by Amber Morgan
****
Once she was up on stage, Freya's worries were completely burned away by the rush of dancing and the thrill of being watched. By the time her set ended, she'd forgotten all about Bello. Working the floor, she quickly landed her first private dance, and she stayed busy after that.
Which was just as well, she reflected as she stalked around the club floor, one eye out for the next potential customer, because the hot, cheapskate security guard was on tonight. Slater. Also working the floor, looking delicious in a black t-shirt that clung to his broad chest in a way she positively envied.
Focus, she chided herself. He may look good, but he'd stiffed her spectacularly. She couldn't be distracted by chiseled abs, soulful eyes, and the memory of his thick, long...
“Belladonna! There's our girl.” Benedict's cry jerked her from an angry, pornographic flashback, bringing her slamming back to reality. “You been busy tonight, huh, doll? Thought we'd never catch you alone!”
Dread rushed into Freya's stomach as she took in the man standing behind Benedict.
If she'd been asked to cast a stereotypical mobster in a film, she'd have cast this guy. Tall, brutishly handsome, hair slicked back, fingers gleaming with gold rings—including a wedding band, she noted with an extra shot of distaste. His suit was sharp and his smile was shark-like. His dark eyes were flat, emotionless, and it was easy to picture him wearing that same cold expression whether he was fucking his wife or killing a man.
“This is Anthony,” Benedict said, stepping aside a little. The club was crowded tonight and the natural surge of customers heading to the bar pushed Freya closer to Anthony against her will. “Anthony, Belladonna here's gonna take real good care of you tonight. Aren't you, sugar?”
Anthony reached for her hand. Feeling trapped, she let him take it. Fast-paced music swelled around them, and the Hot House seemed to shrink, the people jostling around her too close. She took a deep breath and smiled at Anthony.
“I sure am,” she heard herself say.
Chapter Eleven
Freya had grown to like the little curtained booths for the private dances. They felt intimate and almost romantic with the velvet drapes and soft lighting. Even if her customers were men or women who didn't appeal to her physically, there was an aspect of make-believe and fantasy to the private dances that did turn her on.
Not now. Not with Anthony Bello. Everything about him terrified her, and he hadn't said a damn word to her yet.
He sprawled in the chair, watching her with the dead-eyed gaze, fingers drumming impatiently on his knee. She couldn't stop imagining the things he must have done with those big hands.
“You wanna get paid or what?” he asked, his voice thick and gravelly.
She twitched and tried to plaster a sweet smile on. “Aw, is this just about the money?” she asked, trying to sound flirtatious as she began swaying to the beat of the music. “You could have had any girl out there if that's all that matters. I kinda hoped...”
She stopped herself. She didn't want to say I hoped I was special. It was a line she'd found worked well with some guys, implying an attraction that built up the fantasy and encouraged them to be generous with their money. But she couldn't say it to this guy. The words tasted foul in her mouth.
He grunted, running his eyes over her chest. “I could have any girl,” he said. “But I was told you were the friendliest.”
Freya swung around, turning her back on him as she swiveled her hips and wriggled her ass. She didn't think she could hide her revulsion and she couldn't let him see it. She concentrated on the music, trying to lose herself in the sultry vocals and shimmering rhythm, and not think about the man she was dancing for.
Slater drifted into her head, unbidden. Dancing for him had been so fucking hot. Why did he have to be an asshole?
She shook her head, trying to banish him.
“Face me.” Anthony's voice cracked through the air.
She thought of Kayden, face bloodied and bruised, crying into her lap, and she pirouetted. She could do this. As long as he didn't try to touch her, she could do this.
“Smile,” he said, his face stern, lips tight.
She bared her teeth and hoped it passed for a smile in the low lights.
Anthony frowned and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. It put him that much closer to her, and it took all over Freya's willpower not to step back.
“That ain't a real smile, princess,” he said.
She tried harder, acutely aware of how close he was, how small the booth was, and how much bigger than her he was. She dug for a happy thought, something that really would make her smile, and she imagined driving her spike heel straight into Benedict's dick.
“That's better,” Anthony said, nodding. “Much better.”
His hand snaked out, landing high on her thigh. Freya swirled away, trying to make it seem like a natural part of her rhythm, but the booth really was too small, and he simply reached out with his other hand too, clamping both down firmly on her hips.
She froze, heart jumping into her throat.
“Keep dancing,” he said.
How could she? How the hell could she?
He gave her a shake. “Keep dancing, princess.”
She wasn't sure what else to do, so she laid her hands carefully over his, trying to pry them away while she trembled and tried to pass it off as dancing. But his grip was solid, unmovable, and he didn't react at all to her feeble attempts to move him. His gaze was locked on her breasts, cupped so nicely by her corset, and as she swayed uselessly, his hands ran up her body to cover them.
She stared up at the ceiling. Think of the money. Think of Kayden.
He hooked a finger inside the corset, tugging at it. “Get this off.”
Oh Jesus. No. There was no amount of money worth being assaulted for.
She yanked herself free of his grip so hard she stumbled on her stupid fucking heels and fell back, hitting the wall so hard all the air left her body in a painful gasp.
Anthony stood, eyes blazing.
Raw panic seized Freya and she pushed herself up and flung herself out of the booth.
You're going to regret this.
She had no idea if the words were Anthony's or her own panicked thoughts, not in that moment. But as she hurled herself back into the club, she knew it didn't matter. It was true either way. She'd fucked up. She knew it as she darted away from Anthony and she knew it as surprised gasps and cries rang out around her. She'd fucked up so hard, and the worst thing was, it wasn't even her who'd pay the price.
But it was too late to turn back. All she could think about now, as she shoved her way through the hot, packed bar, was escape. The Hot House was suddenly a trap, overwhelming. The music was too loud, the crowd too thick. She couldn't even see the doors, and the floor was slippery from spilt drinks, and Anthony was probably right behind her. Oh God, oh God, oh fuck—
A pair of strong arms seized her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. Freya screamed and kicked, but it did not a shred of good. Cold horror froze her as her captor carried her through the club, heading for the fire exit. Nobody was doing anything, she realized with a sick jolt. Nobody was even trying to intervene. They were all watching the dancers on stage. She was being kidnapped and not a single person here was going to lift a finger or raise their voice. Nobody gave a shit.
Freya renewed her struggles, tears streaming down her cheeks. Where the hell was security? Were they all Sammy's men as well?
Her captor dropped her at the fire exit but kept one arm wrapped around her waist as he pushed the door open. Cool night air hit Freya, chilling the tears on her face as he pushed her—gently—outside. The door clicked shut. Freya took a deep breath and started screaming.
****
Slater had spent a lot of time imagining his next encounter with Freya Markham. Screaming had definitely been involved, but not this frantic, terrified caterwauling. Not out in the back alley behind the Hot House, surrounded by garbage and flickerin
g street lights. He'd been thinking more of beds and handcuffs. The alarms that had gone off in his head when he saw her crashing out of the private booth dialed up to eleven.
“Hey, hey, come on,” he said, reaching for her. “You're safe—”
She spun around and jammed her spiked heel into his foot with a shriek. He was wearing steel-toed boots, so he didn't feel a damn thing, and he saw that realization pass across her mascara-stained face seconds before she brought her knee up, hard.
Slater darted back just in time to avoid the low blow, colliding with the wall behind him. He grunted, reaching for her again, then reconsidered.
She cowered away from him, hugging herself and shivering violently.
“I'll scream again,” she said, her tone clipped and her eyes wary.
He held his hands up, trying to look harmless. “I'm not going to touch you, okay?”
She wet her lips and glanced around the alley. Looking for an escape route, he guessed. The alley led out onto the main street, which wasn't particularly busy right now. There'd be nobody to get in her way if she wanted to run, but she didn't.
Because she was too fucking scared, he realized, noticing the fine trembling in her arms and legs. Of him? Or of whoever she'd fled in the Hot House?
The idea of her being scared of him cut him badly. “You wanna get out of here?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and neutral.
“I'm not going anywhere with you,” she spat, stepping back. She had nowhere to go but up against the fire exit, and she jolted as she hit it, her eyes falling closed.
“I'm not your enemy here, Freya,” he said. “You tell me where you want to go, and I'll take you there, no questions asked, okay? And then I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want. But I'm guessing you don't want to stick around here.”
She opened her eyes, giving him a narrow, suspicious look. “You're not one of Sammy's, are you? Swear to me.”
“I don't know any Sammy.”
There was a burst of noise behind the fire door, two men yelling. Freya leapt away from it as if scalded, and her expression suddenly turned desperate and pleading.
Slater held his hand out to her, a surge of possessive satisfaction filling him when she took it.
Half-dragging her along, he ran from the alley to where his bike was parked out the front of the club.
On the door, Glass gave him a quizzical look.
“Something came up,” Slater said, grabbing his helmet and shoving it unceremoniously on Freya's head. “You don't know anything, right?”
He didn't hear Glass's reply over the roar of his engine, but he didn't need to. Glass was solid, and all that mattered to Slater right now was getting Freya away from whatever was scaring her so badly. He'd figure out the rest once they were well away from the Hot House.
Freya clung to him like he was the last real thing in the world as they sped away, and despite the questions racing through his head, Slater relished the feeling of her arms around him. The purr of his Harley was the perfect accompaniment to the sensation, and despite the nagging voice—which sounded a lot like his mom—telling him he was plunging into some deep shit here, Slater found himself smiling as they left the Hot House in the dust.
****
Slater and Punk had been going to the Cactus Club since they were old enough to drink. Maybe even longer than that. Tucked away between a seafood restaurant and a sports bar in the heart of Wakefield, the tiny tequila bar was one of the city's hidden gems. Serving up tequila cocktails with names like Human Sacrifice and Mayan Temple, as well as huge portions of tacos and nachos, it was one of Slater's favorite places in the world.
Slater had a feeling a shot of tequila and a bowl of nachos would do Freya a lot of good right now.
The buzzing green neon cactus sign over the bar seemed to hypnotize Freya as he ushered her in. She kept her gaze locked on it, like it was a lighthouse drawing her to shore. The place was quiet, guitar music playing low while some old luchador movie rolled on the TV on the wall across from the bar. The Cactus's owner, Nidia, leaned on the bar, chatting with a guy over a bowl of nachos smothered with sour cream and salsa. Slater steered Freya that way with a light touch on her elbow.
She was shivering, he realized. Her outfit was hot as hell, but not exactly practical. “Hey, Nidia,” he greeted her as they reached the bar. “You got an old jacket lying around anywhere?” He nodded at Freya.
Nidia straightened up, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Probably something in lost property. Hang on a sec.”
She disappeared behind the bar. Slater tapped a stool. “Take a seat,” he told Freya.
She sat down, then glared at him. “Don't boss me around.”
He ignored that the same way he'd ignore Kelsey, with deliberate patience. He didn't know the details yet, but it was painfully clear she'd been badly shaken up, so she was allowed to lash out at him a little bit. He took the stool next to her and raised his hand to beckon over the bartender.
“A shot of Patron and whatever the lady's having,” he told the guy. “And a bowl of the pulled pork nachos.”
The guy looked askance at Freya. She hugged herself and shrugged. “A margarita, I guess?”
While the bartender mixed her drink, Nidia returned with a huge Indianapolis Colts hoodie that smelt of pot. Freya took it gratefully, huddling down into it like it was a security blanket. Slater felt a keen, sharp desire to hurt whoever had hurt her.
He balled his hands into fists, trying to quell the feeling. It wouldn't do him any good right now, so he had to ignore it. Once he knew the whole story, then he'd go find someone to hurt.
“You wanna tell me what happened?” he asked her once she had her drink in front of her.
She gave him a quick, startled look, like a frightened bird. Then she shook her head, biting her lip. “I can't.”
He curbed his flicker of impatience. “Can't why?”
She pursed her lips at him, and he could see some inner turmoil flash behind her eyes. “Look,” she said finally. “I'm grateful for the ride, but I don't owe you anything in return. Especially since you still owe me for that dance.”
“Sorry, what?”
She stood, took a deep gulp of her drink, and pushed the glass toward him. “I have to go,” she said, only the faintest tremor in her voice. “I need to fix this. I have to—” She stopped, eyes wide with sudden horror. “I have to get to Kayden.”
Chapter Twelve
“Who's Kayden?” Slater asked with a stab of jealousy.
Freya didn't seem to hear. She was gripping the bar with white knuckles, eyes glazed, face flushed. Slater wondered if she was about to faint and eased her back onto her bar stool. She didn't resist.
“Look, I can help you,” he said. “I want to help you, but you need to tell me what's going on. What happened in the club? Who's Sammy and who's Kayden?”
She took back her abandoned cocktail and had another swig. “Why would you want to help me?” she asked, glancing at him warily from her under her ruined hair-do.
“I'm a helpful guy,” he said. “Ask anyone. Ask Nidia.” He nodded at the bar manager as she slid a bowl of nachos their way.
Nidia snorted. “I guess.”
“See? Unpaid, unrehearsed testimony.” Slater nudged the bowl toward Freya. “I'm on your side, Freya, okay? Whatever happened, whatever you're scared of, I'm on your side.”
He didn't need to be a mind-reader to guess at what had happened in the Hot House, but this was more than a customer getting handsy, he was sure of that. Freya's wild flight from the private booth and her obvious fear spoke to something bigger, deeper.
She inhaled deeply and squared her shoulders. When she looked at him again, he saw a trace of the fire he'd so admired on their first encounter. “Okay,” she said. “I'll tell you, but you have to do something for me first.”
He nodded, encouraging her to ask.
“My brother, Kayden. He could be in danger. I need to go get him.” Pain flashed across her
face. “Please.”
Family shit. Okay, Slater could get that. He nodded, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “What's your address?” he asked her, dialing Punk.
Punk was slow to pick up. “This needs to be important,” he told Slater. “I've got a hot blonde on her knees here—”
“It's an emergency,” Slater said, rolling his eyes.
“My erection is an emergency, prospect.”
“Punk, knock it off.”
“I'm trying to, but you're interrupting.”
Slater heard a woman screech with laughter in the background. He sighed. “That doesn't even make sense. I need a favor. Seriously.”
“How seriously?”
Slater glanced at Freya. She stared up at him, blue eyes wide and shining, biting her lower lip. “Big time seriously. You can get your dick sucked any time, Punk.”
Punk heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. But you owe me one. Not literally. I love you, but—”
“Colby, shut the fuck up and listen,” Slater snapped. He loved Punk, but there was a hefty dose of dislike in there sometimes. “I need you to go pick someone up and bring them to the Cactus Club.” He reeled off the address Freya had told him.
“Tell him Freya said to come,” Freya called down the phone, leaning into Slater. “Tell him I said everything's fine.”
“Yeah, it sounds fine,” Punk said. “Midnight runs to smuggle strangers into tequila bars. Sounds fucking peachy.”
“Thanks, man,” Slater said. “I really do owe you one.”
“Yeah, well, just make sure there's a few shots of Patron lined up when I get there, okay?” Punk hung up, grumbling.
Slater turned his attention back to Freya. “Punk's a good friend—”
Across the bar, Nidia cracked up. “Well, that's half true.”
Slater ignored her, grinding his teeth. “He'll get your brother here, okay? Now why don't you tell me what's going on?”
****