“Sounds good to me.” Taylor placed the mask on her face, making sure the elastic didn’t flatten her hairstyle. Preening in the mirror, she asked, “I look all right?”
“Honey, you look great.” Stacey reached over and adjusted the back of her G-string bottom, looking her up and down with a practiced eye.
The door behind them opened, and a man, tall and broadly built with a bald head, stepped into the room. He looked around, scanning the crowd with a blank expression that didn’t quite mask the curiosity in his eyes. He was looking for someone, or something, and the severe set of his mouth told her he wasn’t happy that he didn’t find it.
“Can I hel—” Taylor was cut off by the tightening of Stacey’s fingers on her arm and when she glanced down, the slight shake of her head.
“Any of you girls seen Sarah Morgan lately?” The stranger may have phrased the question openly, but he was looking at Taylor. A prickle of unease coasted across her skin. She had a feeling this was a guy she didn’t want remembering who she was.
“No. We told you already.” Stacey’s expression echoed the challenge in her voice. “She’s gone. You know anything about that?”
The other dancers gasped at her bold question, and Taylor grasped her shoulder, trying desperately to transfer her warning through her touch. Everything about this man said “don’t fuck with me,” and she bet he could back it up.
The guy barked out a humorless laugh, the sound cracking out in the relative quiet of the room. He walked farther into the room, his shoes silent on the linoleum floor, eyes hard-locked on Stacey. The stranger stopped right in front her, close but not touching, as he maintained his cold assessment. When he spoke it was like a thunderclap into the hush, his hand shooting out to grasp Stacey’s chin in a painful-looking grip. Taylor started to move forward, but one of the other dancers grabbed her arm, holding her back. “You’ve got a mouth on you, little girl. I suggest you use it to tell Sarah that Bruce is looking for her and that she’d be real smart to get in touch with me. She took something and I want it back.”
Stacey wrenched out of his grasp, her expression murderous, but the tremor in her hands gave her away—she was as scared as the rest of them. “You better get the hell out of here before I scream down the place and have the cops all over you.”
“Whatever, bitch. Just remember what I said.”
Having delivered his message, he turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him. He was gone, but the meaning of his words hung in the air.
“Are you okay?” Taylor asked, pulling Stacey into a hug. “Who was that?”
“You just stay away from him.” Stacey clung to her for a moment, but quickly pulled out of her embrace. She visibly straightened her posture, her voice taking on the “mama bear” tone she adopted with all the girls. She wasn’t going to let anyone see her sweat, and Taylor admired her spunk. With a baby daughter at home, Stacey was as strong as they came. “That man doesn’t bring nothing but trouble.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. He freaked me out,” Taylor said, not having to fake the shiver that coursed through her. “Who’s Sarah Morgan?”
“She’s a girl who didn’t take my advice.”
“What do you think she took from him?”
“I don’t think Sarah’s got whatever he’s looking for. That girl couldn’t shut up about the stupid stuff the guys she was screwing gave to her. If she’d hit the jackpot she would have run her mouth off about it before she took off.” Stacey pushed her forward, her tone communicating she wasn’t saying anymore. “You better go and get ready to dance.”
Taylor faked a smile and made a big show of waving her off. She was dying to push for answers, but something told her now was not the time. Stacey knew what was going on, and patience would result in getting the answers she wanted. “I’m going, Miss Bossy Pants. See you later.”
Taylor stepped out into the dingy, dark hallway and checked to see if the bald guy was lurking in the shadows. She didn’t know exactly who he was, but she wasn’t faking her reaction. He gave her the serious willies, and she was going to steer clear of him.
The music was loud as it pulsed into the backstage area, but it didn’t mask the roar created by a bunch of loud, drunk, horny patrons. It was her biggest night so far, and the whisper of nerves surprised her. This wasn’t a real job, but Lucky would be watching, and his opinion mattered. She wanted him blown away, ready to explode when they went home tonight. The night on the couch seemed like a lifetime ago, and she ached for him.
The soundtrack for the girl currently performing was reaching its midway point and Taylor made her way down the deserted hallways toward the backstage. She was alert for the creepy guy, but the hands grasping her upper arm and covering her mouth surprised her as she was pulled into the maintenance closet and the door was clicked shut behind her. Panic rose in her throat, and she instinctively began the series of moves learned in a self-defense class years ago. She struggled, holding him off, but it was difficult with so little room to move and the lack of real light. She needed to get out of here before the adrenaline wore off and the fatigue wore her down.
“Hey. Tay. It’s me. Stop,” Lucky hissed in a low whisper, his breath hot and harsh against her neck. Relief swept through her and her knees wobbled like Jell-O.
“Oh my God.” Her throat burned with the effort to speak. She reached up with a hand and did a little victory dance when the palm of her hand connected with the side of his head. “Lucky, you’re an asshole. You scared me, you jerk. I thought you were the bald guy and I was done for.”
“What bald guy?”
“Sure, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Taylor, I’m sorry I scared you. What bald guy?”
Taylor relayed was happened in the dressing room. “He was creepy and I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. All the girls shut up as soon as he came in, and Stacey was downright hostile.”
“And he was asking about Sarah Morgan?”
“Oh yeah. And he was seriously pissed off. I could tell by the way he was perfectly calm. If you’re trying that hard to look like you don’t care, the opposite is usually true.” Taylor replayed the conversation in her mind, making sure she didn’t leave anything out. Lucky was in a better position to know if it was important. “He said she took something from him, but Stacey thinks he’s wrong. She says if Sarah had it, she would’ve bragged about it, and none of them heard a peep.”
“And you’re okay?” Lucky moved in closer, his hands carefully running over her body.
“I’m fine, but I think you need to make it up to me for scaring me half to death.” Taylor rested her back against the wall, tugging him with her until they were aligned against each other for optimal contact. He was warm, his muscles rippling under her seeking hands. Her breath picked up when his mouth settled on the spot where the curve of her neck met her collarbone and pressed a moist kiss against her skin.
“We do not have time for the shit I need to do to you,” Lucky growled against her throat, the nip of teeth emphasizing the sexual frustration straining his words.
“Want or need?”
“Baby, it’s a need. Don’t you ever doubt it.”
“Damn.” Her brain spun, the gears whirring like gerbils on one of those stupid wheels—at top speed but going nowhere. Taylor dug deep and found the power to pull herself away from all of the temptation he offered. “I’ve gotta go. It wouldn’t help if I got fired.”
“Fine. Yes. You have to go.” Lucky stroked a hand down her arm, his desire and his worry the perfect mixture to make the gesture tender. “You stay away from Mr. Clean. I’ll figure out who he is. You got it?’
“Yeah. I got it.” She cracked the door open and took a quick glance down the hallway. “Make sure you get a good seat. If you like what you see, I’ll give you a private show later.”
Chapter Eight
If William Teague Elliott IV knew his baby sister was working the pole at the Jolly Gent, he would castrate Luc
ky and enjoy doing it.
Lucky knew this, just as he knew that someone was running drugs out of the back room, that he was drinking substandard watered-down whiskey, and that he was going to hell for thinking that Taylor’s tiny G-string bikini was the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen.
Adjusting to accommodate the hardening in his jeans, he leaned back in his chair, stretching out muscles sore from the past few weeks of unaccustomed farm work. The life of a Marine wasn’t one of a desk jockey, but making a living out of the land was entirely different. His father made Lucky’s former drill sergeant look like a sweet little kindergarten teacher.
“Whoo hoo! Shake it Bambi!” A guy up front yelled out Taylor’s ridiculous stage name and shook his overly large gut and matching ass. The guy was harmless, not even trying to offer her a tip, so Lucky eased back in his chair. He shifted the brim of his ball cap down a little lower in an effort to hide the movement of his eyes as he switched between watching Taylor, the bar where they were serving underage patrons, and numerous pervs drooling over the dancers. Didn’t anyone watch porn in the privacy of their own homes anymore?
He scanned the room again in search of the bald guy. No sign of him, but if he was looking for Sarah then he likely hadn’t left. So far, the only leads on Sarah led straight back to this club.
He looked at Taylor, wishing this was the private show she promised and not in a room full of losers. As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she made eye contact with him from across the room, flashed a sinful smile, and put a little extra shimmy in her shake. Heat shot up his spine, then down again, and settled in a pool of heat in his groin. Her smile turned smug—she knew what she was doing to him and the glare he shot in her direction told her she’d pay for that later.
The guy next to him, underage and wasted, nudged him out of his thoughts. Mr. Too-Young-To-Be-Here leaned over, his rancid, tequila-scented breath turning Lucky off that particular drink forever. “I don’t know where Bodean got her, but he needs to go back and get more. I’d love to peel off those clothes and fu—”
“Fuck off, I’m watching the show.” The little punk scurried off, tripping over his own feet, and narrowly missing a table full of redneck drunks who’d eat him for breakfast if he spilled a drop of their drinks.
Lucky swiveled back to face the stage, immediately noticing that Mr. Fat-Ass had inched closer to the stage and was close enough to grab Taylor’s ankle. He glanced at the one bouncer, a pathetic excuse for security, dressed in a Jolly Gent emblazoned T-shirt and currently looking at something on his cell phone. Are you fucking kidding me?
Lucky stood, forcing his steps to remain measured and smooth, apprehension of what could happen coiled in his gut. Always keeping Fat-Ass in his line of sight, he weaved between the tables, skirting clumps of men who were in his way. The bouncer was oblivious. If anything happened to Taylor, Lucky was going to shove the phone up his ass.
Taylor searched the crowd, relief spreading across her face when she saw him, but it was quickly replaced by concern when her admirer reached out again and barely missed grabbing her ankle. Lucky pushed through the group, tighter and more crowded at the front, motioning for Taylor to step back from the edge of the stage. She dodged the grabby hands, artfully integrating the side step into her stage show, but teetering on the three-inch shoes required by every self-respecting stripper.
Taylor’s movement had the opposite effect on Fat-Ass—instead of discouraging him from getting up close and personal, it sent him off in her direction like a greyhound chasing the fake rabbit. Lucky watched as the guy tried to hoist himself up on the stage, not a pretty sight, but one that pushed Taylor perilously close to the opposite edge of the platform. This situation had all the earmarks of a quintessential Lucky moment, complete with a dumbass disrupting all of his best-laid plans and a lot of explaining in his future. In the language of his beloved Marines it was FUBAR—fucked up beyond all repair.
What he couldn’t believe was why he’d allowed himself to put Taylor right in the middle of the mess. He should have let her threaten him, pitch a fit, even go to Teague if she wanted, but he was beyond stupid to let a woman like Taylor anywhere near a place like this. One day he’d learn his lesson.
Forgoing finesse for speed, Lucky power-pulled off a couple of the guys in the front row and launched himself at the stage. At the moment the guy hauled his butt on the dance platform, Lucky landed right behind him, grabbed his belt, and gave him a big yank. It would have worked perfectly, except that Fat-Ass whipped round, nailed a beefy guy in the jaw and sent him flying backward into a crowd of drunks.
Lucky had been in many fights over the years, and this one was no different. Time slowed down and everything shone with perfect clarity. A bar full of drunk rednecks was a powder keg with a short fuse. Add to it the heightened testosterone due to half-naked females being nearby and the first beer bottle flying across the room was inevitable. Before he could blink, clumps of bodies traded blows, chairs went flying, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the piece of shit bouncer headed out of the side door.
Over the crowd, he could see Taylor still up on stage, the expression on her face strange, focused, but nowhere near the fear that should have been taking over her features. Crazy woman. When she should have been hauling butt toward the backstage area, she was busy watching the new floor show. He broke eye contact, following the path of her gaze, and instantly knew what had her so mesmerized—the bald guy was standing next to the open door and watching Taylor with avid interest. Lucky knew he was going to kick the guy’s ass for looking at her that way. That was a guarantee.
He was just as Taylor described him, and Lucky recognized his face. He knew this guy and racked his brain for context but came up with nothing. A loud yell erupted from the direction of the stage and Lucky turned to see the fight escalating and Taylor smack-dab in the middle of it. He looked back toward baldie just in time to see him slip outside. Damn. He’d have to wait.
Covering the last couple of feet to the stage, Lucky hoisted himself up onto the platform, grabbing Taylor by the shoulders and hauling her close against his body. The sound of an air horn blast startled him, causing him to stumble. The momentum sent them tumbling to the ground. Lucky rolled, taking the brunt of the fall on his side while Taylor lay sprawled on top of him and gasping for air.
The noise in the room quieted down slightly, shouts of “stay on the floor” and “don’t move” weaving into the groans erupting from bodies unused to taking punches. The cavalry had come, probably summoned by the bartender and his handy-dandy panic button. Lucky wondered if they could scoot backstage and out of the building before anyone noticed. The last thing he wanted was Taylor hauled off to the police station.
“You okay?” He asked, mentally assessing his own injuries while running practiced hands over her form to check her out.
“I’m fine. But I think I broke a heel.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Lighten up. I knew you’d take care of me,” Taylor said.
“If I’d been taking care of you I wouldn’t have let you talk me into this crazy plan. Now, let’s see if we can get you out of here before the cops notice. I think the path is clear to backstage.”
Shifting so he could help her off the floor, Lucky came face-to-face with a shoe. A government-issued, black polished shoe worn by most law enforcement officers. Tracing the line of the crease in the uniform pants, past the utility belt, gun holster, and shiny five-pointed badge, his journey ended with the face of a very pissed-off Sheriff Burke.
Oh, hell.
“Lucky Landon, why are you always on the floor groping this woman?”
“Would you believe we were looking for her contact lens?”
“Smart-ass.” The sheriff was not amused, and he emphasized his point by unhooking his handcuffs from his belt while they scrambled to their feet. “I’ve known you your whole life and I don’t know why I’m surprised to find you smack-dab in the middle of any trouble. You can ex
plain it all to me down at the station.”
The click of the cold metal around his wrists told Lucky it was time to start talking himself out of this. He was good at it. They hadn’t nicknamed him “Lucky” for nothing.
“Sheriff, I don’t think this is necess—”
The Sheriff ignored him, turning to Taylor with a shake of his head. “Miss Elliott, I understand you have a lawyer in your family. If I were you, I’d use my one phone call to get him down to the station.”
Lucky groaned. It looked like his luck had finally run out.
Chapter Nine
“Lucky, if this is your idea of showing me the highlights of Elliott, your technique needs work.”
Taylor leaned against the bars of holding cell number two in the Elliott City Jail trying to get Lucky’s attention. He wasn’t far, his back against the common cell bars, and she could have easily reached out and touched him. But she’d been told many times never to stick her hand in the cage of a wild animal. Tonight, he qualified for that description.
They’d been incarcerated for a little over two hours, thankfully separated from the other patrons of the bar, who were housed down the hall. She could hear them, yelling and bitching about the supposed violations of their constitutional rights, and she thought she heard someone whining and crying about being too young to be arrested without his parents being notified.
Lucky had been eerily quiet since Sheriff Burke had slapped the handcuffs on him at the Jolly Gent, and no amount of coaxing on her part had dragged him out of his funk. The only time he’d spoken was to update the sheriff on everything he’d observed at the Jolly Gent—the bald guy, underage patrons, possible drug business in the back room, and improper documentation for his workers. The sheriff had paused at the last one, casting a glance her way before shaking his head, thanking Lucky for the information and leaving the room.
His Southern Temptation Page 6