In Debt to Daddy

by Aubrey Cara

  As bars go, this one’s not too bad. More modern black than run down and shabby. The stools are the cheap ugly round-backed metal kind, but I’m probably the only one here concerned with the decor. I’ve never felt lonelier or more exposed than when I take a seat at the bar. It makes me wish I were at the Rusty Spur instead, sitting next to one of the old patrons who come in most nights of the week.

  A younger man with a goatee is smiling at me like a loon. He’s trying to flirt, but I’m too distracted to give him a gentle brush-off. I give him the cold shoulder, instead, and hope he gets the hint while I order a shot of whiskey. I need some liquid courage now.

  I’m about to take my shot when the Latino cowboy from earlier grabs my arm, making me startle and try to pull away.

  “Hey, pretty girl. I was starting to worry you wouldn’t show. Come on,” he says, yanking me in the direction of the back of the club.

  I manage to quickly toss back my shot and plunk the glass down on the bar before the asshole is dragging me through the club. I’m trying to keep up, but he manages to stay out in front of me. With me in heels, we’re the same height, meaning he is purposely quickening his stride to make me trot along behind him in the wake of his cologne.

  It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him one spritz is more than enough, no need to use the whole bottle when he comes to a stop in front of a nondescript black door and knocks twice.

  A strong masculine voice calls, “Enter,” from the other side of the door. The room we step into is large, with a monstrosity of an old English style desk situated in the back. The sophisticated piece is grossly out of place in the ultra modern club. The walls are sparkly black and the carpet a silver and blue swirl pattern that will make you sick if you stare at it too long. And then there’s that desk.

  The man behind the desk occupies a leather wingback chair, that’s just as out of place as the desk. Head bent, he works under the glow of a lamp. It’s hard to make him out, but there is no mistaking his broad shoulders and lean build. The features I can see show him to be a chiseled, attractive man with dark-blond hair. He’s wearing a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled, showing powerful forearms. For some reason, the shirt makes me think of Zorro, and I stifle a giggle. Maybe the shot wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Somehow this man’s sex appeal make the entire situation worse. He is supposed to be old, possibly overweight. Someone disgusting and sleazy. This man seems to be more manicured and polished than me.

  “The girl’s here, boss.”

  “I can see that,” the man says without so much as glancing in my direction.

  Time ticks by as we stand sentinel-like while the man works. Cologne Casanova’s hand is starting to get sweaty on my arm.

  “You know you can let go of me anytime, now.” I tug at his grip. And he yanks back, causing me to teeter on my feet. The black ankle boots I’ve worn are sky high and starting to pinch my toes.

  The jerk sneers at me and tightens his hold. I fight a huff as I pull and scratch at the fingers digging into my arm. The asshole is bruising me.

  The creaking sound of the office chair has us freezing mid-struggle. Our altercation has drawn the boss’s attention.

  “You may go,” the man says dismissively to the jerk strangling my arm.

  I fight a gag at the trail of Eau du Unfortunate, Cowboy Casanova leaves in his wake. From the corner of my eye, I catch the sneer he shoots my way before exiting, but I’m still held in thrall by “the boss.”

  Now that I can see him full on, he’s even more overwhelming than when he was hunched over his desk. His features are much harsher than they first appeared. A scar splits his left cheek from just below his eye almost to his jawline. He was probably ridiculously movie star handsome in his youth, but life has hardened any softness that was ever there. I know what the life of a card shark and perpetual gambler entails. I’ve seen firsthand how it can harden a person and rob them of their vitality. I can’t imagine what this man has seen or done as a drug boss, or how he came to be in the position he is. I can only see the stark result of his life.

  His eyes are cold and calculating as they trail up and down my body. I fight everything in me not to fidget or show any kind of weakness in front of this man.

  “Well, howdy there, Ms. Dawson.” His cultured accent makes a mockery of the common Southern greeting and lets me know he is not from around here. His smile displays even, white teeth, but combined with the gleam in his eye, it reminds me of a crocodile. “So, you’re the girl who’s been causing all the trouble.”

  “No.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. I’m already flustered, and I’m trying to find my cool resolve, but it’s deserted me. All I can think is I haven’t done jack or caused a lick of trouble. “My brother owes you money. I’m here to pay.”

  With that, his eyebrows go up. “Oh, are you? I was led to believe you didn’t have the money.” Setting his pen down, he pushes back his chair and stands, coming out from around his desk in a measured, leisurely fashion.

  “Well, not right now. But I can get it.”

  He nods his head as if he finds that to be reasonable but is in doubt of the possibility. I’m also kind of doubtful. Not saying a word, he circles around me, taking my measure. When his fingers gently skim down my arm, I startle then curse myself when I catch his smile.

  “No need to be jumpy, Ms. Dawson.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I try to make it my business to know the names of everyone who owes me money,” he says, his breath puffing against the back of my neck, and I fight the urge to flinch and step away from him. “When they don’t pay, I discover the names of their family and loved ones.”

  It takes a second for his words to register. When they do, a shiver of dread spikes through me at the implication.

  Stupid, of course he knows who I am. I’m Candice Dawson. The girl with a perpetual target on her back thanks to the men in my family.

  Suddenly, he’s in front of me, tilting my face up to his, much like Hank did earlier. Thinking of Hank causes a spike of nonsensical guilt to flash through me. If he knew I was here, putting myself in this situation, he’d be so disappointed. But what does it matter? It’s not as if he even likes me.

  “Hey, attention on me, Ms. Dawson.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “There you are.” He’s smiling, but his eyes are cold. Where Hank is fire, this man is ice. “You’re a very beautiful girl, Candice Dawson.”

  “Thank you,” I say hesitantly. His compliment is nothing I haven’t heard, but the way he says it seems to be leading somewhere I’m not entirely comfortable with.

  “Whenever you’re with me, all your attention should be on me. That’s lesson number one. I’m a reasonable man,” he says, and I doubt it. “But I don’t like to share my toys.”

  Toys? My knees wobble and my stomach churns. “Wha-what do you mean?”

  “I don’t think you’re a stupid girl. Are you stupid, Ms. Dawson?

  “No.”

  “Then you understand my offer?”

  I understand it, and a part of me had hoped for it. Silly me thought it would be easy to trade my body to settle my brother’s debt. It wasn’t as if I enjoyed sex. It was more enjoyable for my partner than myself. Standing in front of this man shakes my resolve.

  He skims the back of his fingers down my front, assessing me like he’s evaluating his inventory.

  I’m insane to have come here. To think I could prostitute myself.

  “I’m not afraid to work off the debt.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t see it as work, dear. I can be generous. Things, they could be...good between you and I.” He runs a thumb over my taut nipple, then slides his hand down to cup my hip. His touch is heavy and foreign. It leaves me cold and makes me think of Hank.

  Hank who touched me far more intimately but triggered a much different reaction. A reaction that ignited heat and life to blossom through every fiber of my being. But my respon
se to him was an anomaly. A confusing one-off.

  The fact is, I know how to survive without the heat. It’s easy. It’s familiar. I’m more than a little tempted to give in and be this man’s plaything. Me in exchange for three grand. At least now I know my worth.

  Unfortunately, my mind just keeps niggling back to Hank and imagining his reaction if he found out I sold myself. The thought of disappointing him gives me a sick feeling I don’t understand. I’m nothing to him, and he’s nothing to me. I wish I could get the bastard out of my head.

  “I can dance,” I blurt like I don’t know exactly what he’s offering.

  His hand stops its exploration, and his relaxed stance goes hard. “I don’t think you understand my offer. I don’t make this kind of deal with just anyone, Ms. Dawson, nor will I ever make it to you again. Think long and hard before you decide, but decide soon. I do not like to be kept waiting.”

  I nod once, unsure if he’s done with me. When he says nothing more, I ask, “Am I free to go, now?”

  He dismisses me with a glance. “You’re free to go.” I take two steps towards the door before he stops me. “Oh, and Ms. Dawson, if you’re set on dancing off your brother’s debt, know that you’ll have to pass an inspection. A thorough inspection. I don’t let just anyone work at my club. Is that understood?”

  I nod again wondering what the hell he means by inspection, and he steps into my space until I have to crane my neck to look up to him. “That’s yes, sir, or if you’re so inclined, yes, Daddy. Most of the girls here call me Daddy.”

  What’s with all the beastly men I owe money to calling themselves Daddy? When it’s clear he’s not letting me leave until I properly address him, I say, “Yes, sir.” Even that sticks in my throat and comes out like I’m spitting.

  He raises a brow. “No need to be spiteful, Ms. Dawson. One doesn’t want to be appear ungrateful.” He snatches me by the hair at the top of my head and lifts me up on my tippy toes, which is saying a lot since I’m in heels. My scalp stings, and my head is bent back. All I see are cold, gray eyes. “You aren’t ungrateful, are you, my dear?”

  “N-n-no, sir. No, sir,” is all I can choke out, but this time it comes out with the adequate amount of respect he desires. Or maybe it’s my fear that pleases him because I find myself released.

  “Good. See to it you remember that. I’d hate to have to remind you, dear.” He opens the door for me as I stand there, ice filling my veins.

  “After you,” he says with the kind of smile a cat wears when toying with a mouse.

  Nickelback’s “Something In Your Mouth” is blasting from the speakers, but it’s background noise to the buzzing in my head. Women are dancing, serving drinks. There’s a woman wearing nothing but a black G-string and spur-bedazzled cowboy boots spinning on the pole like an expert. I see it as if from a distance as I walk on wooden legs to the door.

  I think I might pass out, and I really wish I had a cigarette. The night’s cool air swirls around me as I push through the doors to the parking lot.

  Cowboy Casanova is standing to one side of the door, seeming to be heading back inside. “Dom’s gonna work you over good, huh, pretty girl?”

  I’m momentarily confused, but I realize he’s talking about his boss, soon to be our boss. His name is Dom. I tuck that information away as I just shake my head, turning in the direction of my Jeep, his laughter echoing behind me as he goes inside.

  A group of guys heading my way make a few remarks that don’t penetrate my haze, but the bouncer on the walkway leading up to the club nods at me. I’m not sure what this means. I take it as “I got your back,” and hope to hell it wasn’t “Yes, you’re about to be gang raped,” as I stumble out to my vehicle.

  I don’t have a fancy key fob for my old Renegade, and my keys rattle in my hand as I unlock my door and climb in. I turn the ignition and the engine cranks in a sound of grinding gears, then nothing. The lights on my dashboard come on then sputter off. I turn it again, once, twice. Three times.

  Great. Just great. I’ve suspected my engine’s been leaking oil for over two weeks now, but I haven’t had the money to get it fixed. Usually I keep extra oil in the back, but I’d forgotten to stop by the gas station on my way home because the guys were coming over. Dammit!

  Pulling out my phone I scroll through my short list of contacts. A few family members who never answer their phones—and may or may not be in Texas—co-workers from the bar—who I’ve never been friends with outside of work, and would probably kill me for calling them at one-thirty in the morning—Cody…and Hank.

  I stare at Hank’s highlighted name for a lifetime before I suck it up and hit send.

  9

  HANK

  I’m half asleep when my phone rings. Hearing her voice sends panic rushing through me. Hearing her location makes me want to put my fist through a wall, and now I’m wide fucking awake.

  A strip club. She’s at a fucking strip club. And not just any strip club. No, she has to be at the strip club owned by the bastard every law agency in America is after. Dom Serino, real name Maxwell Huntington, is wanted for everything from selling flesh on the black market to running drugs. Murder charges…well, there have been a few, but nothing sticks. He’s slippery as fuck and has gotten out of charges every time the law has circled in on him. Mostly because anyone who can testify against him disappears along with any substantial evidence.

  Of course, she’d have to go to his club.

  Pulling into the crowded parking lot of Sugar Daddy’s Gentlemen’s Club, I’m seething. She doesn’t even have the sense to wait inside her Jeep. I spot her barely-there skirt first and have to count backward from twenty before I get out of my vehicle.

  Her long legs are on full display, her tiny gold skirt barely hiding her ass. Her slinky little black top is showing off so much midriff, I won’t be surprised if one of her tits falls out the bottom and starts playing peekaboo. With her troubled eyes and sad pout she’s vulnerable as hell standing outside her Renegade. A victim waiting to happen. She might as well be holding a “fresh bait” sign.

  I’ve rescued girls and brought back bodies of girls just like her. Young and carefree until they’re picked up and sold. They were no longer young or carefree by the time we pulled them out of a hellhole in South America and put them on a plane home. They were broken, haunted. Even more than my mother when she was near her end.

  And here the fuck is Candi…

  “Why the hell aren’t you waiting for me inside your car?” I’m not even out of my 4Runner before I’m jumping down her throat. But I have to do something so I don’t wring her neck.

  “Well, I—”

  “Here’s a better question. You want to tell me why you’re at a strip club in the middle of the night dressed like a cheap whore?”

  She wheels back like I’ve slapped her and steels her spine. “I didn’t think looking like an expensive whore would score me much business round here.”

  I’ve never wanted to throw a woman over the hood of my car and spank the sass out of her more than I do the second the words are out of her mouth.

  “You want to be treated like a whore? Fine. Get in the car.” I grab her arm and drag her over to the passenger side of my 4Runner as she pulls at my grip.

  “I’m sorry. Hank, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Too little too late, princess. Get in the car.” I wrench the door open. She crawls in, and I barely wait for her to be seated before I’m buckling her seatbelt. It’s then I feel eyes on me. I glance over, and that’s all it takes to notice the man in fine black dress clothes staring at us with too much interest.

  His body language is casual as he leans up against a front pillar, smoke in one hand, the other leisurely tucked in his pants pocket. His face is hard as fuck, and I’m guessing the scar running down his face isn’t from a tree-climbing accident when he was a kid. And his stare—his stare is squarely on us.

  “Friend of yours?”

  Candi shrugs, not meeting m
y gaze. “He’s my new boss.”

  I’m not even touching the implication to that little fucking statement. I’m not supposed to be here drawing attention to myself. I’m supposed to be some dick who has just come home to Texas, under the radar, and here I am on this guy’s doorstep, like a flaming bag of dog doo. And from the way this guy is watching us, he’d like to be more than Candi’s new boss. Shit.

  I clench my jaw so hard my teeth creak like they’re going to break. Part of me wants to haul her out of the car and spank her right here, right now with her ass hanging out the passenger door so the fucker watching us knows who I am.

  I’m the bastard who owns this girl.

  I know it’s primal caveman monkey shit that’s coursing through me right now. It’s the same part of me that has me fisting her hair at the back of her neck and pulling her head back. My mouth is on hers in an instant. Her nails dig into my chest, and I’m not sure if she’s pushing me away or pulling me closer. This is not a nice kiss. It’s as hard and demanding as I’m feeling right now. Our teeth scrape and tongues wage a war I’m not about to let her win.

  I nip her lip hard, and she pulls back against my hold, her twin pools of blue looking wounded. She’s wearing the same scared and befuddled expression she had that first night at the party, after I made her come. And just like that, I’m hard as a rock. Cursing under my breath, I slam the door so hard I see her jump.

  A quick glance as I stomp over to my driver’s side door shows me her “new boss”—whatever the hell that means—grinning from ear to ear as he steps on his cigarette butt and turns to go inside. I have a feeling I just acted exactly the way that fucker predicted, and it pisses me off. There is something about this girl that gets under my skin.

  I’m in the truck driving to a place I know she’s going to hate before I even realize what I’m planning.