The Sirens of SaSS Anthology

by Anthology

  Light laughter seeped through the crack in Trick’s office door.

  “Hello?” she called as she pushed open the door to witness Trick embracing Vivi. Another spear of anger hit her square in the chest when Trick grinned down at Vivi with that same charming smile he'd used on her countless times.

  They both looked up at Rachel as soon as the door hit the wall with a loud bang. She wasn't sorry.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Rachel said sweetly. “Nathan needs more tequila from the back storage area. Show me? I never got that promised tour.” She glared at Vivi, who didn't look a bit embarrassed, but rather amused.

  “Catch me later, okay?” Vivi kissed Trick on the cheek. “Thanks again.” Her hand trailed down his arm to his hand, which she squeezed conspiratorially.

  Rachel didn't yield an inch of floor space when Vivi scooted by her.

  Trick shook his head and sighed. “What the hell was that, Rachel?”

  “What was what?”

  “You know what.” He passed her and stepped out into the hall. “You coming or not?”

  She followed him out.

  Chapter Eight

  As they neared a door painted bright pink, he said, “Beginning of tour. First, don't ever go in there, the dancers’ area. They don't like anyone to see what it takes to make the magic.”

  “Magic, huh?”

  He shrugged. “You've seen the show.”

  Shakedown employed many dancers, but Rachel had learned few were as popular as the triplets.

  The fuchsia door cracked open, and a tsunami of color, feathers, and blinding crystals strode toward her. The two women she recognized as Phoenix Rising and her sister Luna Belle, looking like Las Vegas showgirls, nearly blinded Rachel as they moved into the hallway.

  Luna Belle smiled, all sultry and flirty. “Trick.”

  “Ladies.”

  As they scooted by, Rachel could see the women's perfect porcelain skin and bright, blue eyes. A giant, purple ostrich feather boa casually draped around Phoenix Rising's creamy shoulders smacked Rachel in the face as she strode by. As her gaze followed their generous hips swaying down the hall, she held back a sneeze at the waft of orange blossom and feather dust. The two dancers gracefully tripped up two steps and disappeared behind a set of curtains that led to the stage.

  “Don't let the Sunset bother you,” Trick said.

  “Why do you call her that? I thought it was Phoenix Rising.”

  “Declan calls her Sunset. As for why… that’s not my story to tell.” He pushed open a set of double doors at the end of the hall and gestured for her to step into the darkness.

  A click preceded a blinding wash of light that lit a cavernous space that stretched out at least one hundred feet before her. Dust motes, kicked up from their entrance, floated in the warm air.

  “It's like Mardi Gras in here. Props?” She pointed to her right where dance cages, a huge martini glass that someone could swim in, a makeshift train trolley, and a giant Chinese New Year's dragon head rested alongside a tall, cinder block wall.

  “Yep.” Trick's footfalls echoed on the concrete floor.

  To her left, she counted garment racks three rows deep stuffed with ornate and gaudy costumes dripping with sequins, crystals, and feathers. Dead ahead, a mountain of red caught her eye.

  “A bull?” she asked. Large nostrils made commas on the crimson face. Huge horns jutted from either side of its head. All that plus the deep-set eyes gave the prop a remarkable life-like quality.

  “Mechanical.” He strode to it and patted its side. “The triplets specialize in trying to outdo one another in their individual acts. This one's for the Sunset's matador act.”

  “Dramatic.” She touched the soft fur.

  “It's not the most dramatic thing she's done.”

  She and Trick proceeded down a corridor between tall shelves. One side held cases of liquor, while the other side held boxes of supplies from napkins to cutlery and flower arrangements.

  Trick opened a box and pulled out a bottle of Patron. “This what Nathan wants?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.” She walked deeper into the warehouse, her attention caught by the change in inventory. The scent of papier-mâché glue and cardboard shifted to the stronger smell of leather and mothballs.

  “Why are all these pieces of furniture and paintings in here?”

  “Declan used to own a string of antique stores. Some of this stuff is Nathan's, Max's, mine. Declan doesn't charge for storage.”

  She ran her hand over an antique leather club chair, which she'd bought Trick for Christmas one year. She thought it was something a lawyer would sit in. “I recognize this. Don't you have your own place?”

  “I do. But some things I don't want to see every day.”

  The barb didn't go unnoticed or unfelt. It could have been worse. Trick hadn't sold the chair.

  He lifted the bottle of tequila. “Nathan doesn't need this, does he? What do you want to talk to me about, Rachel?”

  “Of course he does.” She took the Patron from him.

  “Just ask me, Rachel.” Trick widened his stance.

  Okay, if he were willing to give answers, she'd ask. “What is this place really? How can you afford that suit and a Mercedes? Drugs? Prostitution?” The three million you stole? Okay, not the questions she'd expected to lead with.

  His face hardened. “Still suspicious. I knew there was a reason you wanted to work here. I'm paid well by Declan.”

  “For doing what?”

  “I’m club manager. You know that. Stop with the insinuations, Rachel. It's unbecoming of you and insulting to the people who gave you a better job.”

  “I am not ungrateful, but something's not right.” She'd quite stupidly provoked that hardening on his face, the dead opposite of where she'd wanted to head. He might clam up.

  “You’ve become a very suspicious woman, Rachel. Not very attractive.”

  “Yeah…well, it’s a funny side effect from being conned. I would be a lot friendlier, ya know, if you paid me back.” She couldn't seem to make her mouth behave and stick to her plan of a stealthy investigation.

  “I didn’t take your money. You ever going to hear me? Believe me? Ever stop being so angry?”

  “Maybe not. If you don't have the money as you say, why aren't you angrier?”

  “Funny side effect… after being disbarred, losing my fiancé, and serving time for a wrongful conviction, my life got better.”

  She felt her chest cave in a little from that remark.

  He scrubbed his chin. “I didn’t mean better for losing you, but rather—”

  “I know what you meant.” He did look like a man who'd moved on. Perhaps that's what unsettled her the most. If she'd been incarcerated unfairly, someone's head would be on a stick. Instead, he seemed to have a job, friends, a slutty blonde . . .

  Stop sign.

  She turned on her heel. He caught up with her just as she rounded that stupid, giant mechanical bull.

  He grabbed her arm. “Rachel . . .”

  She spun. “Who's Vivi to you?” She couldn't hold that not-so-little question back anymore. “I mean I didn't expect you to live like a monk since . . .” She couldn't say the word. How funny given she'd had no problem tossing the word “prison” in his face many times since their little reunion.

  “Prison?” he filled in for her. “Vivi is a friend.”

  “With benefits, huh?”

  “Jealous?” He stepped forward, his face unreadable. She backed up until her heels hit the cart on which the bull stood.

  “You wish.”

  He took the bottle of tequila from her and set it on the concrete floor. He then took both her cheeks in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers. Jesus, those lips wiped her brain clean. When he finished kissing her into silence, he kept his hands on her face.

  “Vivi's husband is in jail, and she's terrified his brothers are going to come after her since she landed him there for beating the shit out of her regularly. Declan told
her to come here whenever she felt threatened. Expect to see her often. We've installed security in her home and try to protect her when and where we can.”

  “Oh.” Shame filled her. “I'm sorry.”

  Trick pressed his body against hers until she leaned back against the bull. “You were jealous. Admit it.”

  “You can wipe that smug look off your face.”

  “No, I don't think I will.”

  “Yes, I’m jealous, and I'm still angry. It's not fair, I’ve had to scratch and claw for the bare necessities while you seem to be doing just fine,” she said. It also wasn't fair that Trick smelled this good as his crotch met hers—fully.

  “Life's not fair,” he said. “But somehow the truth always comes out in the end.”

  “Like who stole money.”

  “And like who's still in love with who.” He stared down at her lips again.

  Oh, God. She'd underestimated one part of her plan in getting close to Trick, and that was she'd literally be this close to Trick. Her body reacted the way it always did when in his vicinity—ready for action.

  “I knew you were still in love with me,” she whispered.

  “That was never in question.” He huffed, and his lips rose into a half smile. “Unfortunately. Life would be a hell of a lot easier if I wasn’t.”

  She let herself melt against the bull. It was surprisingly steady, which was a good thing as Trick didn’t show any signs of pulling back.

  Remember he's a con. You're here to get your money back.

  His hand cupped her face. “Don't start crying on me again.”

  “You're helpless when I cry, aren't you?” Her voice cracked.

  “Rachel.” He said her name as if it was his favorite word.

  Her plan wasn't going to work. Her misplaced desire was going to be her undoing. She should move on for real, forget the money, forget everything . . . Stop sign. Stop sign.

  “We could be friends,” she offered.

  “Agreed.” He peered down with eyes that glowed more blue than gray in the too-bright light. His fingers skimmed her hips.

  “We wouldn't be anything else. Work colleagues. That's all.” She gripped his biceps. The ridged muscle under her hands tensed, and her body responded to him like the traitor it was. Her legs trembled and her pulse quickened as his hands roamed over her body. A heated drop of moisture between her thighs told the truth. She wanted him so badly, she'd forgotten why she was here—and if he thumbed her nipple once more like that, she might forget her own name.

  “You mean I shouldn't do this?” He inched up her dress and his fingers snuck under the elastic of her panties. “Or this?” The thumb of his other hand, possessively holding her breast, brushed so lightly over her hardened nipple that her body leaned forward, begging for more pressure.

  “Yes, that.” Her voice strained.

  “Tell me to stop then,” he said.

  The word “stop” was on the tip of her tongue, as was the forest of stop signs standing proudly in her mind. Oh, but the way he grazed her nipple, the way he looked down at her, she couldn't have uttered the word “stop” if he were feeling her up on the main stage in front of a Saturday night crowd.

  “No,” she managed to get out.

  It didn't take long for him to pull up her dress, have her panties pooled at her ankles and raise her legs to wrap his waist. He was equally adept at pulling out his cock from his trousers. What wasn't quick was the pace in which he entered her, slowly and deliberately as if trying to drive her mad. God, to be so full of him . . . Circling her hands around his trim waist, she took a long minute to feel the hard muscle of his back under her hands. The weight of man against her, the smell of his neck, the stretch inside her—all the things she’d missed for the last few years and all because she couldn’t get the one who stared down at her now out of her mind. Her palms were sticky against his suit jacket. She wanted to rip it off him, but she was afraid to break the slow in-and-out rhythm of strokes. Trick gazed down at her, his eyes half-closed in a mix of mad lust and fascination. She inhaled that woodsy scent mixed with his musk, and her pussy contracted in response. Her hips met every slow, delicious thrust in an effort to lodge him in deeper. For long minutes she reveled in him, her back pressed against a stupid, mechanical bull in a warehouse filled with props designed to create a fantasy, an illusion—like the illusion the past four years had never happened. She kept an eye lock on the man who'd broken her heart into a thousand pieces and who she might still love. So much for her grand plan of get in, get her money, and run.

  She was so fucked.

  Chapter Nine

  Declan's number flashed across Trick’s cell phone screen.

  “Max find him?” he asked, bypassing the hello pleasantries. He chalked up his brevity to distraction. Rachel sashayed up the steps to her crumbling brick apartment building, her ass looking fine in that tight dress. Thank God she'd finally let him drive her home so he could see where she lived. He needed to get her out of this dump immediately. He also needed to get her a car—enough with the Uber rides.

  “Working on it,” Declan said. “No one's got a Jacob Anthony Grant on the books of any major company. If he’s on an oil rig, it’s not logged. Maybe an assumed name?”

  “He’s not that smart. I got his cell number. It’s 703-559-4410.” With any luck, he'd never have to admit how he swiped her phone from her employee locker and downloaded her contacts. He’d add it to the list of little white lies that were piling up like kindling waiting to be lit.

  “I'll get Max on it,” Declan said.

  Trick straightened in his seat, and not because he was watching a drug deal go down on the corner—two teenagers by the look of them. “Don't tell him what Jay did. I'm not trying to get him killed.”

  Declan huffed into the phone. “I'll tell Max to let us know when he's found. He won't be touched.”

  Max's former gang life—one that landed him in jail for more years than he was free—made Trick nervous. When Max got out of prison, he tracked down and “eliminated” each person responsible for the drug bust that landed him in prison, including one guy who'd fled to Thailand. According to Max, the snitch would never return to the U.S. Declan swore the man's killing days were over. Trick wasn't so sure.

  “We have to find him, Declan.”

  “We will. How's Rachel doing?” Declan asked.

  “Already got Nathan hopping.” Shakedown didn't need another waitress, and Trick had had to convince Declan to hire her. Part of convincing Declan included revealing why Trick needed Rachel close, and why it was imperative they find Jay. God love his friend, he had gone along with his plan.

  “When are you going to tell her the truth?” Declan asked.

  “When it's time. I appreciate you helping me keep tabs on Rachel.” He wanted more than to keep her close. He wanted to start over with her. However, he knew Rachel and getting her to re-open a closed, mental door was akin to turning water to whiskey.

  “Not sure I agree with this arrangement,” Declan said. “But I owe you so—”

  “You don't, score's even,” Trick said.

  “Just be careful, my friend. From the little I have observed, her temper rivals the Sunset's.”

  “You may be right there. See you tomorrow.” A shady crowd milled around her building at three in the morning. He killed the call and debated whether or not he should spend the night in his car watching. When a patrol car slowly drove through and scattered the street kids like mice under a kitchen light, he started his car and turned to head home. At least the police knew where this neighborhood was, unlike his first residence after getting out of prison.

  He'd like to be in her bed right now, but she'd never acquiesce to such a thing. They still had explosive sexual chemistry, but she didn't trust him. He didn’t blame her. Her world had crumbled as much as his. For now, he'd settle for her believing he hadn't taken her money, and that would take finding the person who did.

  He wouldn't let himself hope the emotio
n she’d displayed to date was anything more than a game—a game she thought so secret. He knew what she was up to, and for now, he wouldn’t challenge her. She could pretend she didn’t have feelings for him, but he knew better. Getting her to admit such a thing? Water to whiskey.

  Chapter Ten

  Rachel woke far too early the next morning, and since she couldn't sleep anymore, she might as well try Jay again. She lay back on her pillow and picked up her phone.

  “Hello?” The voice was sweet, female, and not Jay’s. “I'm looking for Jay Grant?” Rachel looked at the phone screen. Nope, she had the right number. A muffled sound of the phone being handed over and a curse in the background made her sit upright.

  “Jay? I heard you,” Rachel shouted into the phone.

  “Heeeey, sis.”

  “Who answered the phone? Where are you?”

  He yawned into the phone. “On a mini-break.”

  “Thought you were shipping out again.”

  “Yeah, got delayed.”

  “Okay.” She didn't believe him but she had news. “I found Trick Masters’ safe.” Yesterday, she'd been walking by when she found him crouched by a filing cabinet that, in truth, was a front of a small safe. She’d figure out the combination, starting with a bunch of numbers she knew were his favorites—if she could ever get inside his office without him.

  “I'm getting our money back,” she whispered. It'd been killing her to keep her plan to herself.

  A loud shuffling. “You got money? Wait. Trick's safe?”

  A soft woman's voice in the background called to him.

  “Did she just call you baby? You have a girlfriend you didn't tell me about? What is going on, Jay?” She pushed up her pillow to cushion her head as she leaned back.