by J. Kenner
Tyler shook his head. "It's hard to fathom. She was strong-willed and smart. I never thought she'd turn tricks. And if she was down on her luck, she knew she could come to me. But it's possible she hooked up with the wrong guy. Someone who thought that because she was a dancer he could take what he wanted." I heard the tight edge of control in his voice. "Bastard."
He gave Caroline's hand a squeeze. "If I hear anything more, I'll tell you. Promise."
We followed her into the house, where the conversation turned from Emily to advice about how to milk the customers for the best possible tips. When we returned to the car an hour or so later, I was full up on donuts and coffee, and overloaded with information about dancing at Destiny. But despite the passage of time and the many conversations in the interim, my mind was still on Charley.
"Do you want me to call him?" Tyler asked.
"Not yet. Caroline said he was a lunch customer. So if he's not at the club today, maybe I'll have you call. But I'd like to chat with him first."
"Fair enough."
"In the meantime," I added, "I'm going to see if I can't find her in Vegas the old-fashioned way, detective way."
As he maneuvered the streets and highways of Chicago, I pulled out my phone and hit the only speed dial number I had programmed. Two rings later, my dad answered.
"Hey, daughter o' mine," he said, in the kind of gravelly baritone that could be either soothing or scary depending on whether he was helping a victim or interrogating a suspect. "How's the hip?"
"Hey, yourself. It's fine. They're idiots for keeping me off the job."
"No argument there. To what do I owe this call?" I could hear the clatter of the station behind him, and imagined him in front of a battered desk covered two feet thick in paperwork. "You just wanted to hear your wonderful father's voice, or do you need something?"
I laughed. "If I said both, would you see right through my ruse?"
"Pretty much."
"Okay, then I need something."
"And I'm happy to help. If you can answer one question."
"Shoot."
"What the hell are you doing working when you're supposed to be recuperating on medical leave?"
I leaned back and rolled my eyes. Beside me, Tyler's mouth quirked up. I knew he couldn't hear my dad's side of the conversation, but I supposed the one-sided version was amusing on its own.
"Saving my sanity," I said dryly. "And helping out a friend." I gave him the quick rundown on Candy and Amy.
"What do you need?"
"I've already prowled the phone records and I'm getting nowhere. Do you know anyone in the Vegas PD?"
"I'm insulted you have to ask. I know everyone. That's what makes me invincible."
"You're not as funny as you think you are, Daddy. Seriously, I was hoping you could ask someone for a favor. Maybe she's been cited for speeding or something. Can you get someone to run a search? See if her driver's license has come up? Maybe get a current address?"
He promised he would, of course. "But you have to promise not to run yourself ragged. Like it or not, you're still recovering. And more than that you need to take a step back. You go at this like a bat out of hell, but you're going to burn out."
"Daddy ..."
"I'm serious. Go find a guy. See a movie. Take two hours off being a detective to be a girl."
My eyes were on Tyler. "Thanks for the advice, Dad. Believe it or not, I'm working on it."
Chapter Nineteen
"Wow," I said as we stood in front of the vibrant purple facade. I tilted my head up to look at Tyler. "There are dresses in there?"
"Many," he said.
"If you say so."
We'd walked down Michigan Avenue from The Drake to Tonic, this Gold Coast boutique that, to my mind anyway, more resembled a child's Lego construct than an actual retail establishment. The building appeared to be made of plastic blocks, though Tyler assured me it was more solid than that. It consisted of multiple levels, like a wedding cake that had gone horribly wrong or, again, like a child's toy, if that child was trying to use up every Lego he owned.
The doorway was in the shape of a triangle, and various geometric shapes made up the row of windows that lined the second story. It was tucked in tight between two classically ornate buildings, and the contrast only made it look more, well, purple.
About the only thing the purple building had going for it, at least in my opinion, was that it couldn't be overlooked.
Then again, it had no signage at all. Presumably if you wanted to shop at Tonic, you knew how to find Tonic.
Normally I wouldn't want to find Tonic, but according to Tyler we were attending an event that night. And apparently jeans and a T-shirt weren't going to cut it.
I must have been gaping, because Tyler laughed and took my arm. "Come on," he said. "I promise you this will be fun."
I'm not entirely sure "fun" was the word, but the trip to Tonic was definitely educational. Whoever designed the place was clearly as passionate about purple as they were about haute couture. Every wall, every tile, every surface was either white or some shade of purple. I presumed the white was supposed to provide contrast, but there wasn't nearly enough of it. And though the purple was charming at first, after a while I felt a bit like I was engulfed in a giant bruise.
Bizarre sculptures descended from the ceiling, and the mannequins turned out not to be mannequins at all, but instead were live women who spent the day wearing the designs and standing frozen in place.
I really didn't see the point.
The one thing I couldn't argue with was the clothes. Everything shined and swirled and was designed to flatter.
Zelda--the sales associate who materialized the moment we entered the store--led Tyler and me to the evening gown section where she proceeded to show us dress after dress. Each was more fabulous than the one before--and each was summarily rejected by Tyler.
"Not even close to worthy of her. And the color--it can't clash with the fire of her hair."
"I have just the thing," Zelda said, in a thick accent that sounded Eastern European, but was probably fake. Just more window-dressing for the clients. "Arrived today. I go look, yes?"
She was gone only a few moments before returning with a simple dress that somehow managed to put all the fancier ones we'd seen to shame. It was a backless sheath, the front piece held in place by a thin strip of material over one shoulder.
The entire dress, including the skirt, was designed to hug a woman's curves, but the skirt was slit so that the woman could actually walk.
Best of all, it was the color of the sky on a clear summer day. In other words, it perfectly matched Tyler's eyes.
"I love it," I said. "Can I try it on?"
Zelda led me to the back of the store and the dressing room, which was about the size of my Chicago apartment. It had a chaise lounge, a vanity with a mirror, and a full array of toiletries so that the customer could emerge refreshed and primped. There was even a small refrigerator with bottles of Chablis and sparkling water.
I gaped a bit when Tyler joined me in the room. Zelda, however, seemed completely nonplussed. Clearly, she knew who would be paying the bill for today's excursion.
As soon as she closed the door, I turned to Tyler. "I usually shop at T.J. Maxx. I think this is a step up."
"Just a bit," he said, taking a seat on the chaise. "Let's see how it fits."
I slipped out of my shoes, then pulled off my T-shirt and wiggled out of my jeans. Clad in only my bra and thong panties, I took the dress off the padded hanger. The material was thin, clingy, and as soft as a cloud.
"Take your bra off," he said. "It's backless."
I did, then inspected the dress for a way in, finally deciding that I was meant to unfasten the single decorative button at the shoulder and step in from the top. The button seemed too minuscule to be up to the task of holding the dress up, but considering how little dress there actually was, I imagined it could probably handle the job.
"Sloane," Tyler said once I was wea
ring it, and there was something almost reverent about his voice.
"You like?"
"I like," he said, making a turning motion with his finger so that I would turn and look in the tri-fold mirror behind me.
When I did, I saw a woman who looked like she should be on a red carpet. I stood up on my toes and the effect was even better. "I'll need the right shoes," I said.
"Of course."
"And this is a problem." I pointed to the back, where the top band of my panties showed in the deep dip of the back.
Tyler stood. "Take them off."
"Commando?"
"This dress is made for it. Take them off," he repeated.
I did, shimmying out of them and tossing them on the pile with the rest of my clothing.
I walked toward the mirror, sexy and vibrant and daring. Maybe too daring. "I love it, Tyler, but I don't know. The slit up the thigh is so high. If it were over my hip, maybe. But ..." I trailed off as I took more steps and then turned. You couldn't actually see my crotch, but it was high enough that someone might imagine they could.
"Let them," Tyler said, when I told him that. "What's life without a little imagination?"
"Tyler ..."
"You're beautiful and sexy, Sloane. Even in your jeans and T-shirt. But in this, you're breathtaking. Enjoy it. Better yet, let me enjoy it."
I frowned at my reflection. I did look seriously hot. Hotter than I'd ever looked before, that was for sure, and I couldn't deny that it was tempting. So very tempting.
"Besides," he said, standing and coming to me. "There will be dancing, and this dress was made for it." He drew me into his arms, one hand holding mine, the other at my back. As he hummed something smooth and classical, he led me around the room, and even there, in a dressing room with no real music, it was almost magical.
"You see?" he said, his grin just a little bit wicked as he dipped me, making me cry out, then laugh in surprise and delight. My back arched, my leg extended out, and he pressed a kiss to the side of my neck.
He pulled me back to my feet, running his hand along my bare thigh as he did. "That slit is a very important selling point." His fingers continued along the length of the slit until he reached my sex. I was slick and wet, and I groaned when he thrust his finger inside me. "Definitely a selling point," he murmured.
"Tyler ..." My protest was thin and weak.
"Hush," he said, dropping to his knees. He lifted his hands, pushing the material up on my hips so that the top of the slit framed my sex. "I have to taste you," he said, then laved his tongue over me once before tilting his head up to face me. "Don't make a sound."
Oh, dear lord ...
I reached out, steadying myself with the side of the mirror as he drew in close once again, his hands now inside the skirt, holding tight to my thighs, his tongue so intimately stroking me.
He teased my clit with tiny, fluttery strokes, then stroked me, gloriously hard, before sucking and teasing.
My knees were weak, and I had to take one hand off the mirror to bite the soft pad at the base of my thumb simply to quell the need to scream in both pleasure and frustration. Pleasure at the riot of sensations he was sending through me. Frustration that I could do nothing more than stand there biting my lip when I wanted to cry out and beg him for more, beg him to lay me down and shove the dress up and bury himself inside me.
His tongue continued its sweet torture, and I clung to the side of the mirror, feeling the climax build, knowing I was close, so close, and any moment I would completely shatter.
And then he backed away. "I think that's far enough."
I gaped at him. "Excuse me?"
He stood up, then kissed me, long and deep. I tasted my own arousal and moaned against his mouth, my hips crushing against him as I writhed, shamelessly seeking my release.
"Mine, remember?" he said as he broke the kiss and backed away. His expression was smug and very devious. "I want you wanting. I want you desperate. I want you so ready for me you'll come with the slightest of touches, and then again and again when I fuck you."
My body trembled from his words. "Bastard."
He laughed. "I've been called worse."
"You know I'm going to make you pay."
He bent down to pick up my bra and shirt, then unbuttoned the shoulder. "Sweetheart, I sincerely hope so."
Since there was no winning this battle, I got dressed, stifling a frustrated moan as the jeans rubbed provocatively against me. I glanced at Tyler, certain he was aware of this new distress, but he very wisely didn't meet my eye.
I picked up the dress, turning it over to look for the tag. "There's no price," I said.
"Trust me. There's always a price."
In this case, the price was five digits, and I about had a heart attack.
"For a dress? And you spent it?" We were back on the street, heading toward Michigan Avenue so we could catch a taxi back to The Drake. "I could buy a car for that."
"Not a very good one."
"How the hell am I going to wear it? I'll be afraid to breathe on it."
"You'll wear it because I want to see you in it. And later, I want to see you out of it."
Such is the irony that had become my life, because just two short hours after spending over ten thousand on a dress, I was wearing next to nothing as I moved through a strip club doing the pre-performance mingle-and-chat routine. The kind of chatter that had me saying simpering nonsense and them mostly staring at my tits.
I wore short-shorts that revealed the curve of my rear and a push-up bra that accentuated the curve of my breasts, and in a few minutes, I'd replace that with my naughty executive outfit--which, once I took it off, showed off everything.
The thought made me long for Tyler, and I paused in my conversation with a Philadelphia businessman to scan the room for him.
I found him by the bar, going over what was probably an inventory with one of the two bartenders. As if he could feel my eyes on him, he looked up, and his smile held such warmth that I felt it all the way to my toes.
He shifted his gaze to a far corner, then nodded at a solitary man sitting in one of the plush chairs nursing a drink. The lunchtime crowd tended to sit at the stage, so this man was unique simply by virtue of being alone.
Charley, Tyler mouthed, and I nodded.
I said something polite but dismissive to my man from Philly, then swung my hips to give him a little show as I moved across the room to where Big Charley sat.
He was aptly named. A huge man with dark hair except for silver sideburns, he was ruggedly handsome, like a Hollywood version of a lumberjack. He looked up as I approached, his eyes going to tits then crotch in a way that I was starting to get used to.
"Hi, sugar," I said. "You're all alone over here."
"Just enjoying the scenery," he said. A glass half-filled with golden liquor sat on the table next to a money clip that was thick with bills.
He lifted his glass and I caught the scent of bourbon. He tossed it back, then smacked his empty glass down on the table. "I have to say, the view is definitely improving."
I laughed. "You're sweet." I cocked my head, studying him. "Wait a sec, you're Charley, aren't you?"
For a moment, he looked startled. "I know I'd remember you, darlin'. So how do you know me?"
"Oh, I don't," I said. "But my friend Amy said you were the sweetest thing. She said Big Charley always sits off by himself and he's just as nice as he can be and handsome as all get out. That's you, right? You were one of Amy's most favorite customers."
"That's me," he said. "How is she? Moved to Vegas, didn't she?"
"Yes, and the mean thing hasn't called me since she got there. I can't remember where she said she was working. Did she mention it to you?"
"Afraid not." He held up his glass to one of the passing waitresses, indicating he wanted a refill. "I'd offered her a job, actually, but she turned it down. Said she was going to dance in Vegas instead."
"Dance? Well, that narrows it down, doesn't it?" I sai
d, then laughed.
"Why are you looking for her. Worried?"
I shook my head, not inclined to delve into Candy's worries or my concerns with a stranger. "Not worried so much as frustrated. She promised a friend she'd come by and see her, but Amy tends to flake out, so I'm guessing the lure of Vegas was too much for her."
"It is alluring," he said. His eyes did another swoop over me, and I fought the urge to cross my arms over my chest. "Speaking of alluring ..." He pulled a fifty from the money clip that sat on the table beside his empty drink. "How about a lap dance, honey?"
The thought made me vaguely ill, and I realized that although I was fine with the dancing part of the deal I'd made, lap dances were technically part of my job.
Well, damn.
I leaned over and lightly pressed my finger to his forehead. "Hold that thought, sugar. I have to go do my thing onstage, but you're the one I'll come to after."
Lust flared in his eyes as I started to walk away. And then, just because I was getting into the part, I turned around and winked at him.
The other girls for the upcoming set were already in the dressing room, and we chatted while we got ready. I asked them about Amy, but no one said anything I didn't already know. At one point, I glanced at a snapshot, one of many on a bulletin board. The girl had blond hair, bangs, and a dimple that highlighted a friendly smile. I did a double-take, then realized it was only another girl who looked a bit like Amy.
"That's Emily," Sapphire said when I asked. "Weird, huh?"
"What?"
"Well, you're right. They look a bit alike, and they were both heading to Vegas." She exhaled, a sad, lonely sound. "Sucks that Emily never got there. You know, it seriously pisses me off that the cops haven't learned shit. It's like she was just a dancer in a strip club and they just don't care."
"I'm sure they care," I said, but I know I didn't convince her, and I made a mental note to call my friend in the Chicago
I did my own makeup--and didn't mess it up too badly--and then the intro music was blaring and it was time to head out.
This time, I knew right where Tyler was when I climbed onstage. A nice little perk as that lessened my nerves considerably. I danced and swayed and flirted with the customers and the pole, all the while keeping my eye on the man at the bar--my man, who was leaning back, his expression bland except for the heat in those blue eyes that never once left me.
I added an extra shimmy just for him, and reaped the reward in tips from nearby customers. Not a bad deal, really.