by Tami Lund
Maybe she was interested in having a fuck buddy. That would be perfect. Then he could just sleep with her as often as he wanted, for as long as he wanted, until he was finally over this slightly annoying … What was it, exactly, that he was feeling? An affliction? A problem? Was she a potential complication?
Jack didn’t usually get involved with women. He enjoyed women. He enjoyed sex. He occasionally enjoyed sex with the same woman for short spurts of time. But he did not obsess over them. He did not turn down opportunities with other women because he’d really rather be with one specific brown-haired lady with bright green eyes and a yen for sex in limos.
He did not come up with excuses to hang out with his partner and best friend on the off chance that a specific woman would happen to also be hanging out at his friend’s house.
It must be the sex. She’d been damned amazing; so open and inviting, so reactive to everything he did. For Christ’s sake, when had he ever forgotten to put on a condom? Never, that’s when. Even as an eager, desperate-to-get-laid teen, he’d still remembered the condom.
Yeah, he definitely needed to sleep with her again.
Lancelot clapped his hands and cut the music. “Okay, I declare you good enough,” he said with a sharp nod. “You’re still a little rough, but we’ll put you into the rotation toward the end. The ladies will be so liquored up by then that they’ll hardly notice. And you are definitely a sexy slab of beef, with an impressive package to show off, so that’s all they’ll be looking at anyway.”
Jack had never felt so damned demeaned in all his life.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Jack turned at the sound of the aggressive voice, instantly reaching for the gun that wasn’t there before catching himself and letting his hands drop to his sides. He followed Lancelot out of the small practice room and into the makeshift dressing room The dressing room was separated from the stage and the front of the club by temporary walls the revue set up to convert what was normally a dance club into a strip club.
He should have known Cullen was the reason for the dancer’s pissed off tone. His undercover partner strutted into the dressing room wearing a giant attitude and a black t-shirt underneath a black, loose-fitting unbuttoned collared shirt and a pair of black jeans. The loose-fitting shirt concealed the weapon that Cullen had flat-out refused to give up, despite the club owner’s protest that guns were strictly forbidden in his club.
“Somebody has to be armed,” Cullen had said. “And it sure as hell can’t be Jack. That thong isn’t big enough to carry a gun. Hell, it’s barely big enough to hold him in.”
Cullen was getting far too much enjoyment out of this assignment. Jack would have to figure out a way to exact revenge when this was over and done.
“I’m your protection,” Cullen declared now in a clearly mocking tone. “Since none of you pretty boys are able to protect yourselves.” He was solidly into his role as the angry, slightly jealous bouncer being forced to protect a bunch of male strippers from their own clientele.
“At least we need protection,” someone chimed out from behind a row of costumes hanging from an aluminum rack, “since we’re more likely to get laid.”
That comment was greeted with assent and chuckles of appreciation even as Jack thought, not likely. Cullen, since his wedding, was happier than Jack had ever known him, and he and Cullen had been partners for more than ten years.
Cullen ignored the comment and began pacing back and forth in front of the door that led out to the club proper. “I’ve been instructed that all you pansies are too wimpy to make it to your cars alone when the show’s over. My job’s to babysit you, both inside and out of the club. So don’t even think about leaving without an escort.”
The chuckles turned into grumbles and a few threats. One dancer even stepped forward, as if he intended to challenge Cullen. Cullen didn’t look the least bit fazed. Danny Diamond slipped into the room.
“His instructions come from me,” Danny announced, crossing his arms over his chest and planting his legs a shoulder’s width apart as he stood and glared at each dancer in turn.
“I’m sick and fucking tired of losing my dancers. You all represent a lot of money to me, and I don’t like to lose money. So you’re going to put up with the asshole guard, and you’re going to do whatever the hell he says, so that you all can come back here each night and make me more money. Got it?”
“What if he asks me to blow him?” That comment came from the back again.
Jack scanned the group, trying to determine who was the smartass. He spotted the one: a dancer who was on the short side but had massive pecs and arms the size of a large woman’s thighs. He wore a black cowboy hat and black leather straps tied around his biceps, and a pair of chaps covered his legs. Jack made a mental note to keep an eye on him. The loudest smartasses were usually the ones least likely to follow the rules. And his job, like Cullen’s, was to keep these guys alive. All of them. Smartasses or not.
Danny shrugged. “That’s your prerogative,” he said dismissively. “Just don’t fucking leave this club without an escort, got it?”
“I leave every night with an escort,” the smart-mouthed cowboy said. “But her tits are usually bigger than this guy’s.”
“Ranger, I’m going to kick your ass myself if you smart off again.”
Jack learned, throughout the course of the next several hours, that each of the dancers had a nickname, and it generally was tied to their show. Ranger, for example, was the Lone Ranger, and he strutted onto the stage, amidst all the smoke and strobe lights, to the call, “High ho, cowboy!” before the spotlight snapped to life and the song “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” blasted over the loudspeakers. Sweetspot danced to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” Jack had no idea what Lancelot danced to. He didn’t even know what he was going to dance to, nor his nickname.
Danny and Cullen disappeared into the front of the club again, and a short time later, Jack heard Danny’s voice, booming across the loudspeakers, talking up the “Sparkling Hot Diamond Show” the ladies were in for tonight.
“You think diamonds are a girl’s best friend?” Danny cooed into the microphone. “Wait till you see my boys’ rocks!”
The club erupted into cheers, clapping, and catcalls, and Jack whipped his head around to look at Lancelot. “We’re stripping to nothing?” He hadn’t expected that.
“Nah,” Lancelot said as he did last minute stretches. “Danny just likes to tease them. If they hold out eternal hope, they spend more money. Oh shit!” he said as the chords to “It’s Raining Men” poured from the speakers. “I forgot to show you Raining Men. Well, just watch tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll get you in there. This is how the ladies get to preview the show, decide which one of us they like best. Okay—showtime!” Lancelot trotted out onto the stage, leading the procession of dancers dressed in their various costumes and falling into character almost as if there was a switch at the door. Suddenly, Lancelot was a sexy, tempting, exotic dancer. Ranger was charming and appealing. Sweetspot looked as if he intended to make it his mission to find every damn sweet spot in that room.
Jack stood at the door, watching the show. The group of dancers worked well together. The intro was obviously choreographed, and each dancer was given his fifteen seconds in the spotlight as the rest continued to move in unison behind him.
Women surrounded the stage. All sorts of women: young, old, everything in between. He saw bachelorette parties, noted by the tiaras and sashes the brides-to-be wore, proclaiming their status. Danny walked through the crowd, stopping by each bride-to-be in turn and, using his microphone, demanded each woman tell him which dancer she liked best. Jack knew this was a ploy so that the particular dancer she chose would focus on her during his show. The tips would be out of this world.
There was a birthday party in the crowd as well. The woman of honor wore a little black dress and a sash that proclaimed her “forty and fabulous.” She picked Ranger as her favorite dancer, and he responded with a few exagg
erated hip thrusts in her direction.
There were small groups of women in their twenties and thirties, even a group of women who looked like stereotypical grandmothers, which made Jack shudder. Surely Mamaw didn’t still go to all male dance revues—if she ever did.
Women clearly traveled in packs to these sorts of things, he determined. There were precious few singles or even just two women standing together, apart from another crowd. Which meant if whoever was killing off dancers was here tonight, it was probably a woman, and she wasn’t working alone. He wasn’t sure if he bought that scenario, though. One of these women could be feeding information to someone on the outside. None of the killings had actually occurred inside any of the venues.
The first dancer started his solo routine, and Jack continued to scan the crowd, continued to watch for clues to the identity of a killer. Cullen, wandering through the crowd, was doing the same thing.
It occurred to him that he was glad he was the dancer and his partner was the security detail. There was always risk to their job, but in this case, Jack was literally putting himself out there as a decoy for a killer. His family would be saddened if something were to happen to him, but at least he wouldn’t be leaving a new bride behind. It was a sobering thought.
The evening wore on. There would be three sets of one-hour shows. The first one started at nine, with a group performance to “It’s Raining Men.” When that song ended, each dancer did his solo act, and the show ended with a group finale to “Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin. After a thirty-minute break, the entire thing started over again. The final show ended at one. The dancers spent the last hour wandering about the club, flirting with the patrons and collecting more tips, and the doors closed at two.
In order to see the show, the ladies had to pay a cover at the door, had to buy at least one drink, and if they wanted to sit by the stage, they had to pay for that privilege as well. When the first show was over, those ladies seated next to the stage either had to pay again or move back to the bar to watch the second show from afar. It was a hell of a racket, and Danny Diamond was making a lot of diamonds running this show.
The person or persons killing off his dancers could be doing it for a lot of reasons, but the most likely were jealousy or money—or both. The day before, when Cullen and Jack interviewed him at the crime scene, Danny admitted that he often stole his dancers from his competitors, luring them with the promise of more money, more fame, and better working conditions. More than one competitor had gone under as a result. He was the self-proclaimed king of traveling all-male revues.
And now, it looked as if someone had decided to get revenge.
Jack made it through his first solo set with most of his pride intact. Lancelot had suggested he down two shots of whiskey first, to relax his inhibitions. It worked. Although he did catch Cullen, standing off to the side of the stage, trying to shoot a video of the act with his camera, but he was shaking so hard from laughter that Jack doubted he got a decent shot. Thank God.
When it was over, and the rest of the dancers were out on stage, doing the finale, Danny made his way to Jack’s side.
“Not bad, kid. If you ever get tired of the crime-fighting gig, I’d give you a permanent job.”
“Thanks, but I’m good. I don’t think I could sustain this lifestyle long term.”
Danny shrugged. “The take at the door is great tonight. Sold out all three shows already. The publicity, it turns out, is good for business.”
“Does anyone in the crowd look familiar? Same faces as you’ve seen in other cities?”
Danny barked out a laugh. “Are you kidding? These guys have their own fan clubs. There’s a blog dedicated to Ranger and his act. Lancelot has 60,000 followers on Twitter. Everyone has Facebook accounts, and everyone gets marriage proposals daily. There are groupies that follow us to every city, no matter how big or small.”
“Well that certainly makes our job easier,” Jack muttered.
Danny shrugged again. “If this were easy, I wouldn’t have lost seven dancers by now. Good luck, kid. I’m going to go out there and warm ’em up for you.”
• • •
“What are you doing?” Kennedy hissed as she followed Vanessa, who elbowed her way through the throng of women all vying for a front-row seat at the second show. She was still reeling from the fact that she was actually attending a male strip show. Which, she supposed, was a slight step up from attending a female strip show. And now, it appeared she was going to sit in the front row.
“This is embarrassing,” she muttered as Vanessa pulled her down into a seat next to a tiny round table. They were seated to the side of the stage, near the restrooms but on the opposite side from where the dancers entered the stage. It was the best seat they were able to procure despite the very large bribe Vanessa gave the doorman.
“This is perfect,” her cousin declared as she waved at a scantily clad male server. “Shots,” she demanded when the server stopped at their table. “Blow jobs. God, I love being single.”
“You aren’t single,” Kennedy reminded her for the twentieth time, after the server walked away. Despite her attempts to sway her from it, Vanessa had insisted upon wandering through the various bars located in New Orleans’s entertainment district in a blatant attempt at tracking down Jack. She’d even texted Sabrina and asked her what Cullen and Jack were doing tonight.
Working, the reply text said. A new case. Which Kennedy had figured out long ago, because otherwise, she presumed Cullen would have been Sabrina’s date to her work function tonight. And Jack … well, she had no idea what Jack would have been doing. While she now knew the man intimately, she didn’t really know much about him at all.
The text did not deter Vanessa, who had downed several drinks by that point and refused to accept the idea that she was not going to get laid tonight. “Fine. Then let’s find a hotspot where I can pick up some other hottie for the night.”
“Vanessa, this is stupid. Call your husband. Talk to him. I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding.”
“Said she whose husband cheated on her and she was completely oblivious. At least I saw the signs and am acting on it now, instead of waiting to be blindsided.”
“How is this acting on it? Wait, let me rephrase that. How is this going to solve anything?”
“At least I’ll get laid. Burn off some excess energy.” Vanessa had rubbed her hands together in anticipation at that point.
Kennedy had been tempted to tell her that she’d lied, that Jerry hadn’t cheated after all and maybe Mac hadn’t either, but Vanessa wasn’t the type of person to whom one could confide such things, and, even three years later, Kennedy wasn’t ready to admit the truth to her family—or anyone.
Even if she had decided to have true confessions at that moment, it would not have mattered, because that was when Vanessa had spotted the crowd of women gathered in front of a club a block away. “What’s that?” she’d asked as she’d pointed.
“A dance club,” Kennedy replied. “Although I’ve never seen it so packed before. And where are the guys?”
Inside, she’d discovered a short time later. On the stage. Wearing little else other than baby oil and a few strategically placed bits of costume.
“No, no, no,” she said.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Vanessa replied.
The server returned bearing two shot glasses filled with Baileys and covered with a mound of whipped cream. He grinned as he took Vanessa’s money. An older, buff man straight out of The Sopranos suddenly appeared, holding a microphone in his hand. “Well, well, well, what have we here?” he asked into the microphone.
Kennedy groaned and was glad for the low lighting, because she knew her face must be puce from her embarrassment. Vanessa preened for the announcer.
“We’re having a single girl’s night on the town,” she said, her voice loud enough that the mic picked it up. “And we heard you have the best entertainment around!”
The announcer beamed at her. “You
heard right, sweetheart. Now, show us how good you are with your mouth. Go ahead. I bet my boys are watching right now,” he said loudly.
Vanessa clasped her hands behind her back and bent over the glass, wrapping her lips around the rim and then tilting it into the air as she swallowed the shot. The announcer’s and the server’s eyes widened.
“Your turn, Kennedy,” she said cheerfully, after she placed the glass on the table and licked her lips.
“Get this girl another!” the announcer boomed into the mic. “And her friend, too, even if she’s only half that good with her mouth!”
Kennedy shook her head to the chorus of catcalls. “I’ll pass. I … I have to drive.”
“Baby, I’ll call you a cab. Better yet, I’ll take you home with me. Show us what you got. I want to see lipstick stains on that glass.” He began to chant, “Do it, do it,” and it took almost no time for the entire club to pick up the cry.
“I hate you, Vanessa,” she hissed, and her cousin laughed as Kennedy reached for the glass.
“Uh uh,” the man with the mic taunted. “No hands.”
“I really hate you.” She huffed out a sigh and clasped her hands behind her back. After a few moments of staring at the tiny glass overflowing with whipped cream, Kennedy finally stretched her neck and opened her mouth.
A hand slammed down onto the table, sending the glass tumbling to the floor, where it shattered and splashed whipped cream and liquor all over her legs. She looked up and discovered Cullen’s stormy, very pissed off eyes glaring down at her. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, as if he were her older brother. Or father.
“Showing Vanessa the sights,” she said weakly.
“What are you doing here?” Vanessa demanded. She leapt from her chair and began scanning the crowd in earnest. “Are you working? Is Jack here, too? I want to see him.”
“Fuck,” Cullen snarled.