Wicked Games (McCade Brothers novella)

by Samanthe Beck

  But he couldn’t waste any more time sitting there, trying to figure it out. They would talk things out later, he vowed, but for now, Stacy needed protection, even if she thought she had it handled—whatever that meant. Thinking about how she might have “handled it” scared him enough to hurry. He shoved his shoes on and headed to the door. Calm, he counseled himself as he grabbed the knob. Uptight cops made piss-poor decisions.

  As soon as he opened the door, however, his stomach knotted. The crowd inside the club had grown since they’d taken their little time-out. People clogged the hallway outside the VIP rooms. Beyond that, more people…crammed together at the bar, packed onto the dance floor, flowing into every nook and cranny of the club. This many people created cover, and confusion, not safety. His chances of finding anyone, particularly someone hoping to avoid him, looked to be somewhere between shit and outta luck.

  He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and sent Trevor a text. What’s your 20?

  The incoming text came right back. Bar.

  Down the hall, to the right. Simple, except for the wall of humanity in his way. He started the slow, sweaty slog and texted back, Stacy?

  Not with you?

  He stifled a curse, and the urge to text back a pissy “Would I have asked if she was with me?” Instead, he typed, No. See her?

  It took a few moments, but Trevor came back with No.

  The breath he didn’t realize he held drained out of him like a slow leak. Dammit. He had a bad feeling.

  His partner texted again, in his annoying thirteen-year-old-girl style. U let her shake u? Not smart.

  No kidding. Don’t move, he typed. I’m coming to you.

  Impatience built as he shouldered his way to the bar. Just walking from A to B constituted a full-contact sport. He endured more than a few elbows to his ribs, high heels trampling his toes, a half-dozen ass grabs, and one anonymous hand of undetermined gender groping his crotch.

  Finally, he shoved through to where Trevor stood scanning the crowd.

  “Spotted her?” Stupid question, Ian knew, because he couldn’t see her, and Trevor was only a couple inches taller. His view wouldn’t be materially different.

  “No. But don’t worry yet. Kylie went to the ladies’ room with Lee Ann and Ginger. They probably ran into her there.”

  His nerves jittered. “Text her and find out.”

  Now Trevor turned and looked at him. “She doesn’t have her phone.”

  “What?” True, Stacy hadn’t been carrying hers either, but Kylie was the responsible twin.

  “You saw what she’s wearing. You think she’s got a BlackBerry built into her shoe?”

  “I was hoping.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble. I don’t suppose Stacy told you what she did on her way in to the party?”

  The bad feeling came back. Stronger. “She said something about handling her pen pal.”

  “She scooped him. He threatened to reveal that she used to strip for a living. Stacy decided to break the news herself, so she rolled out of the limo this evening and held herself a press conference, during which she mentioned she’d spent two years dancing at Deuces.”

  He actually felt the color drain out of his face. “Holy shit. Exactly why am I not supposed to be worried yet?”

  Trevor shrugged, but returned to inspecting the crowd. “She could be right. Now that he’s got no hammer to hold over her, he’ll lose interest.”

  “Maybe. Or could be he’ll choose a more direct method of forcing her out of the picture?” He took a deep breath and realized her smell lingered on him like a ghost. The thought sent sharp claws skittering up his spine. “He could move in for the kill tonight—literally—and nobody would realize anything had happened until…” The rest of the words hung there, unspoken…until it was too late. Adrenaline surged through his bloodstream, making it impossible to stand still. “You stay here. I’m going to circle over to the restrooms, see if I can catch them and find out if Stacy’s with them—”

  “Hold up, Detective,” Trevor slapped a restraining hand to Ian’s chest. “They could be headed back here as we speak.”

  “If they’re on their way back to the bar, I’ll intercept them.”

  “Doubtful. Intercepting anyone in this crowd would be like finding a needle in a haystack. You’ll just end up passing them, and then having to make your way right back here. Stay put until they come back. If Stacy’s with them, great. If she’s not, then we’ll break the club down into three zones, fan out, and conduct a logical, methodical search.”

  He knew Trevor’s approach made sense, and going off half-cocked on a solo search amounted to a giant waste of time and energy, but standing there, waiting, taxed his patience.

  After an eternity he saw the pointy top of Ginger’s witch hat cut through the crowd and come their way. Kylie followed, then Lee Ann, and then…nobody. He wanted to put his fist through the bar. Trevor aimed a warning glance at him and turned to Kylie. “Have you seen Stacy?”

  Kylie’s big blue eyes shifted to Ian and widened. “I saw her with you. I watched you two leave the stage together.”

  He pretty much had to read her lips. Trevor’s low voice carried decently well over the noise of the club, but Kylie’s lighter, higher tone got lost in the din.

  “They got separated,” Trevor offered, diplomatically succinct.

  “She’s got to be here. She wouldn’t leave without telling me.”

  Yeah. Not willingly. Kylie’s expression assured him there was at least one person in the club as anxious about Stacy being MIA as he was, but he didn’t take any comfort in the realization.

  “Kylie told us about the creepy letter,” Ginger said. “Do you think a guy who gets his rocks off putting a bunch of threats on paper would actually show up tonight and make trouble?”

  “It’s possible,” Trevor replied. “This person might feel the need to witness firsthand what kind of reaction his letter caused, or he might want some kind of acknowledgement.”

  “We’ll help look for her,” Lee Ann offered. She gestured to Ginger. “We’ll go back and check the restroom.”

  “You have a phone?” Ian asked.

  Lee Ann nodded and pulled hers out of her white cowboy boot. “Always, sugar.”

  He nodded, waited while Trevor took her number, and sent them both a text. He replied and looked at Lee Ann. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” she confirmed.

  “Okay.” Turning to Trevor and Kylie, he said, “I’ll go this way. You two take the middle. We’ll all meet back here. Text if you find her.”

  Ginger squeezed his arm, and then she and Lee Ann were gone. Trevor took Kylie’s hand and pulled her away. She trailed behind, craning her neck to give him an anxious look before the crowd swallowed her up. He took a deep breath and plunged into the fray.

  Chapter Seven

  Stacy pushed her way through a jungle of humanity. Her head wasn’t liking the whole vertical thing too much anymore, and her stomach wanted her to rethink the three drinks, but she kept moving.

  The bone-jarring beat of the music made her head pound. The flashing lights assaulted her eyes. She swallowed hard and put her chin to her chest.

  God, she felt awful. Her mind tossed out a fantasy of Ian coming up behind her, scooping her into his arms, and carrying her out into the blissfully cool, head-clearing air. He’d put her down and take her hand. Then he’d tell her he didn’t give a rat’s ass about her past, he only cared about her future…and he’d ask her to marry him and share it with him. She’d wrap her arms around his neck, bury her face against his chest, and tell him she loved him. She’d always loved him, and, for her, there would never be anyone else. He’d drive her home, tuck her into his bed, and hold her close for the rest of the night, and the next night…and the rest of their lives.

  Let go of the grand-gesture fantasy. It’s not gonna happen. Fate didn’t arrange happy-ever-after endings for girls like her, and she couldn’t let herself believe differently just because
he’d shown up tonight. She had her Worst Nightmare to thank for that. Were it not for the threat, he’d clearly been prepared to do precisely what she’d asked him to do—leave her alone. Once he realized she’d eliminated the threat with her preemptive strike, Ian could go back to leaving her alone.

  The already impossible-to-navigate interior of the club blurred behind a stinging sheen of tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and gave up fighting her way through the crowd like a salmon swimming upstream. Instead, she let the momentum of the people around her carry her in whatever direction prevailed. Go with the flow for a minute, get yourself together.

  A sharp pain slashed across her left side. “Ow!” She sucked in a breath and turned, ready to tell the gladiator standing beside her to watch it with the sword, but before she could open her mouth, something cold and hard pressed into her spine. At the same time, a low, harsh voice whispered, “Keep walking.”

  “What?” She tried to turn the other way now, but the unyielding rod dug into her back and the voice said, “That’s a gun, and I’m your worst nightmare. Unless you want me to blow a hole through you right now, don’t turn around. Don’t make a sound. Keep your mouth shut and walk.”

  My worst nightmare? Her heart froze, her lungs stopped working, and she completely forgot about the pain in her side. A gun? All three drinks in her stomach immediately reversed course. She bent forward and threw up, while little gray dots swam at the edges of her vision. She would have gone down completely, but her assailant grabbed her hair and pulled her head up. Hard.

  “I said walk!” The gun stabbed into the center of her back and sent another spear of agony along her side. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but managed to stay on her feet.

  Her side was killing her, but if she refused to take another step, the maniac behind her could shoot her down in the middle of Deuces and disappear in the ensuing chaos. The chances of surviving a bullet fired point-blank into her spine didn’t sound good.

  She looked right, then left, without turning her head, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kylie, or Trevor, Ginger, Vern…anyone who would recognize she was in trouble. She couldn’t find a soul.

  The flashing lights and constant movement of the crowd worked against her. Nobody in the tightly packed club could tell there was a gun-wielding, crazy nut on her ass. Even if someone came up from behind, her stupid wings covered the gun.

  Could she reach out and grab on to some of the people around her, and try to get their help? Sure, but unless they also had guns, incredible instincts, and some awfully quick reflexes, the psychopath behind her would simply shoot several people instead of just one. She couldn’t let that happen. Too bad she’d left one of the only people who had the kind of instincts and reflexes she needed sitting half-naked in the VIP room.

  A rough hand shoved her in the direction of the door leading backstage. Stacy resisted. Normally the backstage area bustled with activity. But tonight, with the party out front and no performances scheduled, the narrow hallway would be a dead zone. No performers, no techs, no runners…no help. Nothing. She liked her odds better right here in the main part of the club.

  Resistance earned her another jab with the pistol, which sent more pain ricocheting along her side.

  “Go through the damn door, or I’ll put a hole in you,” came the cold, hollow voice again.

  Stacy’s sweaty palm slipped off the knob on the first attempt. She got another grip and tried again. “I can’t. It’s locked.”

  She jumped and gasped when a booted foot shot past her and connected with the door, just above the knob. The flimsy lock popped and the door swung in. “I’ve got the key,” her captor taunted, and shoved her into the hallway.

  She realized the voice belonged to a woman. The knowledge sent her fear skyrocketing. Something told her Worst Nightmare wasn’t an obsessive admirer trying to save her from the evils of Hollywood, or a member of the morality police, determined to punish her for her immodest past. No, this was personal. Had she slept with the woman’s boyfriend? Stripped for her husband? Maybe he sat on the couch every Thursday night and ignored her while he watched Vegas Vixens? She honestly didn’t have a clue—didn’t even know who the crazy bitch was—but it hit her with sudden certainty that one of her choices, somewhere along the line, was about to come back and bite her in a big way…a big, deadly way.

  …

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, Stacy, where are you? Ian cut a path through zombies, mummies, and vampires, scouring his search area for any sign of her. There was none. To compound his apprehension, his phone remained frustratingly silent. The secret hope he’d harbored that she’d sneaked away to a stall in the ladies’ room to put herself together and curse him to hell and back waned with each passing second.

  If anything happened to her, he’d…he didn’t know what he’d do. His hand shook as he shoved it through his hair, pulling hard at the roots until his scalp screamed. They had to find her. End of discussion. There was no way his last interaction with the love of his life could take place in a back room at a strip club, her staring at him with a heartbreaking expression on her face, saying, “I’m sorry.”

  Absolutely not. He’d find her. And when he did, he’d sit her down and they’d have an honest talk—no more games or tactics. He’d ask her, point-blank, what the hell part of their relationship scared her, and then he’d do whatever it took to calm the fear. They belonged together. They made each other happy. That wasn’t his selfish needs talking, but pure, indisputable fact.

  The door leading backstage caught his eye. No security posted there, of course, because Vern made money optimizing the black ink on the club’s income statement, so he tended to go cheap on stuff like security. He relied on his bouncers to do periodic sweeps.

  Someone had left the door hanging open, which was a no-no on any night, for the dancers’ security, but with all shows canceled tonight, nobody had a legitimate reason to be back there. He checked in with Trevor and the girls by text as he moved to the door. Nobody had seen Stacy. Ginger and Lee Ann were headed back to the bar in case she turned up there. Trevor and Kylie were on their way to the front of the club, to see if Stacy had gone outside for some air.

  I’m checking backstage, he texted, and nudged the door open.

  Chapter Eight

  Stacy moved as slowly as she dared down the dim, narrow hallway, ever mindful of the gun pressed to her back. Cold seeped into her limbs, even as her side burned with a hot, persistent pain. She wrapped her arm around her middle and pressed her hand to the ache. Something warm and sticky pooled between her fingers. She lifted her hand away and squinted. Blood. She looked down at herself. A crimson stain bloomed over the left side of her white dress.

  “I’m bleeding,” she said lamely.

  The comment earned her a shove. “You’ll bleed even more if you don’t keep moving.”

  Right. Worst Nightmare had cut her with something before drawing the gun just to make extra sure she’d be in too weak a state to fight back. The odds of her walking away from this encounter shrank a little more. Don’t give up. Unfortunately, a detached, fuzzy-headed sensation made formulating a plan difficult. Blood loss? Shock? It hardly mattered. Knowing the cause of her symptoms didn’t do anything to fix them.

  Talk! her mind ordered, and she opened her mouth to obey. Then, in the next instant, a competing instinct warned, Don’t. Your mouth gets you into trouble.

  Probably good advice, but she found she couldn’t march meekly to a quiet, deserted corner and let Worst Nightmare put a bullet in her. She had to speak up, try to slow this runaway train down. Kylie, Trevor, and Ian would link up at some point, realize she was nowhere to be found, and, please God…start looking for her. If she could just stall, and give them time to find her…

  “Wh-why are you doing this?”

  She received a whack in the back of the head with the gun in response. “Shut up. Keep walking.”

  A wave of dizziness crashed over her. She sagged against the wall. Only sheer stubbornness
stopped her from curling into a ball and surrendering. She refused to give the crazy bitch the satisfaction of breaking her, so she dug in and waited for the hallway to stop teetering like a Tilt-A-Whirl. Eventually the dizziness subsided enough to allow her to straighten.

  “If you fracture my skull, I’m not going to be able to walk anywhere,” she pointed out, impressed at how steady her voice sounded.

  “Then I’ll drag you.”

  Over my dead body. She pushed off the wall, placed one foot in front of the other, and made her way along the hallway. At least she knew the layout of the backstage area. Not that familiarity gave her much of an edge, because during two years of dancing at Deuces, she’d never discovered a magic portal to safety tucked behind the blackout curtain, but she considered it a small factor in her favor. She kept her head bowed, in part to look compliant and in part to try to get a lock on Worst Nightmare’s exact position behind her.

  White wisps of…something…floated to the floor behind her. Whatever they were, they seemed to glow in the gloom. Feathers. Her wings were shedding. A bubble of hope rose in her chest. If anybody came backstage looking for her, they might spot the feathers and follow. Sure, it was a long shot, a damn small detail to pin all her prayers on, but right now, it was all she had. Ian was smart. He noticed small details.

  A memory floated through her mind, rising above the pain and terror of her situation. The first time she’d spent the night at Ian’s place. They hadn’t been together long—just a month—and all their previous overnighters had taken place at her apartment. Backassward arrangement, since Kylie had been her roommate at the time, while Ian had lived alone. But her twin had spent most of her nights at Trevor’s place, and Ian had knocked her off her game so badly she’d clung to the home-court advantage like a security blanket. Still, on that first morning at his place, she’d wandered into his bathroom after a knee-weakening session of wake-up sex, and found her favorite soap, shampoo, and conditioner in the shower. Yes, he noticed small details. He drew the lines, made the connections. A guy like Ian knew something innocuous could send a big message, like “I care about you and I want you to stick around.”