Night Moves

by Silver James

  Tossing her head up, all that big, blonde hair flying, she bent backwards—impossibly, or so I thought until her hands touched the stage and her legs followed the rest of her body. My dick was wide awake now and I, along with every man in the joint, was staring. She strutted—no, that wasn’t a strut, she oozed—all slinky sex—over to the pole on the left side of stage. When she humped that pole—fuck that. She wasn’t humping the pole, she was making love to that sucker, and I almost swallowed my tongue.

  The strobe lights flashed red and white and I caught the singer crooning words that sounded like “burnin’ it down.” Oh fuck yeah. She was burnin’ down the stage and setting my dick on fire. She strutted along the front of the stage and guys were climbing up to shove money at her. She skipped, hopped, and holy fuck, did another walk-over thing that put her on the right-hand pole.

  My brain stopped processing her moves but when she hit the center pole on the stretch stage, I was there front and center. My wolf was snapping and snarling to get free. He wanted to attack the men ogling this woman, wanted to rip out their throats. Ours, the wolf insisted.

  I was ready to climb on the stage, throw her over my shoulder, and get her the fuck away from these assholes. A hand clamped on my shoulder and I spun, hands fisted, a snarl on my face. Digger, his expression grim.

  He mouthed, “Club business.”

  Fuck. I forced my wolf down deep and followed Digger out. He didn’t have to push through the crowd. One look at him, people got the hell out of the way. Out in the parking lot, we mounted our bikes and I leashed my wolf while Digger explained.

  “Those Hell Dogs?”

  “What about ’em?”

  “One got away.”

  Lainey

  THE DRESSING ROOM was empty. Finally. Some of the girls were dancing, the rest were either working the floor to book private dances or taking a break out back. I could hear music from the club, muted though it was. I stared at the pile—and I mean pile—of money sitting on the dressing table in front of me. My hands shook as I counted it. A few ones—in their own measly stack. Fives, the same. Tens. Twenties—hundreds of dollars in twenties. And oh my god hundreds. Eleven of them.

  I recounted the stacks. One thousand, nine hundred and sixty-eight dollars. I couldn’t breathe. Then I started hyperventilating. I scooped all the money into my makeup bag before I put my head between my knees so I didn’t faint. My night wasn’t even finished yet. I had one more set to dance.

  For the first time in days, I could take a deep breath that didn’t hurt my chest. Maybe the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t a train after all. If I could keep this up—and I now understood why Wizard mentioned the dancers working on routines, I’d have the money I needed and I could get my life back to normal. Well, normal for me.

  Cookie stuck her head in the door and looked around. “You alone, doll?” I nodded. “You should be out on the floor, hustlin’.”

  Anger surged and I started to explain that I was not a prostitute when she held up a hand. “Hustlin’ for private dances, doll baby. I know you think you made a pile tonight but the big money—the easy money is doin’ privates. You should be workin’ the floor. The way you move? The boys’ll be all over you and lookin’ to pay premium for the chance to get you alone.”

  “Look, Cookie—”

  “Hush, girl. You don’t turn tricks. You ain’t that kinda gal. I got that. ’Sides, Hoss tosses out a girl for doin’ that in this place. They run it clean.” She laughed, a donkey’s bray sort of sound. “Don’t that beat all? Outlaw motorcycle club playin’ legit in a sex club. What’s the world comin’ to?”

  “Money laundering,” I muttered under my breath.

  One of the other dancers bounced through the door. Her candy-red hair danced in crazy curls and she hadn’t belted her robe, leaving her “girls” out there front and center. “I have just enough time for a cigarette break before hitting the back room.” She smiled at me. “I’m Mary Jane but Wiz always introduces me as Girly Temple.” She flicked fingers through her curls. “I always get the guys who have a thing for school girls. You’re Lady Lay, right?”

  I blushed, unable to stop the heat flooding my cheeks. “Lainey,” I introduced myself.

  “Nice t’meetcha.” She dug through a huge satchel bag at her dressing table, snagged a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Later, tater.”

  Mary Jane skipped out, looking young and carefree like her character. Cookie flashed me a careful smile. “That girl ain’t as innocent as she looks or sounds, doll baby. You keep that in mind, yeah?”

  “Oh. Yes, I will. Thanks, Cookie.”

  I was in the dressing room of a strip joint owned by an outlaw motorcycle club. No one who worked here was as innocent as they looked or sounded. Not even me.

  Chapter 6

  Hollywood

  DIGGER, EASY, AND I had been on the road for a week. Our first order of business had been to deliver the heads of two Hell Dogs to their clubhouse down in Little Rock. Well, second order. The first had been to search for the one that got away. He’d put a Nightrider in the hospital doin’ it.

  We’d questioned all three Dogs, got all the information they had the first day we caught them. Deadhead had them locked up in the basement of the Topeka clubhouse in case we needed trade bait. After the escape, the two still in custody were nothin’ more than sacrificial assholes. When we didn’t find the escapee, we made the run to Arkansas to make our point. We had to wait until dark to sneak up to the compound. Easy shifted and in wolf form, pissed on the front gates. While their idiot guards were chasing him, Digger and I stuck the heads on the spikes at the front entrance.

  Then we stopped for burgers and beer.

  Now we were back in Mission Springs. The Russian was…well, hell. There wasn’t a description for how pissed he was. Deadhead wasn’t any better. We’d exhausted all our leads. Until we got a new one, I wanted a hot shower and a cold beer. And just maybe, a trip to Chasin’ Tail. There was a dancer I wanted to get to know better. A hellava lot better.

  I didn’t bother going home, heading to the Barracks instead. I bypassed the clubhouse. It might be afternoon, but it was Saturday. That meant the sweet butts were struttin’ their stuff in front of the brothers. As horny as I was, I should have dropped my ass right there to see what was available. Still… What had Wiz called her? Lady Lay? Oh, yeah. I was gonna lay that lady down across my bed.

  My bike was parked in the yard between the clubhouse and the Barracks. The clubhouse had rooms any brother could use if he wanted a little privacy. The Barracks was just that—private rooms belonging to an individual brother. I kept a room there and it had its own bathroom. Hot shower, clean clothes, Chasin’ Tail. Yeah, sounded like a plan to me. I grabbed my saddlebag from the Harley and headed inside.

  While I was in the shower, hot water sluicing across muscles that’d been tense for too many days, I finally relaxed. Until I remembered Lady Lay and pictured her dancing in my head. Fuckin’ A but she had a hot bod and knew how to use it. My wolf got all snarly thinkin’ about other men watching her, touching her. My dick got harder when I thought about touching her.

  With a soap-slicked palm, I fisted my hard-on and pumped. I imagined her cupping my balls and they drew up, tight, ready. Then I pictured her lips forming an “O” and sliding over the head, down the shaft. Fuck! I spewed my load. I hadn’t lost control like that since I was twelve and masturbating under the sheet in my bed.

  Oh yeah, I was headed to Chasin’ Tail and I was gettin’ me some of that.

  Lainey

  I HOPPED UP on the barstool nearest the back hallway, careful to keep my robe between my butt and the seat. Not that I believed in cooties. Much. Anyway, it was mid-afternoon and things were slow and laid back. I really wanted something to drink before I hit the stage for my set. Wiz was working the bar alone. He made a couple of drinks and set them on a tray for the waitress, pulled a beer for one of the regulars, then fizzed me a Coke with the bar gun and brought it dow
n to me. I thanked him just as Hoss, the club manager, pulled up the stool next to mine.

  “Lainey.”

  “Hoss.” The guy had something on his mind, but I’d learned in the short week I’d been here that he spoke only when he was good and ready. Wiz slid a big glass of ice water down the bar. Hoss stopped it with a cupped palm, lifted it, and drank.

  “Lainey,” he said again.

  “Hoss.” I matched his tone and delivery.

  He grinned so big his eyes twinkled. “We need to talk.”

  Hoss looked happy—well as happy as a six-foot-four bear of an outlaw motorcycle gangster who ran a strip club could look. I wasn’t worried about getting fired. My sets seemed very popular. My weekend tips had been mind-blowing. The weeknights? Not as good but still more than I made at my other two jobs combined.

  Some of the other girls were muttering behind my back as a result. I was pulling in an average of a thousand a night for six to seven dances. One part of me was freaked out. The part that was totally scared about the detour my life had taken was thankful. The more money I made, the faster I could get my life back on track. I’d even quit my other part-time jobs.

  “What about?”

  “You dancin’.”

  Now I was confused and my expression reflected that.

  “Private, babe. I’m gettin’ lotsa requests.”

  “Ahhhh.” I scrunched up my nose. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

  Mary Jane slid onto the stool to my left. “You should do it, girl. Two, three private dances a week and I’ve paid my mortgage and my car payment. ’Course, you need to split with the waitress and the bartender—give them a bigger cut than our usual ten percent when we’re on stage. Still…” She gave me the once-over, her eyes trailing up, down and back up. “Considering what you rake in on the stage? Hoss is right. You could ask and get top dollar for a private.”

  Hoss clapped his hand on my shoulder as he heaved off the stool. “Somethin’ to think about, babe. Just let me or Cookie know if you’re interested.”

  Mary Jane finished off the OJ and vodka Wiz had fixed for her, slipped off her robe, and tossed it at me. “Take that backstage for me? I’m up next.”

  When her music started, she strutted across the floor, used a guy’s thigh and his table to reach stage height, and did a tabletop shimmy before stepping across a slight gap to an empty barstool and then onto the stage. Huh. I was impressed.

  I had three songs before my number so I tucked Mary Jane’s robe over my arm, turned back to the bar, and sipped my Coke. Wiz came down to check on me.

  “I’m surprised,” he hollered over the music.

  “About what?”

  “You.”

  Me? What did that mean? I offered him my perplexed expression instead of trying to shout.

  “You don’t seem like the type. You have an education.”

  Ah, now this conversation made sense. Sort of. “College takes money.” So did paying off family debts.

  “What are you studying?”

  I could guess what his reaction would be when I replied. I was surprised when it came. “Accounting. I want to be a CPA.”

  “No shit?” Wiz appeared suitably impressed.

  “Absolutely. I had a four point oh.”

  “Had?”

  “I dropped out.”

  “Money?”

  “Yeah. And family things.”

  “Family can be a bitch.”

  Mine certainly could. I had to live at home and all too often, ended up babysitting. My little brothers could be hellions if I didn’t ride herd on them. The music switched over and I slugged down the rest of my Coke. “Thanks, Wiz. Later!”

  Backstage, I handed the robe to Mary Jane and she plopped onto a hard plastic chair at her dressing table. Her phone pinged and she eagerly snatched it up.

  “New boyfriend?”

  She beamed. “Yes. He’s just the best! What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I wish, but no. I didn’t have time. Three jobs don’t leave room for a social life.”

  “Damn, sweetie. That sucks.”

  Yes, yes it did, but maybe now I could at least dream about going on a date. But not with that hot club member I’d glimpsed last week. No, definitely not him. Oh yes, I’d get right on not doing that.

  Chapter 7

  Lainey

  I HAD A BAD feeling about this. Hoss had told me I didn’t have to do private dances, even though the money was good and he’d urged me to do it. It took Mary Jane talking me into taking over one of her dances to get me to commit. She wanted to take off early to meet her boyfriend. She’d caught me in a moment of weakness, waving her phone at me.

  “My guy got off early and wants me to shy out early, too.”

  “You’re off by ten tonight, right?”

  “Yeah, but he’s off at nine and I have a private booked.” Her expression had turned speculative. “Why don’t you take it for me? The guy’s one of the Nightriders, Lainey. A big tipper. And because he’s a Nightrider, he won’t push the rules. Just give him a good lap dance and it’s a quick five hundred. This is a huge favor, sweetie. I won’t even ask for a cut. Please? Pleasepleaseplease. I’ll owe you big time!” She gave me air kisses and ran out the back door.

  So, an hour later, I walked into one of the back rooms. There was a couch, an armchair, and some other furniture pushed back into the dark corners. The lights were low, the music throbbing, and the client, a big ol’ teddy bear named Lug Nut, was sitting in a straight-back chair in the middle of the room.

  A few minutes later, I was straddling Lug’s thick thighs doing a hip roll when somebody kicked the door open. My back was to it and I never had a chance to look before I was tossed across the room to land halfway on a couch. Fists were flying and then I was in the middle of the knife and gun club.

  I figured out two things right quick—I was up shit creek and the Nightriders signed my paycheck. Besides, Lug Nut was outnumbered four to one. When a honking big Bowie knife skittered my way, I snatched it up and went hunting.

  One of the attackers saw me coming and threw a punch. I ducked and sliced his arm. He jerked away, bleeding. Another guy was already down and out, put there by Lug. The other two had Lug wrapped up, one holding his arms behind him while the other was beating him. The big man jerked free and went to whaling on them both. They pinned him again, and one of them pulled out a monster-sized pistol and pointed it at Lug Nut.

  You know that whole fight or flight thing? Yeah, instinct took over and my daddy would have called me stupid. I jumped on the guy holding Lug and jammed the knife into his belly. He bellowed and grabbed at me right as the gun went off.

  Something hot burned my cheek. I couldn’t see and then I was on the floor screaming as something crushed my right wrist. A bone snapped then hot, greasy pain rocketed into my brain. Bile surged into my mouth and I choked on it.

  “No. No! She saved me. Let ’er go. Don’t hurt her.”

  There was shouting. Moaning. I think that last was me. My arm hurt. My face hurt. Some son of a buck was kneeling on my back and I couldn’t breathe. Stars sparkled in the dark surrounding me. Voices echoed around me, but I only recognized one. Lug Nut. Still telling them I’d saved his life.

  The pressure eased and somebody flipped me over.

  “Fuck. She’s been shot.”

  I had? Huh.

  “What the hell happened to her arm?”

  “She had a knife.”

  “So you broke her arm?”

  My cheek was on fire. I reached with my left hand—my right wouldn’t work—to check but somebody grabbed my hand.

  “No, babe. Don’t be touching.”

  Everything got real quiet and it felt like all the air got sucked out of the room.

  “How did Hell Dogs get into the club?”

  Oh. Lord. I knew that voice, that accent. The Russian, Nightrider national president and all round baddest of the bad guys. He’d been in the club a few times and eve
ryone walked on egg shells around him.

  “No cuts, Russkie. Wearin’ civilian clothes.”

  “Lug Nut?”

  “They kicked the door in, boss. Jumped me. That fucker there had me pinned ’til Lainey stuck him.” He hacked up a noogie and spat. “I kicked that motherfucker right before he pulled the trigger. Missed me, hit her.”

  Somebody knelt beside me, helped me sit up, and I swear I heard a dog growl. A big dog.

  “Wood, back off. I need to check her. Hey, sugar, I’m Hardy. I need to look at your face and your arm, yeah?”

  I nodded—or thought I did—and blinked to get the sparkles to go away so I could see clearly. Not that it worked.

  The guy kneeling in front of me was cute—in a really intense way. He was scruffy, hair and beard, but he had kind eyes. He dabbed at my cheek with a gauze pad.

  “Ow?”

  He smiled and I caught a hint of dimple. I couldn’t help but smile back. Then that darn dog growled again. What was up with that? Who brings a dog to a strip joint?

  Hardy glanced up at something behind me. “Bullet graze. If she’s lucky, it won’t scar.”

  Scar? On my face? Great. That would cut my tips to nothing because who wants to stick twenties in the g-string of some bimbo with a scarred face? Bummer. I suddenly felt really tired which meant all that adrenaline was about to send me into a crash.

  The man with kind eyes—um, Hardy—caught my gaze and held it. “Need t’check your arm, sugar. Gonna hurt.”

  Yeah. With the adrenaline draining I could feel the throb running all the way up to my shoulder. I sucked in air and nodded. He picked up my hand. Oh. My. Freaking. God! Gonna hurt didn’t even come close. I didn’t mean to scream but I couldn’t help it.

  Arms circled my waist and muscular legs framed my naked thighs. Worn denim brushed my skin, comfortable and comforting. Something warm and hard snuggled my bare back. Smooth. Sliding against me like butter. Only with lumps. Leather. A leather vest. With buttons and patches.