by Liza Street
He watched for two hours, but nothing happened on the ranch. He saw the two brothers, Bryan and Tyler, but there was no sign of Cora Fournier. His inner cougar growled at the sight of Bryan, who’d always made it hard for Quentin to go through their territory while on transporting jobs.
Not able to see enough from his perch, he came back down. Suddenly Bryan lifted his head, as if scenting the air. Fuck. Quentin needed to be more careful. He froze in place until Bryan went back to loading hay bales onto the truck. Then, Quentin eased back into the shadows, thankful that his coloring blended with the dry grasses dotting the woods.
That had been too close. Quentin would have to wait until nightfall to come back out here and poke around under cover of darkness. The problem was, the Brooks family members were shifters, like Quentin, and they could see in the dark, too. But maybe they’d be sleeping if he came back late enough.
He wished he had someone with him. The loneliness felt like a giant cave in his chest, cold and empty. He remembered the first time he’d felt it. He was fifteen, and alone in his family’s farmhouse. He hadn’t felt comfortable going out for a run on his own. Instead he’d sat in the living room at the large coffee table, carefully fitting pieces into a jigsaw puzzle. Once he’d finished the one that his mom had been working on, he took it apart, boxed it up, and got out another.
That night, he’d learned what it meant to not get to say goodbye.
Back in his truck, Quentin dialed Hera’s number. She deserved an answer, and Quentin couldn’t put it off anymore.
“I found your friend the other night,” Quentin said. “Has she called you yet?”
“No,” Hera said, her voice puzzled and sad. “Was she doing okay?”
Better than okay, he thought. “She’s fine.”
“Well, good. Thanks for finding her. You’re sure you gave her my new number?”
His voice got soft. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Oh. Well, never mind, then. I guess…I don’t know what to do now. If she doesn’t want to be in contact, I guess that’s her prerogative.”
Quentin winced. He, too, knew what it was like to be shunned by Emma. It fucking hurt.
After a moment, another voice said, “Blake here.”
“Hey Blake.”
“Hey. So, Hera’s upset. It’s killing me to see her sad about anything. Do you think you could maybe talk to Emma one more time?”
These Fourniers did not realize what they were asking of him. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.”
Fuck, he’d said it again. No problem.
*
There was movement through the windows of her apartment—good, she was still here. He’d go up, knock on her door, and find out why she hadn’t called Hera. He could understand her not texting him back, sort of. But her best friend, when they’d parted on good terms? Something was up, and maybe if he knew what it was, he could help her out.
She stepped outside while he watched from the other side of the street. She wore jeans again, and a white tank top with some kind of girly pattern embroidered into it. Her red hair was pulled high in a ponytail, and it cascaded straight down her back. He wondered if she had to wear it in a bun like ballerinas he’d seen in pictures and movies, and that seemed like a damn shame.
Maybe she’d let him watch her dance. He followed her as she walked, keeping his distance so he didn’t look like a creeper…although following a woman like this probably made him a creeper.
She traveled for quite a few blocks, into a busier section of Reno. Quentin felt his jaw drop when she stepped inside a dark-windowed place with a neon sign blaring the words “Lollipop Lounge.”
What the hell was she doing?
He waited a few minutes and followed her in, but she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. This was definitely a strip club, though. Three women stood on a stage, gyrating to some slinky nineties hip hop song. Their breasts were bare, and from time to time they’d approach the few men in the audience who sat near the stage waiting to stuff bills into the women’s underwear.
Quentin had a sinking feeling in his stomach, but he ordered a drink so he could wait and see if his gut was right.
The place wasn’t very crowded, probably because it was still pretty early in the afternoon. Quentin found a table that didn’t look too sticky, and he sat there, sipping his drink, trying not to ogle the women who clearly wanted to be ogled. He had a bit of a problem with this. Was it disrespectful? Strip clubs had always seemed skeevy to him. Why would he pay money to see a naked woman, when he could see a willing naked woman for free and make her feel really good at the same time?
The song ended after a few minutes, and a new tune started thumping over the speakers, sensual, upbeat. The men started clapping and whistling, and Quentin looked up again.
Emma was onstage, wearing a tight tank top that zipped up the front, and a little skirt, and high platform heels that made her long dancer legs look twice their length. Her hair was down, and her make-up was slicked on in a way that made her look not exactly like herself.
His cock jumped at the same time he said, “Shit.”
six
Emma heard the regulars cheering as soon as her opening song began, a “Moondance” remix. To the men, she was making an entrance, lifting her leg high to hook it around the pole, leaning back, thrusting out her chest. But inside, she was readying herself for yet another night. She was dancing, yes, but this wasn’t the kind of dancing she’d dreamed of. And this kind of dancing was great for the women who chose it, but it hadn’t been Emma’s first choice.
She’d gone for her first choice, and failed epically.
Even though she’d had different ambitions, she’d make the most of where she was now. She moved her arms and legs purposefully, with control, while also feeling the beat and moving with the music. She kept telling herself that this job would make her a better ballerina, sort of like the X-rated version of Save the Last Dance.
She surveyed the few regulars at the front. Businessmen who came here on their lunches, and a couple of professional gamblers who always were either down on their luck and looking to drown their sorrows in beer and women, or high on their luck and looking to celebrate with beer and women.
Something felt different tonight, though. There was a new energy in the club. It wasn’t the two other dancers, Annette and Mila, who had joined her on the stage. It wasn’t the full mirrored bar, off to the side, reflecting the lights and the dancers. It wasn’t the guys up next to the stage, waving their money at her goodies.
She made a modified pencil turn and lay back on the floor in one fluid motion before looking out at the crowd again. It was hard to see because most of the lights were pointed at her, but yes—it was him. Quentin.
Of all the nerve, coming here. He must have seen something at her apartment that gave him a clue to where she worked. Or, worse, he had followed her. There were enough icky guys in Reno, why did the guy who’d given her the best sex of her life have to show up at this club? Why couldn’t he have stayed away like she wanted him to? He knew Hera, and now Hera would know Emma’s secret, and Emma didn’t know if she’d ever been so pissed off and flustered in her life.
There was a reason she’d ignored his texts—he was too damn tempting, and because he knew Hera, he was too connected to her old life. He could give things away, and Hera would be disappointed in her. Emma couldn’t handle it.
She couldn’t handle ignoring him, either, because it felt like her heart was breaking, but her first goal was keeping Hera from finding out about her stripping.
He raised his beer in a quiet toast, a mocking smile on his lips.
She was going to kill him.
When she unzipped her top halfway, the men in front roared. She looked at Quentin for a reaction. Nothing.
Oh no, she would not let him pretend to be unaffected. She leaned forward, putting her cleavage on full display.
Still no reaction from Quentin.
Fine, she thought, as she continued to sway h
er hips and stretch her legs. Two can play this game. She pulled her top open even more, revealing the red and white polka-dot bra underneath which went with her set of “girl next door, summer love” theme. With a saucy smile, she ran her finger along the bra’s edge.
The pint glass was at Quentin’s lips, and he jerked as if shocked. Quickly he wiped at the beer he’d spilled on his chin, and Emma grinned. As she slinked past Annette, she said, “I’m going to work the crowd a little.”
Annette smiled. “Shake it, girl.”
Before dancing down the stairs stage left, she caught Nathaniel’s eye. He always seemed to read her mind, and nodded.
She went to the guys in the front, first, rubbing against their shoulders, whispering that she wanted to dance, and did they want to play? None of them took her up on a lap dance, which was fine, because she had one object in mind.
As she reached his table, he stood up to go, but she pushed him back into his chair. “Sit.”
He shook his head. “I have no cash.”
“I don’t want your fucking money.” She barely said the words before she was on his lap, straddling him.
He frowned, and she knew that now she’d do anything to get a reaction out of him. The song changed to her signature, “Hot Sexy Player,” and she removed her top the rest of the way.
She knew her breasts weren’t huge, but she’d always liked them, and she’d ignored the owners of the Lollipop Lounge when they said, at first, that she was too small. They had changed their minds when they saw her dance, of course.
It was nice to see Quentin thought she was perfect, too. His mouth was open enough she could see the tops of his lower teeth, and she again traced the edge of her bra. He moved his legs, probably trying to get more comfortable. Finally she was having an effect on him. His eyes were riveted to her chest, and he licked his lips.
Dammit if she wasn’t getting turned on, too.
No, the point here was to torture him, not herself. Then she caught sight of his hot gaze and the way it raked over her body. She grinned. It was worth it. This would all be worth it. Punishment lap dance—he’d be sorry.
She bent backward and unclasped her bra in one smooth motion, but kept it in place, smiling up at him.
He clenched his jaw, closing his mouth. His hands were rigid at his sides. Poor man. She’d been able to see, that night, that he liked to take control. Usually I’m on top. Not today, sucker.
Raising her leg high, she lifted it past his head and around so that she sat sideways in his lap. She bent back again, this time flipping her bra to the ground.
“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck.”
She sat up and turned so her back was to him, and ground against his lap, feeling his hardness through his jeans. She wondered if he was going commando again. The thought got her wet. Normally she’d tug off her skirt at this point, but that might be dangerous—she might decide to stay too long and get herself off on his lap, and she’d never seen it happen before, but she expected it was frowned upon in the workplace.
There was something about this man. As aggravating as he was, she wanted him. As cocky as he seemed, there was something beneath that, something insecure, something lonely. Emma realized, with a start, that she didn’t want him to be lonely. She genuinely cared for him, and—as crazy as it sounded—she might more than care for him.
Still, he needed to be punished.
She set aside the notion of what he might mean to her, and turned sideways to give him a view of her breasts. All the while, she continued to dance and writhe against him.
His hands skimmed along her hip, but she shook her head and smirked. “No touching.”
He groaned in disappointment.
She slid her hands over her chest, caressing her skin. Her breasts felt heavy and they ached for his touch, but that wasn’t what this dance was about. She calmly told her body to shut up and do its job.
His jeans were rough beneath her legs, and she could feel his hardness pressing into her. She wiggled some more, letting the beat of the song direct her movements. Those dark blue eyes of his were wild. She ran her hands through his hair, pressing her chest nearly against his face, but keeping far enough away he couldn’t touch her.
He leaned forward, as if to close the distance.
Grabbing the back of his neck with one hand, she held him in place. “Careful. They’ll kick you out.”
His eyes fluttered shut, then open again, and he wet his lips. “Emma. You’re killing me.”
She’d gotten him. Standing up, she said, “Perfect. Now get the hell out.”
Confusion was all over his face when she looked to Nathaniel and gave him a shake of her head.
In seconds, Nathaniel’s hand was on Quentin’s shoulder. “Time to go, sir.”
Emma tried to hold in her smile as Quentin was escorted from the club. She danced back onto the stage, collecting money from the other patrons as she went, trying not to think about how that delicious sexual energy had left along with Quentin.
Trying not to think about how strong her feelings for him actually were.
She’d thought she loved Ted, the producer’s husband. Her feelings for Ted had been a drop of water compared to the endless ocean she was already feeling for Quentin.
seven
Quentin could have fought off the guy escorting him out, but it wasn’t worth it. Emma didn’t want him there, fine, he’d leave.
A stripper. Hera told him Emma was a ballerina, he was sure of it. He didn’t make mistakes about those details. Was that why Emma hadn’t called Hera? She was embarrassed about what she did?
He didn’t see any reason for her to be embarrassed. Damn, she was good at her job. Reaching to his pocket, he surreptitiously adjusted himself, thinking he probably looked like a fucking cliché, standing outside a strip club and fixing his junk.
Now he was desperate for her. Those gorgeous tits, the way her bra had held them so snug and tight before she set them free, and those pale pink nipples that were just begging to be licked and sucked.
The way she’d moved against him, the way she smelled—that hadn’t been a lap dance of desperation. Revenge, maybe, but she’d wanted to do it, and she’d wanted him. Maybe she was sending him off for now, but things were far from over between them.
He walked back to her apartment, where his truck was parked. It was already dark, so his distraction with Emma had made for perfect timing to get out to the Brooks Ranch. If they weren’t asleep yet, they would hopefully be soon. Then he could snoop around, smell for Cora. He’d only met her a couple of times, but he, and all shifters, were great at recognizing scents.
Once he figured out what was going on with Cora Fournier, he’d return to Reno and solve the problem of Emma. There was something about that woman he couldn’t ignore.
When he was about fifteen minutes away from the ranch, his tire suddenly went flat. Shit. He didn’t have time for this. And now he couldn’t go all the way out to the ranch, not on a spare, because he needed a reliable way to get himself the hell back out of there again, hopefully with Cora.
He pulled over to the shoulder and unbuckled, sighing. This job was a lot more trouble than he’d counted on.
After he opened the door and climbed out of his truck, he caught a scent that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Woodsy and feline. It smelled like cougar—one he hadn’t met before. Aw, hell. He thought about shifting so he could fight back, but he was already too late. The cougar jumped from the side of the road and pinned Quentin to the ground.
A second figure, this one a human, stepped out of the more heavily forested side of the road. He carried a wooden baseball bat.
“Bryan Brooks,” Quentin said. “What a surprise.”
“Don’t be a dumbass, it’s not a surprise at all,” Bryan said. “You’re in our fucking territory.”
The cougar climbed off of Quentin and stepped back. The air around it shimmered for a second, before it turned into Tyler, Bryan’s brother. Quentin hadn’t met hi
m before, but had known of him.
“I guess my tire going flat wasn’t an accident,” Quentin said.
“Smelled you yesterday, fool.” Bryan rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky we don’t eviscerate you right now. Actually, maybe we will. No one would miss you.”
Bryan swung the baseball bat. Quentin ducked, but the bat made contact with his shoulder. He grunted. The pain would be temporary, he reminded himself. Temporary. All he had to do was survive.
Tyler threw in a few punches. Quentin was able to block most of them, but one got him in the nose. He smelled the blood before he felt it trickling down to his lip.
“This is what happens to assholes who trespass,” Bryan said, raising the bat again.
Quentin covered his head, but heard a snap as one of his arms broke. Fuck. That was going to be a bitch to heal—it would take at least all night.
He was bloody and bruised, and he could barely sit up to see what was coming next. A shiver coursed through his body when he saw Bryan pull a large knife from a sheath attached to his belt.
He tossed the knife to Tyler. “You know what to do.”
Tyler came toward Quentin with the knife. Quentin was ready to fight until the end, but Tyler walked past and slashed the truck’s tires instead.
“What the hell?” Bryan asked.
“It’s a warning,” Tyler said. “Come back here again, rogue, and we’ll finish you.”
Bryan looked like he wanted to argue, but Tyler said, “Come on. We should be getting back. We don’t want to stay away for too long.”
Stay away from what? Quentin wondered. Or maybe he meant stay away from who—Cora?
Quentin had to get down there, but first he needed to regroup. Heal. Fix his fucking tires. And he couldn’t waste his time about any of it, either, because he had a feeling that if he wasn’t gone within an hour, Bryan would be back to finish what he’d started.
His phone, miraculously, was unscathed in his pocket. The police were obviously out of the question. He couldn’t call the Fourniers because they’d never reach him in time, before asshole Bryan came back.