Shark's Edge

by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue

  But sure enough, this was really happening. I couldn’t deny it, despite my knees wobbling like the club’s velvet ropes in the brisk Santa Ana wind. As Sebastian exited the car and then reached in for me, I was at eye level to notice the stanchions for the ropes, designed like curvy women. The same design was repeated in the frosted glass cutouts in the club’s ornate purple doors.

  Approaching, I was so confused, so out of place, and the experience in my mind so at war with the actual one playing out before me. We were less than ten feet from those bright-purple doors, but the scene was quieter than a church. I was actually reassured to feel faint thumps under my feet that were matched by discernible vibrations on the air, hinting at the music inside.

  My face must have reflected my bewilderment, since Sebastian’s brief smile was the only break in the tension that had engulfed him during our twenty-minute drive. “City ordinances,” he said. “The club is their golden goose for tax revenues, but nobody in the neighborhood wants to know about it. Besides”—his lips twisted into a damn cute grimace—“the music usually sucks ass.”

  I cocked a brow. “But isn’t ‘sucking’ and ‘ass’ the name of the game here?”

  Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Come on, smarty-pants.”

  He laced his fingers through mine and clutched hard. I hung on with equal force. Okay, this really was going to happen. Not anything close to what I thought the day would bring when waking up this morning, but life taught me a long time ago that it rarely went as one expected.

  And sometimes, it fit expectations in scarily accurate detail.

  As soon as Sebastian paid our entry fees—along with generous advance tips for all the dancers—the doorman dipped a respectful nod and then swung the door open. At once, we were blasted by a nineties grunge tune blaring over warbling, fuzzy speakers.

  I could safely check off the box for strip club expectation number one.

  As a second bouncer opened a set of interior doors for us, Sebastian tucked my hand all the way under his arm. The next second, I knew why.

  In this big room, with my formfitting white T-shirt and my skinny jeans beneath these unforgiving black lights, I felt like the object of the whole room’s leering curiosity. Checked out and assessed from head to toe.

  This was an expectation box I’d hoped not to encounter.

  But thanks to Sebastian’s bared snarl and malignant glower, it was checked off with merciful speed.

  Boxes three, four, and five happened in rapid order as well.

  The big room smelling like booze, weed, cigarettes, and sweat? Check.

  The soundtrack consisting mostly of that nasty Nine Inch Nails song, woven with subdued conversations and appreciative male growls? Big check.

  A profusion of female flesh everywhere I looked, from the topless waitresses to the pair of beauties in G-strings twirling around poles on the stage? Bold-marked check.

  Yet despite my wide-eyed scrutiny as we moved through the room, nothing about this was as intimidating as I’d spun it up to be. I was clearly here with Sebastian, so aside from the awkwardness during my initial entrance, I was left alone. And as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I noticed I wasn’t the only female guest in the crowd. Everyone was just as deferential to the other women. They displayed even more “church manners” for the women up on stage—one of whom had just peeled her panties all the way off. There was a smattering of applause for her elegant move, along with a flurry of tips being pulled out to show real appreciation. But all the money was tucked into collection boxes attached to stanchions placed six feet from the stage. Not once did anyone throw their money at her. Nor were there any shouts, catcalls, or lascivious whistles.

  “Whoa.” I actually stopped in place while vocalizing my reaction.

  Sebastian pushed in close to me. “What? What is it? Did someone paw you?”

  “Easy, there. I’m just recovering from my own blown mind.”

  “Explain.”

  I let out a wry laugh. “You’ve clearly never been to this kind of thing”—I searched for the right wording—“in reverse? Male strippers, female audience?”

  “Ah.” He straightened his stance. “Chippendales? Magic Mike? What’s the other one? Thunder from Down Under?”

  “Yes!” I commended. “A real tribute to the Outback, that one. But seriously, the women all but climb over one another to get up close, and the performers take a select few on stage, grind on them with oiled body parts.” I widened my eyes, thinking of the memory. “And those tiny, tiny G-strings being tested to their limits by both the dude’s junk and all the money that’s been stuffed inside.”

  “Huh. Sounds like fun.”

  Blank stare.

  For such a territorial alpha wolf, he completely threw me off guard with that answer. While I tried to reorganize my thoughts, a special security guard approached us. He was dressed differently than the doormen, in basic black utility pants and boots, but his block-lettered T-shirt and shiny name badge seemed legitimate. A close-cropped haircut screamed ex-military.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” The guy greeted us like a soldier at his post.

  “Hi there”—Sebastian lowered his eyes to the guard’s name badge—“Hank. What can I do for you?”

  Hank nodded and folded his hands over his belt buckle. “The door radioed back to me at your request. They said you were interested in talking to Cinnamon?”

  Sebastian subtly swept out a hundred-dollar bill between two fingers. “And would make it worth your while to facilitate the meeting. Yes.”

  Hank flicked a suspicious glance between the money and Sebastian’s face. “Can I interest you in another one of our girls?” he finally said. “Cin doesn’t enjoy being a third. She’s into guys, period.”

  “Yes.” Sebastian dragged up a smile. “I’m aware.” As soon as the man scowled, he added, “We really just want to talk to her.”

  Hank stared as if Sebastian had suddenly dropped trou. “And you’re paying that for it?”

  “It’s important.”

  His gaze bugged. “No shit.”

  I swallowed hard, reining in my gasp of relief as the guard snatched the money from Sebastian. Hank lifted a finger, indicating we should wait for his return.

  “She’s here.” I hugged the crap out of Sebastian’s bicep. “Holy shit, Sebastian. We did it. She’s here and she’s alive!”

  “Thanks to you and that persistence that drives me crazy.”

  He tilted his face lower as he murmured it. There was an impending kiss in his eyes, but he didn’t act on it. The tension in his form told me it killed him as thoroughly as it did me.

  I hoped he could see the same need in my gaze before I whispered, “Crazy good or crazy bad?”

  “Both. Which drives me even crazier.”

  “Hey. Summer Lovin’.” Hank called us over with a brief head jerk. As we got closer, the guy said, “Cinnamon is on a short break. She can squeeze you in now. You ready?”

  “As we’ll ever be,” Sebastian said. It was the last comment of the exchange until we were about halfway down a cinder block–lined hallway smelling like a locker room badly in need of a hose-down. With fifty gallons of bleach.

  I seriously prayed this intervention didn’t take very long.

  Just as I started the silent beseeching in earnest, Hank hitched a look at me over his shoulder. Okay, not quite at me. His examination was more about the . . . assets . . . he saw in me. “You here to get some dancing tips, sugarplum?” he drawled.

  “She’s not interested,” Sebastian cut in.

  “Because Cin is one of the best. She could show you some moves. Then make sure to audition for George, our owner. He really likes redh—”

  “I said she’s not interested.”

  So much for picking up my prayers where I’d left off.

  Inside a heartbeat, I was back to questioning the stability of my reality as I watched Sebastian transform from casually dressed billionaire into badass barroom brawler, as he grabbed Hank b
y the neck, slammed him to the wall, and lifted him several inches off the floor. As the bouncer fought the hold, his eyes bulged and his teeth clenched. Both were weird shades of yellow—an observation I couldn’t believe I fixated on until realizing I was watching a human male pissing match that was going too far.

  “Sebastian!”

  I grabbed the back of his shirt. He shirked me off like the rabid wolf he was channeling.

  “Sebastian!”

  A woman appeared from one of the closed doorways along the hall. She strutted out of a room in stars-and-stripes stilettos, a red glitter G-string, a flowy blue silk robe, and nothing else. A shit ton of stage makeup highlighted the best parts of her perfect bone structure, and her stunning red hair was curled in a forties-style hairdo.

  “Boys?” she crooned, though she directed her gaze my way. She doled out a commiserating eye roll, as if she’d just witnessed my futility at breaking this crap up. When it was clear they weren’t listening, she strolled over and leaned down.

  And then grabbed Sebastian from behind.

  Yep, right there. In the juncture that would definitely get her some attention.

  He snorted violently before breaking away—but not before landing one last jab to Hank’s chin.

  I whipped a hand around his wrist and openly seethed. “Enough.”

  The gorgeous woman shrugged. “Or they can decide that it’s not and I can bring out the tranquilizer gun.”

  Hank stepped back while lifting both hands. “She’s really got one,” he muttered. “And it works.”

  “And it’s really cool. I use it for my lion tamer routine.”

  Just when I thought this scenario couldn’t get any crazier, Sebastian threw back his head on a good-natured laugh. “I remember that routine. It was damn good.”

  “Still is,” quipped the redhead. “But not on the schedule tonight, big boy. You should come back over the weekend. I even use the gun.” She waggled her overly made-up brows at the men.

  I scooted around, moving to scrutinize the glamorous stripper a little closer. Now that I had better proximity, I noticed the layers of makeup were really necessary. She was a wan thing, with eyes that were hollow and world-weary. Beneath the robe, her breasts were abnormally large compared to the rest of her frame. The fake nipples on top of the equally fabricated swells were colored with red lipliner so they appeared more aroused. But unlike what Sebastian had told me earlier, her hair was definitely all hers. No way could that lustrous red color come out of a bottle. At least she’d been blessed in that department.

  “You’re Cinnamon Spice.” I was that sure of the fact. Sebastian’s line had helped me get there too. He recalled her dance routine from nearly a year ago. This had to be her.

  The stripper swiveled my way. She checked me out from head to toe before responding, “Who wants to know?”

  I deflected my nervousness by channeling my professional persona. If I pretended I was simply visiting a new vendor, I could get through this without envisioning the woman—and her naughty smirk and playtime boobs—in bed with the man next to me. We were here to help her, after all.

  “We’re just hoping to talk you. We only need a few minutes.”

  “Okay. Cool.”

  She flowed out a hand, directing us toward her door—but before Sebastian could lead the way inside, Hank pulled at his shoulder.

  “Yo, dude. Are we cool, man? I didn’t mean anything toward your woman.”

  “Oh, I’m not his—”

  Sebastian sliced me short with a fierce glance. “It’s fine,” he said to Hank. “We’re good.”

  “But you can’t blame me for looking, right?” The guy flashed crooked teeth with a fresh chuckle. “I mean—”

  “Hank.” Cinnamon glared like a mother who’d caught her kid licking a frozen pole. “Do you seriously have a death wish?”

  After Hank turned and returned to the main showroom, the woman shook her head and shot a rueful gaze at both of us. “He’s got a heart of gold, fists of steel, and the brain of a Muppet.” After she entered her dressing room, she whirled around and snapped her fingers. The action made her robe sweep outward, affording an extended view of the curves that made her a star on stage but did nothing for the butterflies in my stomach. “But hey! He did just help me remember you!”

  I plopped down onto a chair that wasn’t covered in costumes, accessories, or thigh-high boots. My timing was perfect, since I was struck hard by a jolt of astonishment.

  “Wait.” I bit hard into my bottom lip. “You— You just remembered him?” I asked while pointing to Sebastian.

  The puzzle pieces of this thing were getting drastically rearranged by the second, and I still didn’t know where they were all going to land—if at all. A quick glance at Sebastian wasn’t any reassurance that he knew either, especially when he added his own query to Cinnamon.

  “But . . . you do know who I am?”

  Cinnamon slinked into the fancy vanity chair in front of her wide makeup mirror. “Yeah. Sure.” She flipped a switch, illuminating the big round bulbs bordering the glass. “I think so . . . Sebastian, right?” Via the mirror—which seemed the best way to communicate now, since those bulbs could probably be seen from space—she inserted a saucy wink. “But as I’m starting to recall, you really like being called Sir.”

  Sebastian shifted his weight and inhaled through his nose.

  I shifted my own weight and asked, “As you’re starting to recall? You mean . . . just now?”

  “That’s right.” She lifted a friendly smile my way via our reflections. “But it’s been quite a while since that fun-filled night.” And then she flicked her gaze Sebastian’s way. “Right, Bas?”

  “Sure,” he spat. “Fun. Loads.”

  Cinnamon straightened with an affronted pout. “Gee, don’t get too excited on my account. I never send a client away unsatisfied. Ever.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he was satisfied.”

  Both sides of my jaw were aching from tension now—but I wasn’t relaxing them anytime soon. Cinnamon picked up on that message fast, making a concerted effort to address me first when she swiveled back around.

  I was appreciative, and noticed Sebastian was too—but now I was more baffled than ever before. This was the woman who’d scrawled that desperate letter to Bas? This bright-eyed bombshell with the va-va-voom one-liners, who claimed she only recalled him five minutes ago?

  And yes—this woman who now took one look at my face and perceived the bewilderment likely painted across every inch of it? To the point that she finally glanced at Sebastian and asked, “But reminiscing over the good ol’ days isn’t why you’ve come to see me . . . is it?”

  There was a long pause. I didn’t answer her question, and neither did Sebastian. Instead, he dipped his head and then quickly straightened, seeming to have come to a major decision.

  He pulled out the letter I’d read back in the office.

  Quickly yet carefully, he unfolded the paper.

  But he didn’t hand it over to Cinnamon yet. He seemed to be assessing her . . . maybe wondering if the woman’s flippant attitude was as fake as the glitter on her face and the breasts on her chest.

  Through the closed door, we could hear a Prince medley cranked up to full volume. So, at least all the music didn’t suck in this place.

  “Hey, Sebastian?” The prompt came from the woman with her legs now crossed, one stilettoed foot jiggling with an impatient rhythm. “You hear that? It’s the middle of Contessa’s set. That means I’m up next. Shoot your wad now or forever hold your peace.”

  In another time, under other circumstances, I would have given in to a good laugh at that. Sebastian didn’t seem to share my demented mirth. But he was the one still holding the letter that this crazy-pants had written.

  Or so we’d thought.

  “Cinnamon . . . ” His tone was a perfect blend of understanding and firmness, but he only got one word out before stopping and grimacing. “Can I just get your real name?”

/>   Now Cinnamon looked like the one debating if she sat here opposite a dangerous creeper. After a nervous side-eye, she replied, “Sarah.”

  “That’s so pretty.” I meant the compliment, but Prince was jamming even louder out in the showroom. I deferred back to Sebastian.

  “Sarah,” he echoed, finally holding out the letter to her. “Why did you write this and send it to me?”

  The woman quit rocking her foot as soon as her gaze got deeper into the note. “What . . . ” Then she uncrossed her legs. “The . . . ” Then lurched all the way to her feet. “Hell?”

  I rose along with her. I was a freshly melted puddle as he stared at Sarah with a mix of firmness and compassion. “We’re—I’m—just here because I want to help, okay?”

  “Why?” she shot back.

  “Because this letter is a cry for it.”

  “Dude.” She spurt-laughed it. “Are you serious?”

  “Uh, yeah.” His glower was as raw and dark as a Prince guitar riff. “I am. I mean, if you feel like things are out of control, or like you’ve got to talk to someone, or even need deeper help than that—”

  “Stop.” The stripper backhanded the middle of his chest, giving back the letter as if the thing had caught fire in her grip. “Just freaking stop, okay?” She flung off her robe and started rubbing glitter gel across her breasts and stomach. “Bas, baby, I’ll try to be gentle here. I mean, you’re hot and all”—she glanced over at me—“Sorry, chica. He is a fine, fine man and fucks like a machine, but no way in hell does that mean I’ve been pining away for him like Little Miss Lost Lamb here.” She stabbed a finger toward the letter. “Look. I’m supporting my little boy and trying to get my own degree at the same time. I don’t have the time nor the inclination to mope over the guy I screwed last night, let alone last year.”

  “Wow.” I didn’t try to hide my surprise—or honestly, my awe. “What are you studying?”

  “Environmental Science—which is not a cheap field of study, especially at Pepperdine. But this job is paying for it.” As if summoned by her perfect invocation, there was a rap at the door and a voice giving her the five-minute call for her performance. “So, if you both don’t mind, I’ve got to go make sure I can buy my books in September.”