The location was a seedy one. Yes, the sidewalks were clean, having recently been hosed down—a luxury not every establishment paid for, here in the land of scarce water. And the club was near some of the bigger conference hotels and no doubt had some relatively upscale patrons. And sure enough, there was a sign by the door advertising a convention breakfast special—two eggs over easy, arranged like a pair of breasts atop a mound—their word—of corned-beef hash Mexicali. Served with Erma’s Cloud Nine potatoes and choice of toast and juice and a bottomless cup of coffee. All for $7.99; $12.99 if you wanted a bottomless mimosa or Bloody Mary.
What a fucking awesome deal.
Plus, any charges that showed up on your credit card would no doubt read D’Amato’s, instead of, oh, say, the Pussycat Lounge. Just in case either the boss or the wife objected to breakfast meetings held in strip clubs.
But the area was peppered with “massage parlors.” And Izzy had absolutely no doubt that—should he request the service—for a slightly larger tip, the valet would set him up with a hooker to hoover him, right there in his car, in the parking lot.
Izzy opened the door and went inside, nodding to the gargantuan bouncer who stood near the entrance. Guy was former Marine Recon—he’d had his unit’s patch tattooed onto his tree trunk of an arm. Either that, or his boyfriend was the marine and was currently active duty, over in A-stan. Probably not, but the modern world was full of surprises and not all of them were unpleasant ones.
Just some of them.
Izzy paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden severe drop in light and to get his bearings.
The place was set up like almost every other strip joint around the world. There was table seating in front of a small center stage, which in this place was the lowest point in the club. There were also runways, like spokes on a wheel, leading out into the main floor, with up-close-if-not-quite-personal seating around them for those who were there not to partake of the “good food” but only to drink and ogle girls who pole-danced for their supper.
Four different tiers, each higher than the last, created a stadium-seating effect. And it was clear that proximity to the stage was a pricier experience than sitting up in the cheap seats, even though the higher level gave patrons a clear shot of the poles and various other dancing surfaces. But down front, the tables were large and bore white cloths. As the altitude rose, the tables grew significantly smaller and were topped with plastic. Here in the back, they were positioned much closer together, too.
A bar was along the rear wall, up on this highest level. And because this was Nevada, there was also the obligatory row of slot machines, and even a blackjack table off to one side.
And oh, look. There was a handicapped ramp so that physically challenged patrons could get their wheelchairs from the upper levels down to the main floor. How very PC.
Of course, making sure there were clear and easy-to-access aisles to that main floor was of paramount importance to the dancers. They earned tips from the myriad of patrons who wanted to see their naked bodies from a closer vantage point, and experience the thrill of slipping a dollar bill against that unattainable smooth skin. There were three generous aisles in the place, the rug-covered surfaces worn bare by the constant traffic.
It was cool and windowless and smelled half like a frat-house basement and half like a damn good diner—the “good food” advertisement seemed to be true. Which meant that the “Live Hot Girls” sign was probably correct as well, even though there were currently no girls, hot or other, anywhere to be found.
In fact the girl who was coming toward him now, wearing a waitress apron over a stained white blouse and carrying a tray filled with plates of eggs and pancakes and a pot of coffee, hadn’t been a girl for forty years. She was definitely hot, though. Izzy could see beads of sweat standing out on her forehead.
“Sit wherever you want,” she honked at him in her three-pack-a-day voice. “Don’t worry, the dancers will be out soon. They’re having a staff meeting.”
A staff meeting? Seriously?
He sat all the way in the back, in the shadows, as his stomach churned with anticipation and dread. His hunger was long gone—if it had ever actually existed. Up at this altitude the breakfast menu was printed onto the place mat that was on the table, which was pretty smart since Izzy wasn’t keen on touching a menu that any of the club’s other cheap-seats patrons had handled. And that was saying something because his gross-out factor was usually quite high.
The waitress approached. “What’ll it be, hon?”
“The special, please,” he said, because he knew he had to eat something. “Orange juice, whole-wheat toast—dry. Coffee, black and ASAP. And just out of curiosity, do the dancers often have staff meetings?”
“Only when there’s a new girl, causing trouble,” she told him darkly, taking a mug from another table, setting it in front of him and filling it with coffee from that pot on her tray.
“Trouble?” he repeated, making it a question.
“Really just learning the ropes,” she said. “Some of the older girls get jealous, particularly when the new girl is as pretty as Jenny is.”
“The new girl’s name is Jenny?” Izzy asked.
“Jennilyn LeMay is her stage name,” she said, and he almost fell out of his chair. The woman snorted. “God only knows her real name.”
God and Izzy. Because there was no way on earth that a stripper with Dan’s girlfriend’s name coincidentally worked at the same club with Dan’s sister. It was a move that was pure Eden, because in truth? Although Izzy would never say this to Dan—even he wasn’t that stupid—Jennilyn LeMay was one kick-ass stripper name. And Eden clearly never imagined that anyone—especially her brother—would ever find out where she earned her weekly paycheck. So why not use his gf’s awesome name as an alias?
It would have been funny except Izzy seemed to have left his sense of humor in the rental car.
“Thank you,” he made the effort to tell the waitress, but she was already beelining it toward the kitchen, to put his order in.
Leaving him to sit there, clutching his coffee mug, waiting with his heart in his throat for his wife to come out on that stage and take off her clothes.
He didn’t want to think about what this was that he was feeling, this turmoil of adrenaline-laced emotion.
And then he didn’t have to think because the music started—the heavy funk beat of “Brickhouse”—nice choice. And there they came—out onto the stage and runways.
He found Eden immediately. She was over to the left, but in the front, next to a blond Amazon, and she deserved to be there—of course, he’d always thought she was the most beautiful woman on the planet.
She was wearing outrageously high fuck-me heels that sparkled in the stage lights, and a tight skirt that could’ve been part of a bathing suit, it was so small. It hugged her hips, leaving her stomach and midriff bare, exposing a sculptured mix of muscles and soft female curves and a tattoo that peeked out from the skirt’s top, that no doubt covered the scar from the C-section that had saved her life all those months ago. The bottom edge of the skirt barely covered the panties she wore beneath it, and as she turned around, moving in vaguely unison steps with the other dancers as she circled one of the poles, he saw that the skirt intentionally didn’t cover her world-class derriere. And yeah, as if to illustrate, she bent over with her long, shapely legs spread wide in another choreographed bump-and-grind move, and it was more than clear that the piece of clothing—if you could call it that—she wore beneath that skirt was a thong.
Her full breasts were covered by a halter top that fastened in the back and around her neck, tied in big loops that would be easy to undo, when the time came.
Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders and it gleamed and bounced as she moved her head, as Izzy shifted in his seat to see past the waitress who’d returned with his breakfast.
It was then that the entire group of dancers simultaneously lost the bulk of their clothing
.
It was an amazing effect—the lights changed and the music got louder—and Eden instantly shed both the skirt and that top. It happened so fast, if he’d blinked or been distracted by the appearance of his corned-beef hash and eggs, he would’ve missed it.
She would’ve just appeared to be suddenly, dazzlingly nearly naked as she wrapped one long leg around that pole and moved to the music as the early-morning crowd woke up and roared their approval.
But because Izzy was watching her closely, he saw how it had happened. The skirt unfastened at her hips, the top opened between her breasts and slipped down her arms. She tossed both costume pieces to one of the waitresses on the floor as the entire group of women broke choreography and went into doing their own thing.
Eden’s thing was all about the men who clustered around her runway. She gave them eye contact and plenty of smiles as she ran her hands across her own perfect body—touching where she damn well knew that every man in that room wanted to touch. Her neck, her shoulders, her arms. Her breasts, her stomach, and lower, and then down the smooth insides of her thighs … She watched them, smiling the entire time. But her smile didn’t look at all calculating or manipulative. It was somehow inclusive—part very bad girl, absolutely, but also part sweet young thing—eager to please.
And the crowd ate it up.
Izzy exhaled hard as he watched her work, his food growing cold in front of him. She’d always been good at turning the sex up to an eleven whenever anyone male was around. He’d thought it was dangerous, the way she did that, her total you know you want me attitude—but she was now clearly making good money from it.
It was also clear that there were regulars who’d come specifically to see her. She spoke to them as she danced, bending close to let them slip dollar bills between the strap of her thong and what Izzy knew firsthand to be the smooth softness of her skin. They held the bills out before they reached for her, and he knew they were showing her their denomination. It was clear she didn’t accept anything lower than a five or maybe even a ten. Or shit. A twenty. Why not, right?
He stood up, his breakfast untouched, and pulled a ten from his wallet and dropped it on the table to pay for his meal.
Izzy didn’t have all that much cash left—maybe a hundred twenty dollars, tops—but he took the rest of it out and headed toward the lower floor of the club.
It was stupid. He knew he should just walk away, walk out the door. But he’d come this far. And he finally knew what he wanted to say—what it was that he wanted to ask her.
So he worked his way through the crowd to the edge of the runway where she was defying gravity around that pole. Up close, her skin was even more beautiful, her breasts full and tightly peaked from the relentless air-conditioning. Or maybe the way she was dancing was turning her on.
It sure as shit was working for him. Or it would be working, if he weren’t close to overwhelmed by a wave of sadness that swept through him.
Was this closure?
God, he hoped so.
Up close, Izzy saw a whole lot more of that tattoo she’d chosen—a swirl of hearts and roses in an intricate design—to cover the scar left when Pinkie’s already deceased little body had been plucked from her, in an effort to keep her from dying, too.
And as he looked up from that scar, past the enticing swell of her breasts and into that face that he hadn’t seen in months—except in his dreams …
Eden glanced down and saw him, too.
Her eyes widened, and she froze. She just stopped dancing as a myriad of emotions flickered across her face. Shock. Disbelief. Horror. She drew her arms up as if to cover her naked breasts, which was actually kind of funny.
Or would have been, in a different dimension.
“Are you okay?” Izzy asked as he held out the remaining cash he had on him. Somehow the idea of slipping it into her waistband just didn’t seem right.
She shook her head, no, and it took him a second to realize that she was doing that in response to the money he was trying to give her, not to his question. “I don’t want that,” she said, then answered him. “I am. I’m okay.”
And there he stood, looking into her eyes as she looked back at him, until she broke first and looked away.
They’d drawn the full attention of every man around her, and some across the room as well. That giant bouncer was pushing his way toward them, no doubt to see if Izzy was causing trouble.
“I really have to …” Eden said.
He set the money down on the runway, near her foot in that fancy shoe. And then, with one last look up at her, into those eyes that haunted his dreams, he said, “I’m glad you’re okay, Eed.” He forced a smile. “You’re pretty freaking great at what you’re doing, just … Stay safe.”
She nodded, and now there was a different kind of surprised look on her face. It was part confusion, part suspicion, part struggle to comprehend.
“You never did trust me, did you?” Izzy said, then turned and walked away—praying that his still-swelling feeling of sadness and its accompanying urge to weep uncontrollably marked the official end of his healing, and that when he stepped out of the door and into the brilliant sunlight and heat of the Las Vegas morning, he’d finally be free.
Ben headed over to the mall a little before noon, figuring that Neesha would be there.
It was a weekday, and it felt weird not to be in school, but he couldn’t risk going—in case Greg showed up, looking for him. Of course, it wasn’t as if Ben particularly needed a reason to stay away from school.
He’d brought a sandwich with him to the mall—Eden was a taskmaster when it came to not spending unnecessary money. She was the queen of bag lunches, even though she hadn’t taken one herself this morning.
Apparently the club she was going to clean today would have plenty of still-edible leftover food—and there was something definitely not right with the story she’d given him about her second job. She was withholding something. Of course, she’d spoken to Danny last night, and any conversation she had with the brother she referred to as “Captain Perfect” was bound to be fraught with peril and upset.
It was frustrating—the way Dan and Eden couldn’t seem to get along anymore. But the Gillman family members weren’t known for their ability to talk through disagreements and find common ground despite differences of opinion. And as much as Dan hated their stepfather for his self-righteous insistence that he alone knew God’s plan, Dan seemed to hold the very same intolerance for the mistakes Eden had made during her rocky path through adolescence. And most of the time these days, Eden treated Danny with the same disrespect she delivered to Greg—even though Ben knew that she desperately longed for her older brother’s approval and love.
The look on her face, when she’d found out Dan had been injured and possibly dead … Ben also knew that receiving that news had been devastating for her—and not just because it put a crimp in her plan to rescue Ben.
She’d woken him up to tell him that Danny was all right, that his injury hadn’t been too severe. And he knew that she’d cried as she’d hugged him, even though she tried to hide it—the way she always did.
At breakfast, she’d told Ben that Dan would be flying in to Las Vegas sometime in the next few days.
Ben had to keep his whereabouts on the down-low until then.
Shouldn’t be too hard to do.
Except he was suddenly aware, as he entered a mall filled with screaming babies in strollers, that he was the only teenager in the place. And it occurred to him that—as much food as there was to “throw away” at this toddler-filled time of day—Neesha might make a point never to come to the mall until after regular school hours.
Last thing she needed was to be picked up for being truant.
It was the last thing he needed, too. Ben turned to leave and nearly walked full force into one of the mall guards.
It was the same guy who’d seen him being hassled by Tim and his crew yesterday.
“I’m home-schooled,” Ben said, bu
t the guard smirked.
“Like I haven’t heard that before,” the man said. “Let’s see what your parents say.”
Ben turned again, intending to bolt, but there were suddenly two very large men behind him, blocking his escape.
“This is the kid,” the mall guard told them.
One of the men—his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses—flashed a police badge, and Ben’s heart sank. Greg had called the cops, and he was so screwed.
But then the other cop—who looked more like a skinhead assassin from a Quentin Tarantino movie—pulled a cardboard folder out of his leather jacket’s inside pocket and opened it up to reveal …
Shit, it was a photo of Neesha, crouched next to a dark-colored car. It was slightly blurred and looked like it came from a surveillance camera in some parking lot. But it was definitely her.
“Do you know this girl?” the bald cop asked.
“Not really,” Ben said, which wasn’t a lie. His heart was pounding, but the truth was, even if they brought him down to the station and waterboarded him, he couldn’t tell them anything that would hurt Neesha, because he honestly had no idea where she was. “I’ve seen her around. Talked to her a few times. She hangs out here—a lotta kids do.” He added a little surfer-dude het to his voice, laughing a little. “She’s, um, kind of cute, you know?”
And oh, crap, he shouldn’t have said that, because the body language on the two cops changed. They went from casually inquisitive to fully focused, with Ben as the center of their laser-beam intensity.
“You pay her to have sex with you?” the bald cop asked.
“What?” Ben said, his voice cracking. “Me? No! God. She’s just a kid and I’m not … No.”
“You’re not in trouble here, son, okay?” the sunglasses-wearing cop asked, speaking up for the first time. “If she made you an offer you couldn’t refuse …” He shrugged as if to say, What are you gonna do …?
Breaking the Rules Page 12