by A. Zavarelli
One thing is for certain, they’re great at hiding what goes on here. When I filed her missing person’s report, they didn’t even have Talia on file as an employee. Supposedly there isn’t any sort of a camera security system either, which I thought was shady as hell and made a point to say so. But everything else appeared on the up and up, and the police quickly washed their hands of it.
I don’t know if Talia is still alive. A very large part of me fears she isn’t. It’s been a year already. A year of exhausting every other option. I knew coming into this that it might be a one-way ticket to hell. But I can’t let it go. Talia doesn’t deserve to be treated like another statistic and I won’t stop until I find out what happened to her. If nothing else, I will give her the final resting place she deserves and make those responsible pay. These assholes think they can take vulnerable women and nobody will give a shit. But I’m here to show them just how wrong they are.
The bartender brings me another glass of Patron, and I open my wallet to pay when he shakes his head.
“On the house.”
Shit. I’ve been made already. Just as I’m about to glance around to see who it is, I feel his body heat behind me. I don’t even have to look to know it’s him. His scent hangs in the air between us. Cedarwood, sweet limes, and the leather from his jacket. The same scent that lingered in the warehouse between us last week.
“Butterfly.” His breath skates over my ear in a threatening whisper. “Fancy seeing you here. Stalking me, are ye?”
Pfft. Get a load of this guy. Stalking him? He frigging wishes. I turn around on my stool and come face to face with the devil himself. He’s a lot closer than I realized, and my leg brushes his when I come to a stop. He’s looking at me like he can’t believe it’s really me, sitting in his club. That’s a good thing, I hope.
“If I’m the butterfly,” I say sweetly. “What does that make you?”
“That depends.” He leans a little closer, inky darkness eclipsing the gray of his eyes. “What do you think I am?”
“How about we just call a spade a spade?” I flash him a smile. “Or in this case, a Crow a Crow.”
The threat in his gaze turns to something else entirely as he presses his hands against the bar and boxes me in with his arms. “How do ye know that name?”
“Oh, puh-lease. Everybody in Boston knows the notorious Crows. This little club you’re running is a hot bed of criminal activity. For the… what’s it called?” I tap my finger against my lips. “Oh yeah, that’s right… the MacKenna Syndicate.”
Before I can even really enjoy the effect my taunting has had on him, he’s grabbed me by the arm and yanked me off the stool. I’m dragged down a dark hallway and into an office before I’m roughly shoved against the wall.
Without pretense, he starts groping around my body for a wire. His hands aren’t at all gentle, and I flush unexpectedly when his palms move over my breasts. Scorching heat ripples along every inch of me he brazenly roams. I definitely don’t like it, but I’m responding nonetheless. Until he yanks up my skirt and kicks my legs apart, cupping me through my thong.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “You aren’t going to find one in there if that’s what you’re thinking.”
His attention dips to the pulse that’s now jumping in my throat and his jaw sets as his eyes flick to mine. He’s searching for something entirely different here, trying to pry my secrets out of me. My breaths are coming too quick, and he notices that too. He still hasn’t released me. His palm is between my legs, the heat beneath it only growing with every passing moment. The most vulnerable part of me that no man has ever touched, and yet he feels the right to. It isn’t sexual to him. His eyes are clouded with suspicion and anger and he’s waiting for me to tell him to stop. To get off of me. That’s what he wants, and I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Who the feck’re you?” he finally pulls away, and I take a deep breath. His accent definitely gets thicker when he’s pissy, and it makes me smile for some odd reason.
“You already know,” I drawl in a sugary voice. “Mack Wilder. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Crow. Officially.”
He takes a step back and eyes me off like he isn’t quite sure what to make of me. I’ve thrown him for a loop, and I like it. I use the opportunity to do the same. He’s looking sharp tonight in his black leather jacket and low-slung jeans. Everything about him is dark, powerful, mysterious. His aura exudes an armor that I doubt many can penetrate. It almost makes me feel strangely attracted to his dangerous persona. Almost.
I’m not completely insane.
“Ye’ve got exactly five seconds to tell me what the hell ye’re doing in my club,” he deadpans. “Before you’ll wish ye never set foot in here.”
Again, I smile at him. I have no doubt he’s packing heat and even less doubt he’d hesitate to ditch me in a dumpster somewhere. In fact, he’s looking at me right now like it’s exactly what he’s considering. But I have nothing to lose anymore, and I want to see how far I can push him. So what do I do?
I brazenly use four of those five seconds to take a seat in one of his nice leather chairs and cross my legs. My skirt hitches up my thigh, and his eyes don’t even move from mine.
Huh. Well that doesn’t inspire confidence. Still, I forge on anyway.
“I want a job,” I tell him. “I heard you had an opening for a dancer.”
What happens next shocks the hell out of me. He actually laughs. A real, full on, thunderous belly laugh. For a guy who wanted to kill me two seconds ago, he’s switching gears faster than I can keep up.
“Ah Jaysus, sweetheart…” His eyes are watering he’s laughing so hard now. “Ye’re kind of cute. Dead gorgeous in fact. But ye already know I’m not going to give you a job.”
I cross my arms and glare. “And why the hell not?”
“Ah, I don’t know.” The amusement drains from his face as he leans down and looks me dead in the eyes. “Maybe because I don’t fecking trust you.”
“And how much do you need to trust me to watch me shake my ass on stage every night?” I argue.
“A lot more than ye might expect.”
My eyes roam over his unrelenting expression, and a little piece of my hope shatters. Shit. He’s one hundred percent serious. This guy is a lot harder to crack than I anticipated. Why did it have to be him that saw me tonight? Why couldn’t it be one of the idiots that couldn’t stop staring at my tits last week?
“Just let me audition,” I press. “Then you can decide.”
I’m certain he’s going to shut it down right away, but then an oddly familiar tune blasts over the speakers, interrupting us. It’s incredibly loud in this part of the building, and incredibly Irish.
“What the hell is that?” I cover my ears.
“Watch your mouth,” he says. “That’s me national anthem. Means the bar is closing down.”
“Hey, I’m Irish too,” I protest.
He cocks his head to the side and dismisses it entirely. “Ye’re about as Irish as a plastic paddy.”
That sets off the hot head in me, and I stand up and poke a finger into his chest. “Hey buddy, you watch your fuckin’ mouth. My dad was Jack Wilder, the son of Joseph Wilder. Two of the greatest boxing legends in their time. It doesn’t get any more friggin’ Irish than that.”
“Ye’re kind of a feisty wee thing.” He grabs my arms and pins me in place. “Aren’t ya?”
For the briefest of seconds, something odd flashes in his eyes. Something that looks like hunger, but whatever it is, it’s fleeting. The shutters come back down and his eyes go dim. His palm slides down around my wrist and engulfs me as if to demonstrate how easily he could break me. But instead, his thumb skates over my pulse. I blink up at him when I realize he’s either giving me a human lie detector test, or trying to see if I’m affected by him.
Of course, this only makes my heart beat faster. His eyes spark when I lick my suddenly very dry lips. I try to snatch my hand back, but he
He’s looking at me like he hates me. Like he doesn’t know why he’s still standing here dealing with me at all. But at the same time, the corners of his mouth tip up into the smallest hint of boyish smile that he can’t seem to help.
Game face, Mack. Get your fricken game face on. This man is a killer remember? A low life scabby criminal. And I am not that girl. Never have been. So what the hell is going on?
He watches me stew silently in his grasp, knowing I could easily pull away from him, but also that I won’t. I realize now that this outfit is a lot harder to crack than I’d hoped. Lachlan in particular is suspicious and decisive in his every thought and action, and a whole lot more complex than I gave him credit for.
“So,” I huff like I’ve got better things to do. “Are you gonna’ let me dance for you, or what?”
He reaches down and tips my chin up so I have to meet his gaze. Now his mouth is just inches from mine, so close his breath is mingling with mine. “Let’s just review, sweetheart,” he says. “Ye come into my club, dressed like that…” His eyes wander over me again as if to make his point. “Ye seem to know me by name, and yet I don’t know you. And ye just expect me to believe a pretty little ride like you can’t make her way in this city without dancing? I may be stating the bleeding obvious here, but ye’re full’a shite, Mack.”
It takes me a minute to rebuff his accusation because I’m staring at his lips and trying to work out what he said. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me? I pull back and regain my space. And then I hold up my fingers and start listing off the reasons why he should give me this job.
“I’m good at dancing,” I tell him. “And I need the money. I’ve got a crazy ex-boyfriend after me, so I figure what better place to hide out than inside the hive of the Irish mafia?”
That last part is complete bullshit, and it makes him scowl, but I’m grasping at straws now.
“Have ye got any idea who ye’re talking to, sweetheart?” he stalks towards me and takes back the distance between us. “Ye’re liable to get yourself some new cement shoes if you keep running your mouth like that around here.”
“Fuck you buddy.” I cross my arms and glare. “I already told you I know who you are. What more do you want? Should I be quaking in my boots because the mighty Lachlan Crow…”
I don’t get to finish because he grabs a fistful of my hair as he jerks me forward and slams me up against the wall. His body presses up against me from behind, his arousal digging into my ass as his lips hover near my ear.
“Not surprised ye’ve got a crazy ex after you,” he says. “If ye’re always giving this much cheek.”
“Can’t help it,” I smirk against the wall. “I’m from Southie.”
“Ye’ll help it when ye’re around me,” he says.
I don’t reply, and he grips my hair and forces me to look at him. There’s no doubting the authority in his tone, he ain’t fucking around. But there’s also no doubting the unmistakable heat pressed against my ass.
“I run this club.” He squeezes my face in his fingers before moving them down over the delicate skin of my throat. “And everyone in it. If ye take issue with that, I’ll gladly show you to the door.”
Shit.
“No issue,” I tell him as his grip tightens in warning. “Whatever you say goes. I get it.”
I didn’t think it possible, but he presses even closer. So close I can feel his body heat burning into my back. He’s got me pinned and I’m shocked that I’ve managed not to have a freaking meltdown yet.
“I’ll turn your life inside out.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“This isn’t the kind of place ye can walk away from. Ye’re done when I say ye’re done, and only then.”
“Understood.”
“One dance, butterfly. That’s all ye’ll get to impress me. The odds are already stacked against ye.”
Again, he’s manhandling me out the door and dragging me down the hall. Exactly to where I want to be. The bouncer opens the door for us and I get a glimpse of the VIP area. It’s an intimate setting, dark with nice leather seats around the stage. It’s nothing like the strip clubs I visited with Scarlett when I was doing my research, but then again, it’s not intended to be. This private show is a place for the men of the MacKenna syndicate to come and unwind. Apart from them, the only other invitees are their business associates. AKA the Russians. Also, the occasional politician, lawyer, or other prominent figures they’re greasing the palms of. This is exactly where I need to be to find my guy.
None of them are around right now since the place is closed down. The only person left is the emcee who’s shutting down the lights and overhead speakers.
“Hold off,” Lachlan tells him. “I’ve got an audition.”
The man behind the podium eyes me off with curiosity and obvious interest. “You want me to stick around?”
“No,” Lachlan replies in a clipped tone.
The other guy is crestfallen as he walks towards the back without a word. I smirk and pull out my iPod. “I’ve got my own music anyway.”
“Carry on then.” Lachlan takes a seat in front of the stage and stretches out his legs while he waits.
He doesn’t look like he’s going to be easily swayed, so I know I’m going to have to pull out all the stops. I decide to forgo the routine I had planned and freestyle it instead. I think organic movement will look sexier than if I’m too much in my head. While I’m confident in my fighting skills, this stuff is a completely different ballgame. This stuff means I’m banking on someone to like me. To want me.
Those are things I never had time to want. When every day was a game of survival, I didn’t want anyone else to care. Because if they cared that meant I could lose them too. I’m not good at this stuff. I don’t know how to be sweet or seductive. But I know what I want, and I’m determined. I hope that will carry me through.
I plug in my iPod and cue up the song I’ve chosen. Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie. I want to keep him guessing. I need to be an enigma. A confusing dichotomy of shy and sweet and hard and tough. Lachlan lives in a dark world. He doesn’t want a pop princess up on stage. None of them do.
I shimmy out of my skirt and leather jacket, leaving only the strappy leather ensemble covering my body while he watches. When I steal a glance at him, I can’t tell what the hell he’s thinking. His face is a steel mask of indifference, and it’s too dark to see if he’s still sporting a hard on. I temper my nerves and close my eyes as I start to move.
I’m just going to pretend he isn’t there. Seems the best way to do it. I do some of the customary stage crawling and a lot of hip gyrating, walking around the pole very slowly and a few little leg tricks before I move onto the bigger stuff. I’m confident that as long as I own what I’m doing and believe in it, it will shine through. I have the strength and coordination to pull out a couple of the big guns. I do some aerial inverts, a Chinese flagpole, and a boomerang. And when I’m done, I finish it all off with a butterfly for my own amusement before melting back to the floor and dismounting.
When the song finishes and I open my eyes, Lachlan is still there, but this time he can’t hide the heat in his eyes. He’s burning a path over my every curve and valley, feasting on me like he’s seriously considering fucking me right here.
“So what do you think?” I ask shyly.
“I think ye’re doing a bang up job,” he admits reluctantly. “Carry on.”
I smile and get down on my hands and knees, crawling across the stage. The next song on my iPod is Sweet Dreams by Marilyn Manson. I flip my hair around and do a few floor tricks up close and personal to give him a nice little show from his vantage point down below. Lots of back arches and hip gyrating. The stuff that men just can’t look away from.
Something else Scarlett taught me comes to mind. Men love an ego boost.
“I like the jeans.” I crawl closer to the edge and let my eyes drop. “They look good on you.”
He laughs again, but it’s not in amusement.
“Oh, ye flatter me sweetheart. Fancy them, do you? Would ye like me to bend you over and show ye what’s inside?”
“Tempting.” I flop onto my stomach and move into a shoulder stand before melting into a backbend. “So very tempting Mr. Crow. But the thing about butterflies is they need to be admired from afar. If you touch them, they could die.”
My words cause the darkness to return to his face. I thought we were playing a game- that it was nothing but banter- but then I glimpse something else beneath. Something I wasn’t expecting. Grief so raw and real, it feels like I’m looking in a mirror.
For a strange moment, I feel connected to him. His pain draws mine out like a magnet, and our eyes lock onto each other, linking us together in an unexpected way. This time, it’s me who breaks the trance, quashing down whatever this strange energy is and locking it up tight.
The song comes to an end, but I don’t stop moving. I still haven’t shown Lachlan the goods, and a part of me is wondering if he’ll ever ask. He doesn’t.
“That’s enough,” he says finally.
I stop and swing my legs over the side of the stage to dangle as I wait for the verdict.
“I don’t want ye in my club,” he says.
My stomach rolls with nerves and a sense of impending doom. His suspicion of me is too strong, and even his reluctant attraction to me won’t get in the way of that. Right now, I have no doubt he’s being real with me. He doesn’t want me here. At all.
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