by Nora Flite
But none of them struggled . . . none of them tried to reason her way out of it . . .
Until her.
“Hey, hey, whoa!” the blonde shouted at me. “Slow down. You don’t need to check me for anything, I work here, not for the police!”
I stayed where I was, acting relaxed but knowing I could catch her if she tried to run. “This isn’t up for discussion. I’m checking every dancer here.”
“I’m not a dancer, I’m a waitress!” She’d been the last to arrive in the dressing room. I had a hunch no one had told her why she was needed down here. “Also, why are you looking for wires and weapons on strippers? You do know their whole thing is getting naked, where would they even hide anything?”
When I said nothing else, the woman lifted her arms. My muscles knotted up; was she going to fight me, or was she surrendering?
Her tongue darted over her lower lip in a smooth pink swipe. “Seriously,” she said, “ask Hawthorne, he knows me!”
“Doesn’t matter who knows you. I’m not asking much. I only want you to take off your clothes so I can search you.”
Her face flushed pink, the color bringing out her freckles. The tiny piercing on the side of her nose glinted when she scowled. “Oh? That’s all? Well then, gee, I guess I’ll just strip down and—No! Fuck no! Get Thorne. I’ve been here for eight years, seen plenty of bad shit, and never once said a word. Why is this happening now, why search me tonight?”
This was taking too long. The Deep Shots would be upstairs any minute.
With clean precision I slid the tip of my pistol between us. There wasn’t much space; I’d set up my little “check station” in the corner of the dressing room farthest from the door. The beaten-up and vandalized lockers the girls stored their everyday clothes in were keeping the waitress from bolting in one direction.
My body blocked the other.
“Hey,” she said, flicking her brown eyes to the weapon, then back to me. I was surprised she held my stare so evenly. Few people could. “Can’t we be nice about this?”
“Do I seem nice?” I asked.
“No.” One corner of her mouth went up in an out-of-place smile. “And I thought Hawthorne was the asshole of your family.”
When I was younger that would have hurt. But I’d been called worse things for a long while. “I’m not playing around. Clothes off. Now.”
She stood taller. Most women don’t come close to my height, but in sneakers—who wears sneakers in a club?—her chin was even with mine. I could smell the sweetness of her skin. I’d expected typical stripper smell, but this wasn’t cotton candy and baby powder. This was something . . . richer. Like the inside of a treasure chest, metallic, with a sugary hint I knew and couldn’t place. It was familiar in a way that nagged me.
Her voice was low, anything but soft. “If you’re going to see me naked, you should know my name.”
“You don’t need to be naked, your bra and panties are—”
She spoke over me. “Scotch. My name is Scotch.” Again her piercing shone from how hard she scrunched her nose. “And you? You’re Costello, right?”
My family owned every single strip club in this city, so her knowing my name didn’t startle me. Had she thought it would? Was that why she was talking so casually? She’s trying to distract me, I reminded myself, wondering if she hadn’t already. How long had we been standing here? “If you don’t take your clothes off I’m going to take them off for you.”
Scotch peered at me. I wondered if she doubted my promise. If she was smart, she wouldn’t. I’d do whatever it took to ensure no cops got involved in this meeting tonight, to keep the people important to me safe. If that included stripping a stubborn waitress, so be it.
She turned away and faced the lockers and curled her nails under her pink-and-blue shirt, peeling it up to expose her back to me. “Get this over with. I have drinks to serve upstairs.”
Tucking the gun back into my jacket, I said, “Smart girl.” I bent close, and that damn scent hit me again, confusing me and making me dizzy. Fighting through it, I brushed my hands over her skin, reaching around to feel for anything hidden on her stomach.
Scotch trembled, her heart kicking at my chest through her spine. She was warm as a perfect cup of tea, smooth as ivory. I was supposed to be feeling for a wire, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how good she felt. How solid and feathery.
When I trailed my fingertips over her hips toward her black skirt, the edge of it rustled under my touch. The gap between me and her spread legs shrank. The instant I brushed the inner part of her hidden thigh, Scotch inhaled through her nose. It wasn’t a scared sound; it was too thick. Static passed between us, and together we stiffened.
She asked me, “Why are you going so slow?”
Sweat crept over my brow. “I’m not. I’m being precise.”
“Oh?” It came out like a purr. “How’s this for precise?” I pride myself on my speed, but this woman rammed her ass right against the front of my slacks before I could dodge. I’m not sure I would have dodged.
My blood raced, battling with the excitement that was curling in my lower belly. How had this simple task become such a game of wills? How was this damn stranger getting under my skin so quickly? Get your shit together! I reprimanded myself. Scotch was grinning, I could see it even with her face turned away.
She wanted to play.
I didn’t. Or I did, but . . . No. I didn’t. I had a job to do.I snatched her wrists and pressed her hands above her head against the lockers so hard that the faded green metal rattled. Over it all I heard her surprised gasp and endured a thrill from it. “Not the wisest move you could have made,” I whispered in her ear.
“Wait,” she said quickly, struggling to face me. I didn’t let her. “Hold on. What are you doing?”I bound her hands with one of mine, and my free fingers hooked into the top of her skirt. “What I promised I’d do from the start.” I pulled it lower, a mere inch, revealing the fish tail of her black thong. My cock swelled painfully. “Taking your clothes off for you.”
She was breathing heavily. My mouth was a tingling mess and my senses were getting fried, but no matter how this girl was turning me on—and fuck, she really was—I was done playing games.
Even if it meant making people hate me . . . even if it meant creating fear . . .
I’d always do what had to be done.
Once upon a time, I would have been a king.
Now?
I’m just a monster.
Chapter Two
Scotch
This was not how I’d expected my Monday to go.
I couldn’t recall the last time someone had tried to feel me up in this club. It would have been early on, when everyone thought I was green and naive. It only took a few sharp knees to the groins to cut that behavior off.
These days, the men who came here knew to keep their hands off of me.
But this man—no, this wolfish creature—he was something else. There was no fear in his eyes when I challenged him, only confidence and wild, unadulterated lust.
The last bit was my fault. Definitely.
Stupid, I scolded myself, even as I ground my ass against the front of his jeans. Really stupid. My goal had been to throw him off so I could bolt for the door. I’d already tried shouting at him, and it hadn’t worked; anyone else would have backed off.
Costello Badd wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met.
“Wait,” I managed to croak. Gathering myself, I tugged against his grip on my wrists. It didn’t budge, his long fingers easily holding both my arms over my head. The locker I was crushed against should have felt chilly. With how hot my body was, it didn’t.
He yanked my skirt down again, further exposing my black underwear. Had the dressing room always had a draft? Goose bumps rippled over my skin; some were from Costello’s breath on my neck.
A small noise rumbled in his chest. I felt it more than heard it. Aware of how close we were, I tried to push my knees together; Costello kicked
at my heels, driving his leg between mine. “No,” he said sharply. His pause went on too long; it made me bite my lip. “Stay. I’ll make this quick.”
I didn’t know anymore if I wanted him to be quick about it.
His fingertips ran down my legs, front to back, as he searched for a wire that wasn’t there. As if I’d ever be so insane as to squeal on the Badds. But he hadn’t listened to me.
If he had, I wouldn’t be feeling his skin-melting touch right now, I told myself. Costello was working me up like it had been his plan all along. The rigid bulge pushing into my lower back wasn’t his gun. It couldn’t be.
“Are you almost done in here?”
It was Hawthorne’s voice that echoed through the room. He stood in the doorway, his arm propped up on the frame as he squinted at us. I knew what he saw: me half-naked, skirt pulled down and shirt tugged high, while his brother was cupping my hips.
Costello flew backward like my body had become literal fire. Had he realized how inappropriate he was being? I should have been relieved that I was free of his determined, expert touch . . . but I wasn’t.
The absence of his heat was too obvious. It left me feeling more exposed than having my skirt around my ankles had. I need a drink after this. Too bad I didn’t drink on the job. It would have made life much easier.
Thorne looked between us with his eyebrows raised. “Everything okay?” he asked.
Yanking my skirt up quickly, I fixed my clothes while stomping toward him. He had the grace to wince. “Did you really think I would wear a wire in here?” I snapped. “After all these years?”
Thorne threw up his hands in self-defense. His smirk slid on too smoothly, like a favorite pair of jeans. “Costello was just being safe. Take it easy.”
“Oh, tell me to take it easy again,” I said, poking him in the shoulder. “Let me hear you say that while you’re getting defiled.”
He blinked at me, then at Costello. “Did you defile her?”
The blue-eyed brother didn’t look at either of us. “No.” Then he shoved through the door, leaving me and Thorne alone. If I hadn’t just spent several minutes with him whispering in my ear, I might not have known Costello had been in the room at all. The man was a ghost when he wanted to be.
“Huh,” Thorne said, rubbing at the side of his neck. “He’s acting weird. Don’t you think so?”
“I wouldn’t know. That’s the first time he’s ever spoken to me.” Spoken and so much more. The man’s abrupt exit had taken the wind out of my sails. Crossing my arms, I asked, “What are you two so scared about the police overhearing?”
Thorne’s smile fell away at my question. “I told you, we’re just being safe. Doesn’t have to mean there’s anything going on tonight.”
“Tonight? As opposed to at all?”
“I mean—fuck, give me a break here. Just treat this like any other shift, okay?”
I tightened my arms. “That’s not reassuring.”
Thorne folded his hands behind his neck with a loud sigh. “Are you mad because it was Costello ‘defiling’ you and not me?” I shoved him as I walked by; he laughed, following me into the club. “Scotch, all you have to do is ask me nicely next time! I’ll happily do anything to you, don’t be shy!”
His acting like a jackass was typical, and it made things feel more normal. After my encounter with Costello . . . normality was a state I desperately wanted to return to.
The Dirty Dolls was in full swing. Which is to say, less of a swing, more of a limp. Monday nights bring in a quiet kind of crowd, the “One more drink before I go home” after-work types.
A lone dancer stretched on the tip rail while a customer fed ones into her thong. Where are the other girls? I wondered. There should be at least six more, including Gina. Are they all giving lap dances or something? I spotted them in the darkened room; what I saw cut my stride in half.
A group of men were lounging with the giggling dancers on the roped-off leather couches reserved for high-end clientele. One of them had slid out his gun and was showing it off to the woman clinging to him.
What made my heart stop wasn’t the weapon, it was the ring on the man’s finger: a gold band capped by a single bullet casing. All at once I knew who these men were. Why Costello had been running around making sure none of us were snitches.
The Badds might run this state . . .
But the Deep Shots were a dangerous gang with their own place on the food chain.
Last I knew, I thought uneasily, these guys weren’t welcome in this club. Or any club owned by the Badds—which was all of them. The frustration the smaller gangs felt with their inability to push drugs or prostitution through Badd territory wasn’t a secret if you were part of that industry.
People feared Costello’s family, but I kind of respected them. I mean, I worked in one of their businesses and, thanks to their rules, none of the dancers—including my best friend—had to resort to sex for cash. Every club in the city was clean.
Why are they here? I had a million questions. The rock in my stomach grew as I watched the gang members. This was too weird; why would the Badds let them inside?
“There you are!” Gina piped up, making me jump. I’d wandered toward the bar on autopilot and nearly bumped into the dancer, who was sitting cross-legged on a stool. As I clutched my chest, my best friend gave me a knowing look. “Oh, gosh. He did it to you, too.”
I followed her eyes and spotted the he she meant. Costello was a sentinel, straight and solid where he hovered in the shadows beside the Deep Shots. I’d missed him initially because he’d been so still.
When his eyes flicked up, finding mine, I spun around and knocked a serving tray off the counter. “Ah—dammit,” I mumbled. Gina handed it to me before I could kneel and grab it. I had no clue how she moved so fast in heels taller than most beer kegs.
Her long, painted nails came my way, patting my forearm. “Poor thing! Did he scare you that badly?” Her gesture was sweet. It flustered me even more.
“Something like that.” Trying to explain would have been a wasted effort; I wasn’t sure what had happened in that dressing room myself.
Standing straight, Gina adjusted her silver bikini. It did little to hide her overflowing breasts, which we both knew the customers adored. “Anyway, I’m heading over there.”
“What, there?” I blurted, trying to look at the group of dangerous men without being obvious. “Why there?”
Her forehead creased. “It’s where the men are? Men who have this thing called money? You should consider getting some, it’s good for buying things.”
Clutching my tray, I whispered, “I get the impression those guys have more on their minds than boobs.”
Gina laughed loudly, doubling over. “Are they alive? Then they’ve got boobs on their minds.” Her blue eyes became gentle ponds. “Scotch, honey, baby doll, listen to me. Tonight is going to be great.” She gave me a dorky thumbs-up. “Forget about being groped earlier. Besides, he was pretty professional. It was over in a blink.”
Professional? Again I looked across the room at Costello. That’s the last word I’d use to describe how he was with me.
Thorne had joined his brother, and from a distance I found myself comparing the two.
No one would doubt the men were family, but they had plenty of contrasting features: frosty blue eyes versus dark inky pools, sun-kissed hair beside deep mountain coal, and that jagged scar next to the other’s laughing, unblemished face.
I wondered how he’d gotten it.
And how it might feel as I traced my fingers over it.
Hawthorne said something, clapping one of the Deep Shots on the shoulder while chuckling. The man was like a cattail waving without care in the wind, but Costello . . .
Costello was the wind.
It would sound insane if I said it out loud, but it was true. The man shifted and the world moved because of him. He was mostly subtle, a winter breeze, but I had no doubt he could become a storm if needed.
Or a tropical monsoon, I mused, helplessly recalling how he’d made me sweat. All he’d been doing was searching me, and even so he’d created a pull between us in just a few short seconds.
Gina approached the group with her hips swinging. The men cheered at the sight of her; she did a little twirl, draping herself across someone wearing a well-fitted navy-blue suit. She could smell money.
My fingers curled at my sides. I was doing my best not to reach out and stop her. But like my inaction was a high beam, Thorne spotted me by the bar. Not one of the Deep Shots had a free hand—each of their hands was either on a girl’s ass or gripping a beer—but he still waved me over.
I hesitated. This wasn’t about Costello; the tickle going up my spine to my neck hairs was warning me about these men. Mr. Blue Suit was whispering in Gina’s ear, but he was also sending looks my way.
Thorne’s knitted brow said, Get your ass over here and do your damn job.
He wasn’t my favorite tonight, that was for sure.
Bending over the bar, I started stacking my tray with random beers and a bottle or two of high-end whiskey. The bartender—Cindy, she went by tonight, but she’d been switching out name tags for a week now—glanced at me. “Wait, shouldn’t you take their orders first?”
Shouldering the heavy tray, I grinned. “Even if they wanted something else, they won’t care once I show up. If it burns going down, they’ll drink it.”
She covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. I grabbed on to her amusement, using it to relax the tiny voice that kept screaming in my brain, Stay the fuck away from these guys!
My eyes tracked over to Gina. I’d followed her here when she’d decided to audition years ago; what kind of friend would I be if I left her alone with the very people my intuition was warning me about?
No. I wasn’t the type to abandon anyone.
Plus . . . maybe my gut was wrong.
It’d never been before.
But maybe.
“Hey, boys!” I chirped, stepping over the ropes and setting the tray of drinks down on the table in the middle of the group. “Looks like you could use some more liquid fun!”