levels me with one of his more ominous Nate stares. “You’re not your parents.”
I turn to match his stare and lower my voice. “Charlie doesn’t need to be tied to someone like me. I can’t do that to her.” He knows what I’m talking about. He carries my guilty secrets with him as if they were his own.
A loud round of cheers erupts and I turn back to the stage in time to see Charlie’s top fly off, a coy smile curving that wide mouth of hers as she watches me take in her black lace bra. Beneath that . . . My breath hitches. Damn. I’m pretty sure I could have that. Tonight, if I wanted. If I were a complete asshole.
Thank God my office came equipped with a private shower. I’ll have that dial cranked to ball-shrinking cold tonight. Just like every other night since she started this whole game of hers.
I never expected this from her.
And I never expected to enjoy it so much.
“Why haven’t you let her work the rooms yet, then?” Nate asks.
I take a sip of my drink. My fourth of the night. “I don’t think she’s ever worked a V.I.P. room before.”
“So what? Neither had Mercy. Or Hannah. Or Levi . . .”
I know exactly what Nate’s getting at. I’ve never stopped any of the girls from doing what they want to make money, as long as they’re safe and it’s legal, because I’m smart enough to know that if they’ve wrapped their heads around the idea of doing it, then me telling them no isn’t going to stop it from happening. They’ll just end up at some sleazy place like Sin City or Teasers. Or worse . . . in a back alley. Somewhere no one’s looking out for them. “You know, for a man with a daily word maximum of ten, you’ve gone way over today.”
The only response I get is a snort. And that lethal stare.
“Fine. I don’t want Charlie doing that shit with anyone.” I don’t judge these girls for what they do and I won’t treat them with less respect because of it. Hell, I’m enabling them. But, I remember the knots in my stomach every time I saw Penny go back into a V.I.P. room. I hated her going back in there. I hated the idea of her on those guys’ laps.
But I let it happen.
And every time I tried to picture myself with Penny, the knowledge that I allowed her to sell herself like that crept into the image, like dirty fingerprints on an otherwise beautiful canvas. When I clued in that Charlie likely hasn’t worked the V.I.P. room before . . . I’m not going to lie, excitement coursed through me.
She’s not tainted by those dirty fingerprints.
Yet.
And I selfishly don’t want to let it happen.
“With anyone except you, you mean,” Nate cuts into my thoughts with that knowing tone of his.
“I haven’t laid a—”
“But you want to. Admit it.”
I say nothing.
“She’s the first person I’ve seen you look at twice since Penny was around. And you never used to come out and watch Penny onstage like this. Charlie’s gotten under your skin. That’s gotta mean something, Cain.”
“It means I must be really hard up.” That’s the understatement of the fucking century. The night I moved Charlie into her new place, Grace—a twenty-eight-year-old heiress to a prominent Sonoma Valley vineyard—was in town and paid me a late-night visit. I couldn’t keep Charlie’s violet eyes and doll face out of my head. That would have been fine, had I not called her name out as I was coming.
After that night, I’ve avoided calling Vicki or Rebecka or any of the others on my speed dial, figuring I’d get my infatuation with the girl under control before I risked insulting another woman like that. Two weeks later, my balls are ready to burst. I don’t know how the monks survive. Probably by not watching live strip shows daily.
I inhale sharply as Charlie unclasps the black lace bra, wincing with a spasm of pain in my groin as two candy-pink nipples appear. Ben is right. They should be fake, they’re so perfectly round and . . . perfect. I both love and hate that she’s up there on the stage. Love because it’s the only way I’ll get to see her like this and it feeds the sick fantasies constantly swirling around in my head. Hate because everyone else is seeing her like this and having those same fucking dirty th
oughts.
Looking at those strong yet delicate limbs, I can’t help but wonder if her abusive father had dirty thoughts of her. My teeth instantly clench at that question, taking my desire down a few notches. How many times were those beautiful body parts bruised and broken by that jerk-off? Thank God he’s in jail or I’d hunt him down and make him really suffer.
“John got back to me, Nate. Charlie’s got a past, full of assholes. She doesn’t need another one to add to her collection.”
Nate heaves a sigh, shaking his head. “Shit,” I hear him mutter under his breath. If there’s one guy whose soft spot for these girls is as sensitive as mine, it’s Nate.
“She’s here to make money, not deal with her boss hitting on her.” Even though she seems intent on torturing me. “And I have enough to deal with. I don’t need to add an affair with an employee to my own plate. I’m doing the right thing by staying away from her.” I can hear the tone in my voice. It’s solid and convincing. I’m not really trying to convince Nate, though.
It’s me who needs the convincing, as I watch her, imagining what her sweat tastes like.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be standing out here like a starving kid waiting for a piece of fresh bread, then,” he scolds in a dry tone. “You’re tormenting yourself, you dumbass.”
“Fuck off,” I throw back. A heavyset guy on the side of the stage catches my eye. He’s hollering something at Charlie. I can’t hear him but I can read his lips, the vile words forming in his mouth. The way he’s gesturing crudely at his lap.
“And get that fucker in the yellow shirt out of my club, right now,” I bark. Normally, I don’t kick patrons out for yelling things and gesturing. It’s an adult entertainment club where women grind on guys’ laps until they explode in their pants, for God’s sake. And yet I’ve been booting out customers every night for two weeks when Charlie comes on.
Nate doesn’t say a word. He simply strolls over and, with a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder and what I imagine is a forceful instruction in his ear, he escorts the guy out without argument. No one ever argues with Nate.