Wicked Games (McCade Brothers novella)

by Samanthe Beck

  Yeah, Ian thought, reading the “now” comment easily enough. Now that she’s dumped you. “Hold on.” He put the phone on the dresser and pulled a long-sleeved black T-shirt over his head. “We should talk to her right away. Get the letter…and any others she’s received. She’s got personal security for the party tonight, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fuck. That’s a huge mistake.”

  “I agree. I’ve called Vern and gotten us on the guest list, but he warned me the costume policy is strictly enforced at the door, guest list or no, so unless you want to show our badges and make a scene—”

  “No, I want to blend in. I’ve got a costume.” He dug into his ski bag at the bottom of his closet and pulled out a black knit ski mask. The bedside clock caught his eye as he left the bedroom. “Jesus, you drive like my grandma,” he complained as he strode down the hall. “Where the hell are you?” He swung his front door open.

  Trevor stood there holding his phone to his ear, wearing a dark suit and tie, same as he wore on any workday, and a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses Ian had thankfully never seen before.

  “I’m at your front door.”

  Ian disconnected and stuffed his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s not a costume.”

  His partner pocketed his phone and stepped inside. “This is the most successful costume of all time.”

  “Seriously, man, what the fuck are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m Clark Kent. I went classic and heroic.”

  “You went lazy and uncreative. You’re a step down from ghost.” He dropped down on the living room sofa and shoved his feet into black boots.

  “What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

  Ian stood, rolled his ski mask down over his face and arranged the bottom until it covered the crew neck of his long-sleeved black T-shirt. “Cat burglar.”

  “Strange and creepy.”

  He shoved the ski mask up and smirked. “Mysterious and dangerous.”

  “Whatever. We’re not here to win an award for best costume”

  “Which is good, because you don’t stand a chance,” Ian shot back and walked down the hall.

  “I’m here to help you protect your imprudent girlfriend from some crazy stalker.”

  He punched in the combination to the small steel gun safe at the bottom of the hall closet and muttered, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “That’s on you to solve. I can’t mastermind everything.”

  “Oh, I am solving it, don’t you worry.”

  “Really? Because it looks more to me like you’re sitting on your ass, moping around, and tearing my head off for breathing.”

  “I’m employing psychology.” He ground his back teeth together and chose the small, efficient Smith & Wesson M&P. “A little tactic called ‘waiting her out.’”

  “Ah. Impressive. At this rate you ought to have her right where you want her in”—Trevor made a show of glancing at his watch—“never.”

  Ian closed the safe and somehow managed to stop himself from banging his forehead against the doorframe. “The ‘waiting her out’ part of the plan weakened her resolve and gave her a chance to realize how much she misses me. Now she’s ready for phase two.”

  “Phase two?”

  He didn’t miss the doubt in his partner’s voice. He took his ankle holster from on top of the safe and stalked back to the sofa. “Where I tell her I’ve had enough of her ‘I’m not a relationship kind of girl’ bullshit. I know she’s in love with me, I’m in love with her, and here’s how things are going to be. End of story.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  “Keep your luck, hater. This is going to work.” He wrapped the holster around his ankle and closed the Velcro strap. “I have the upper hand.”

  “You and your upper hand are in for some more lonely nights. Why don’t you try apologizing?”

  “Apologize! Are you fucking kidding me? What did I do wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously, you don’t know, and you know what? You may never know, even after she explains it to you five hundred times. That, my friend, is part of the beautiful, complex mystery known as woman. But I am trained to examine the evidence in front of me and draw logical conclusions. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? You guys dated almost a year, you asked her to move in, and she dumped you like a stale keg. Logical conclusion? You did something wrong.”

  “That’s not a logical conclusion. It’s a superficial, idiotic interpretation of some circumstantial facts.”

  “Maybe.” Trevor shrugged and stared out the window. “But the woman I love wears my ring and, when she leaves the party tonight, she’ll be on my arm, so which one of us is the bigger idiot?”

  Point taken, though he’d tear out his tongue before saying so. He tilted his head left, then right, to work the kinks out of his neck. “Can we put aside my personal life for a minute and concentrate on the reason we’re going to this party in the first place?”

  “Fine by me. How do you want to play things?”

  He wanted to stride in, toss Stacy over his shoulder, and walk out…and not put her down until she told him she loved him and begged him to take her back. Then they’d turn the damn letter over to a forensic team, pick her brain for a list of suspects, and talk her into adding personal security to her entourage until the threat was resolved. But Stacy would dig in her heels and refuse to cooperate if he tried the shoulder-toss tactic.

  “You go in and find Kylie. Stick to her, because she and Stacy look so much alike, if some sicko has his sights set on Stacy, there’s a chance he’ll mistake Kylie for her, which puts them both in danger. I’ll find Stacy, stay close to her, and ensure nobody tries anything. At the first opportunity, I’ll try to wrangle her outside so we can move to a more secure location and question her about the letter.”

  “Okay. I’ve got your six. How do you plan to get her to leave with you?”

  “I have no clue, but I’m figuring the ski mask might come in handy.”

  “You don’t think she’ll recognize you, just from…I don’t know…pheromones or what have you?”

  “Under flashing lights, in the middle of a jam-packed costume party?” Ian shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “If you get her out of Deuces under false pretenses, she’s going to be pissed.”

  “Better pissed at me than staving off the advances of some delusional lunatic.” He inspected the pistol and loaded a magazine. “Besides, she’s already broken up with me. What else can she do?”

  “Okay. Agreed. And if she’s with a…ah…new friend?”

  “She’s not looking for a new friend, because she’s still in love with me.” He forced some confidence into his voice, but in truth, his vision went red around the edges and his pulse spiked at the idea of Stacy in the arms of some other guy. Technically, she was a free agent. She could hook up tonight, tomorrow night—any night she chose.

  “Maybe she loves you, but after a month of your famous ‘wait her out’ treatment, she’s probably given up on the notion of receiving the heartfelt apology you owe her.”

  “I told you before. I do not owe her an apology—”

  Trevor simply kept talking. “She’s probably decided you’re a lost cause, hence…new friend.”

  Ian leaned down and holstered the Smith & Wesson in his ankle holster. “She can un-fucking-friend him.”

  Chapter Three

  Lights blinded Stacy the minute the chauffeur opened the limo door.

  Cameras whirred. She lifted her chin, plastered a sly smile on her face, and let the driver help her out of the car. An audible gasp came from the small crowd of media and onlookers gathered around when Kylie got out and stood beside her. She expected the reaction. They’d elicited it their entire lives. They looked that much alike.

  She had a moment to tell the driver to take Mandy wherever she wanted to go, before a petite, auburn-haired entertainment reporter from the local news thrust a microphone in
their faces. “Okay, ladies, who’s who?”

  “I’m Stacy, and this little devil right here”—she gestured to Kylie—“is my sister, Kylie.”

  “Twin sister, obviously,” the reporter observed, working her way between them, smiling for her cameraman. “The resemblance is…amazing.”

  “I’m the pretty one,” Stacy said, and everyone laughed.

  “Kylie, are you an actress too?”

  “No, no. Stacy got all the performing genes. I’m a yoga instructor.”

  “Nirvana on Ninth,” Stacy added, figuring Kylie ought to get a little plug out of the interview.

  The reporter aimed the mic toward Kylie. “You must be very proud of your sister…breaking out so big in the hottest new show of the season.”

  “I am.” Kylie smiled at Stacy. “For a lot of reasons, including the show.”

  “We’re proud of each other,” Stacy said.

  “There you have it, folks. A mutual admiration society here with the Roberts twins. Are you ladies ready for Deuces’ infamous Halloween Hedonism party?”

  “I think we are.” Stacy angled to the side and struck a pose for the cameras, arching her back to maximize the profile of her figure, which she knew the little white angel gown showed off to perfection. “What do you think?”

  Hoots and catcalls came from the crowd of onlookers.

  “Sounds like the costumes are a hit, girls.” The reporter winked at the camera. “Is this your first time at Deuces?”

  Stacy forced her smile a little wider. Show no fear. “God, no! Coming to the club is like visiting family. Deuces gave me my start in Hollywood. I danced here for two years.” She let that statement hang for a beat and then waved, turned, and strutted to the main entrance, where a big bouncer held court over a long line of costumed hopefuls waiting to get into the party. He held the velvet rope aside to allow her and Kylie to enter. Behind them on the sidewalk, all hell broke loose. Questions flew from the cadre of reporters, cameras clicked and flashed. Stacy tossed her hair, aimed one last smile at the media, and walked into Deuces.

  Inside the darkened club, thumping dance music and throngs of young, scantily clad bodies greeted them. Spinning black lights over the packed dance floor washed the entire scene with the eerie purple tint of an erotic dream. The overall chaos made it hard to see, hard to hear, and, best of all as far as Stacy was concerned, hard to think. Yes, tonight was exactly what she needed.

  “That went well,” Kylie said over the deafening beat of the music, “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Always.” The bar was calling her name. Time to heed that call, because she felt good for the first time in weeks—relaxed, confident, and completely in her element—and aimed to stay that way. She needed to stay that way, if only for one night.

  The muscular, slick-haired bartender did a double-take as soon as he saw them, and then stretched his lips into the smarmy grin he’d once told Stacy made him a dead ringer for Ryan Reynolds. In reality, it made him a dead ringer for Ted Bundy. Gary Swinton could be counted on for a lewd comment, and an indecent proposal, but he also poured a stiff one, so she returned his grin.

  “Hey, Stacy. Kylie. I didn’t expect to see you ladies here tonight. Just had to come back for a chance to get it on with The Swinton, huh? Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty for both of you.”

  In your dreams, she thought, but sadly, the retort was probably entirely too accurate. “With smooth lines like that, how can we say no? We just need a couple thousand martinis first and then we’ll be good to go. Let’s start with two.”

  Gary winked at her chest. “Two martinis, coming up.”

  Kylie gave her a conspiratorial shoulder bump. “It must be good to know some people will never treat you differently, no matter how big a star you become.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s really comforting.” But, strangely, it was. The team at Deuces, strippers and staff alike, knew her. She didn’t have to put on an act for them, or be on her best behavior. She could be her uncensored, snarky self.

  An arm looped around her neck from behind. She jumped, and, for one terrifying moment, wondered if Worst Nightmare had tracked her down and intended to choke the life out of her right then and there. But then a reassuringly familiar voice said, “You, Snowflake, as an angel? I think you’re a shoo-in for most ironic costume.”

  Stacy laughed at her ridiculous moment of panic, and then turned to face Ginger, the tall, improbably endowed, flame-haired dancer who headlined at Deuces. Tonight she wore a skintight black bustier that barely kept the girls under wraps, along with a short, transparent black mesh skirt that showed off her black satin thong. Garters, fishnets, and a tall black witch’s hat completed the ensemble.

  “Hi Ginger. Decided not to wear a costume tonight?”

  “Watch it.” She brandished a sparkling black wand. “Or I’ll put a spell on you.” The redhead pulled Stacy into a hug, and then said, “Oh, good, you brought the nice one too,” and gave Kylie a squeeze as well.

  Stacy took the drinks Gary put on the bar, handed one to Kylie, and clinked glasses with her. “Happy Hallow—”

  “Woo-hoo! Looky who’s here!” Sunny-haired Southerner Lee Ann closed in on them, dressed like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. Ariana, the haughty brunette Russian followed, looking like a Parisian hooker in a black-and-white striped tube top, a tiny, front-slit leather skirt, and fishnets. She led Vern, the club’s manager, by the shiny tie of his 1920s mob boss costume.

  While Lee Ann gave Kylie an exuberant hug, Vern stopped in front of Stacy and shook his head. His droopy brown eyes and sagging jowls provided the perfect canvas for his feigned disappointment. “You back again, kid? Didn’t I tell you that whole acting thing wouldn’t work out?”

  She laughed. “That is exactly what you said, you miserable grouch.” He was the world’s biggest cynic, but deep down in his cold, black heart, she knew he was happy for her.

  “There are no shows tonight because of the party, but since we go way back, I’ll clear the stage if you want to hop up there and make some money. Take Kylie with you, and I guarantee you girls will clean up.”

  She took a big swallow of her martini and gave him a raised eyebrow over the rim of her glass. “You can’t afford me now, Vern.”

  He turned to Ariana and shrugged. “Look at that. Pretending like she’s too good for us. She probably doesn’t even remember how to shake the moneymaker anymore.”

  Ari smiled. “She is big star now. Her muscles are soft.”

  Stacy finished off her drink in another large swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol in her throat and chest—Jesus, that felt good—and put the glass on the bar. “I haven’t forgotten a damn thing.” She pointed to the stage, where groups of partygoers, mostly female, danced and swayed seductively to the music, hoping to attract attention from the guys congregating on the dance floor directly below. “I play a showgirl on TV. I still dance every day, and I can put any of those girls up there now to shame.”

  “Talk is cheap,” Vern said.

  “You need me to prove this? Seriously?”

  “I dare you. Come,” Ari took her hand, and Lee Ann’s, and tugged them toward the stage. “See if you remember Triple Threat.”

  Triple Threat was the name Vern had given an intricate, over-the-top sexy dance Stacy had choreographed for three dancers—typically Lee Ann and Ari, and featuring her as the main dancer, naturally. She mentally reviewed the steps as they wound their way through the packed dance floor. The crowd parted easily enough, and a couple of cute, hard-bodied “construction workers” lifted them up to the stage. And then, there she stood, front and center, with all eyes on her. Just how she liked it. The distinctive opening notes of Flo Rida’s “Whistle” seeped from the sound system—a perfect song for the dance, with its playful, steady rhythm. She gave her body over to that beat, letting muscle memory kick in. Within seconds, the three of them were performing the routine as if they still did two shows a night, three nights a week, with the nota
ble exception that they kept their clothes on.

  She felt amazing, alluring, almost like her old self again. The strobes kept everything dreamlike and anonymous. She sensed, rather than saw, the other girls on the stage back off, so as not to suffer by comparison. Then the guys moved in. Guys with the confidence to vie for the attention of the hottest girls on the stage. She flirted with a gorgeous African-American model type who wore a white towel wrapped around his waist like the Old Spice guy. He smiled and worked his way closer, impressing her with dance moves as tight as his abs.

  G.I. Joe arrived next, complete with biceps-revealing cammies that couldn’t possibly be military issue, and worked his way between her and Lee Ann. “I’m not just a job, ladies…I’m an adventure.”

  She laughed and spun away. Ginger danced over and handed her a drink. The lemon drop, heavy on the vodka, went down smooth as ice. She gave the empty glass to G.I. Joe. “Here’s your next mission, soldier.” He saluted dutifully and danced away.

  The vacant spot he left behind offered her a view of the club. She spotted Kylie and Trevor cuddled up together by the bar. The sight of Trevor brought unwanted thoughts of Ian flooding back. Was he here too? She scanned the room for one ridiculously painful heartbeat. No sign of him. A heavy sensation sank through her chest to settle in her stomach. She labeled it relief and turned back to the stage.

  The second drink kicked in, giving her a nice buzz. She raised her arms over her head and looked up to watch the shadows they cast in the purple lights shining down from the ceiling rig. Someone behind her chose that moment to give her a hip bump, and toppled her off balance. She stumbled forward and might have fallen, but two strong arms caught her and pulled her up against a hard, male chest.

  Her breath clogged her lungs for a moment, then burst out in a rush. “Thanks,” she managed and looked up at her rescuer. A black ski mask obscured his face. A soft, black, long-sleeved shirt covered what felt like a carved-from-granite upper body. Dark jeans hugged his lean hips and molded his thighs.

  A low, almost gravelly voice reached her ears. “You okay, Angel?”