Private Dancer (Club Volare Book 12)

by Chloe Cox

  “That a yes?” he said.

  “You know it is.”

  Kris shook her head, rolled her eyes. She would have talked to him even if she didn’t like him, Cole knew. She tried to hide it, but Kris cared about what was right and what was wrong. She was the kind of dancer who’d been doing it for a while, who made a point of taking other women under her wing. Of protecting them. So she hated Mark Duvall as much as Cole did. Maybe more.

  He helped her into her car, gave her back the bag. He wondered how life might be different for her once Mark Duvall was out of the picture. He knew Kris avoided his clubs, knew she’d taken a pay cut for it. Knew she didn’t feel safe, ever, because of it.

  That made him think about Bette, too. All these women, never getting to feel safe because of some asshole somewhere. Never getting the luxury of believing someone would have their back. There were few things in life that got him angrier. That got him more worked up.

  And since he couldn’t go after whoever had hurt Bette – yet -- Mark Duvall was going to pay for all of it.

  A few seconds later, Cole was back in his car. He was prepared to wait until Kris drove away, but right after his door closed, the club door opened again and another woman joined Kris. Like the first pair, these two closed ranks and huddled in together. Like sisters, he thought, two women against the universe. And all at once, he knew which of Bette’s walls he wanted to kick down next.

  17

  Bette thought she had come up with a plan during her descent into Bob Faulkner’s office. But this plan was kind of the same as the old one: convince Faulkner that Spencer Cole and Club Volare were not what he thought they were, and offer to help with something else. Which was…not actually much of a plan at all.

  “You dumb cunt,” Faulkner said softly. Almost wonderingly.

  The words stung briefly, and then Bette felt herself go numb. It was kind of comforting, to not feel anything. She was slipping into robot mode, the sort of automatic place where she knew how to deal with men who didn’t respect her. Or who had power over her. Or who were just generally terrifying.

  “I know it’s not what you wanted, Mr. Faulkner,” she heard herself say. “But maybe it’s kind of a good thing?”

  Oh Lord. That was not the right thing to say.

  Faulkner’s face got so red it was nearing towards purple at the jowly edges. Maybe she was kind of dumb about this. For some stupid reason, Bette wanted to believe that most people, even Bob Faulkner, were mostly good. That maybe Bob Faulkner, even if his methods were corrupt and he was personally kind of gross and not very nice, still wanted to do good in the world. That he genuinely believed that Spencer Cole and Club Volare were harmful or corrupt in some way, and that when Bette told him they definitely weren’t, at least not in any way she could identify, he’d be relieved.

  And Bette would no longer have to play this stupid part, where she was deceiving the man who had, in short order, actually become her Dom. She didn’t want to spend another minute lying to Spencer Cole, even by omission. She didn’t want to lie to anyone at Club Volare.

  She just wanted to make things right.

  Bob Faulkner didn’t.

  “Now I know you fucked him,” Faulkner said, sneering.

  Bette closed her eyes, and remembered, with sudden clarity, her last meeting with Faulkner. He’d been just as nasty then. And somehow she’d convinced herself that this time would be different. She had been an idiot to think he’d accept her “everything is fine” line. She just didn’t know what else to do.

  “Before you ask another stupid question,” Faulkner said, leaning back in his chair, his belly straining at the buttons on his shirt. “Let me be very, very clear, so that even you understand.”

  He paused. Waiting for her to say something.

  “Yes, Mr. Faulkner,” she made herself say.

  Faulkner leaned forward now, and made eye contact. Her skin crawled.

  “I do not give a shit if Spencer Cole is an angel from on high,” Faulkner said, jamming his stubby finger into the desk to make his point. “I do not give a shit if that club spends all its time ministering to widows and orphans. What I need is a way to bring them down. I’ll take the club as a bonus, but I need Spencer Cole’s head on a plate. Need. Are you following me so far, Barbie?”

  Uh oh. The way Bob Faulkner said “need” sent an unwelcome chill down her spine. Not because it was creepy, though it was that. But because, with that word, it almost sounded like Bob Faulkner was afraid.

  And if Bob Faulkner was afraid about what would happen if he didn’t get Spencer Cole’s head on a plate, then there was a lot more going on here than Bette knew about.

  And whatever it was, it was dirty.

  “I do not like having my time wasted, Barbie doll,” Faulkner said, relaxing a bit. “And I know you’re not too bright, so I’ll let this slide this time. But I need you to do whatever it is you have to do to get compromising evidence on Spencer Cole. I don’t care if it’s true. And I don’t care what you have to do to get it. But you will get it, or you won’t even get visitation rights after I’m through with you.”

  Bette blinked, and tried not to look furious or scared out of her mind.

  “Yes, Mr. Faulkner. I think I understand now.”

  “You better hope you do, Barbie doll,” Faulkner said, glaring at her. “Now get out of my office and go use your talents the way God intended. Get me something useful. And get it soon.”

  Bette nodded, gripping her bag over her shoulder. She was just closing the door of that fetid office behind her when she heard his last crack.

  “Preferably something on video,” Faulkner called out. She could hear the leer in his voice.

  One last dig at her. He hadn’t like being reminded that he had something to be scared of.

  Which was fair. Bette hadn’t liked reminding him. It changed everything if Faulkner had a reason to be scared, and that was why he needed to go after Cole. Hell, he’d practically ordered her to frame Cole for something. Anything.

  Whatever was going on was very dark, and very much not something Bette wanted to be a part of. But she still didn’t have a way out. Obviously framing Cole or the club was not on the table; even if Bette hadn’t been, you know, morally opposed, she could never go through with it. She could never hurt people who’d been so kind to her. And she couldn’t stomach the idea of losing…whatever it was that was happening with Cole.

  God. He’d rejected her, sort of, and somehow it only made her want him more. Like once she earned it, once it meant something, it would be… God that didn’t even make sense. But somehow, when she was with Cole, she felt more like herself than she ever had in her life. Like she was the real Bette Liffey, not some performance designed to get her through the day. She’d even told him her last name. It was the most free she’d ever felt in her life, and she wasn’t strong enough to give it up just yet.

  But she wasn’t some sort of badass private investigator who could find out what Faulkner was up to and bust him, and she couldn’t go to Cole or anyone at the Club without letting on that she’d gone there to, well, hurt them. They would never trust her after that. Who in their right mind would?

  And she couldn’t just give up. She couldn’t just walk away. She had to find a way out.

  And the dumb McDonald’s toys that still littered the floor of her car reminded her why.

  “I’ll show you visitation,” she muttered, and wiped away the tears that had been accumulating on her eyelashes. She had somewhere more important to be. Someone more important to see.

  It wasn’t one of her official days, but screw it. The ten-minute drive to the Palmers’ neighborhood felt like it took forever, but when she got there, things finally started to look up. Bette had only been sitting in her car for a few minutes when the school bus pulled up.

  And she was barely out of the car when Lizzie cannonballed into her like a tiny little force of nature.

  “Ooof,” Bette managed as her little sister latched on to
her like a koala. “You are getting Wonder Woman strong, kiddo.”

  “Mrs. Palmer said you couldn’t visit until Saturday,” Lizzie said. Her words were muffled in Bette’s shirt, and for a moment Bette thought Lizzie might be crying. The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she was ready to go full mamabear on the world at large. But then Lizzie looked up, and the little imp was smiling her big smile.

  “I know,” Bette said. “But I decided to cheat a little bit. I missed you, kiddo.”

  “I missed you, too,” Lizzie said. “Want to see my history project? It’s on Susan B. Anthony, but if she were alive today and in middle school, and also fighting crime.”

  Bette stifled a laugh. “That’s for history class?”

  “They decided to let Lizzie take some creative license.”

  She looked up to find Mrs. Palmer smiling at them. The empty nester had come to the bus stop to meet Lizzie. God, Bette was so lucky that Lizzie had been placed with them. She would never, ever forget to be grateful for that.

  “I know this isn’t my day,” Bette said quickly. “I don’t want to mess with any plans or be disruptive—”

  Mrs. Palmer waved her off. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said. “And if you’re helping Lizzie, I can make another batch of cookies. Deal?”

  Bette would never have the words, so she just smiled, and felt the tears prick at her eyes. “Deal,” she said.

  And after that it was whirlwind of cookies and poster board and a very creative version of speculative American history, all of it interspersed with Bette’s favorite sound in the universe, which was her little sister’s laugh. It was clear and loud and completely unafraid. It was what all laughs should aspire to be.

  In some ways, Lizzie reminded her so much of what Bette had been like, at her age, only…amazing. Lizzie was more vibrant, more joyful, than Bette could ever remember being, and she was completely fearless. She showed Bette how to be a better version of herself, and she wasn’t even eight, for crying out loud.

  Bette didn’t have the whole parenthood thing figured out quite yet. Maybe she would never feel like she had it figured out. But she did know she would do anything to keep Lizzie happy.

  She would have to find a way.

  Just like she would find a way to glue a black and white cut out of Susan B. Anthony’s head onto Wonder Woman’s body in a way that didn’t look totally crazy. “What do you think about coloring in her face?” Bette asked.

  “I want to do her make up,” Lizzie said.

  Bette presented her sister with the entire marker set.

  And then, in the middle of all that, she got a text from Cole.

  She tried not to jump for her phone, but the truth was they’d been texting ever since the last time she’d been to the club. It had started out with just Cole checking in on her, because that was the kind of guy he was. But from there something strange had happened—he’d been funny? And their text conversations got playful. One of them would make a joke, and the other would riff on it, and it would feel like they were making something together. He made her laugh, and then he’d make her wet, and it had kept her on cloud nine the whole time.

  But this text. This text was something else.

  “Friday. CV. 7 pm. Wear something comfortable, s.”

  She stared at the last, trying to figure out what kind of emoji “s.” was supposed to be, and then blushed furiously when it dawned on her. Not an emoji, an abbreviation.

  Wear something comfortable, sub.

  Holy moly. She smiled slowly—then bit it back with a yelp when Lizzie made a grab for the phone.

  “Hey,” she laughed, holding Lizzie off with one hand and hoisting her phone high with the other. “Rude, much?”

  “Rude,” Lizzie said imperiously, not even bother trying to fight a grin, “is keeping secrets.”

  “Grown-ups have to keep some secrets,” Bette said. “Otherwise you kids would outsmart all of us.”

  Lizzie grinned. “That was from a boy, wasn’t it?”

  Bette’s mouth dropped open. She laughed again and chased Lizzie back with a tickle fake-out. “What do you know about boys?”

  Good Lord, she wasn’t even eight.

  “Nothing,” Lizzie said, making a face. A gross face. Thank God. “But you made the face the older girls make whenever they talk about boys, and they’re always on their phones.”

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re too smart for your own good?”

  “There’s no such thing,” Lizzie said primly. Then she got shy, for just a second. “He made you smile.”

  Bette sighed, and found that she was smiling again. Well, yeah. There were apparently now two people in the world who could make her smile.

  “Yes, he did,” she admitted.

  Lizzie cuddled up against Bette’s side and gave the tightest hug. “I like the boy who makes you smile.”

  God. Bette buried her face in Lizzie’s golden ponytail and drew a ragged breath. This kid had had to put up with far too much in the world already. She’d been dumped by her mother, and then by her father, and then Bette had made the mistake of bringing Mark into their lives. There hadn’t been a whole lot of stability. And definitely not a lot of good father figures. The fact that Lizzie could still be happy about Bette meeting a boy…

  It was somehow both the most affirming thing and the most terrifying thing.

  Because the thing was, Bette liked him too.

  And she had no freaking idea what she was going to do.

  18

  “Look who I found out in the lounge,” Simone said. She was holding a baby, and a happy baby at that. “Don’t you just want to nuzzle his little belly?”

  Cole grinned at the woman standing in the doorway to the semi-private room he and Holt were setting up for that night’s event, then cocked an eyebrow at Holt. “She sending you messages, buddy?”

  Holt and Simone were quietly planning their wedding, but Cole had a feeling they were also planning on a family. Cole envied his friend, but thinking about how lucky that kid would be to have Holt and Simone as parents always put a smile on his face.

  “Who said she’s talking to me?” Holt smirked. He pushed a low couch in front of the flat screen that had been mounted to the wall earlier that evening. By the time he straightened and turned to greet his sub, Simone, a smile had replaced the smirk. He held out his arms. “Bring me that baby, woman.”

  Ryder was one of Gavin and Olivia’s twins, and movie night at Club Volare was one of the rare occasions his chubby cheeks made an appearance. His sister Rianne was probably off nursing in the main room or being spoiled by one of her Club Volare aunts or uncles. Everyone would fight over the babies until it was time to cuddle up with the movie, and then Gavin and Olivia would duck out early. It was a routine Cole had gotten to like in the time he’d been there. Pretty soon the kids would be old enough to stay out of the club, but they wouldn’t stop being family.

  That was the whole point, really. Cole had been skeptical at first himself. A kink club was a kink club; he hadn’t expected more from it than that. If he was honest, he still sometimes didn’t get it. But there was no denying that this place was more than just a kink club. Call it family, call it community, call it whatever the hell you wanted.

  It was what Bette Liffey needed.

  People who felt the need to hide were isolated. Alone. Fearful. Cole had cracked her shell, but it was time for her to see that the whole world wasn’t out to get her. That there were people she could trust. That life was about more than just avoiding pain.

  Who are you trying to convince?

  Cole grinned to himself. For a sub who didn’t share much about herself, Bette Liffey felt like an open book to him. Maybe because it was a book he’d read before.

  “I’m not entirely here on a baby-related goodwill mission,” Simone admitted as she handed the baby over to her Dom. She looked right at Cole. “I’ve heard a rumor.”

  “That I’m training a newbie,” Cole said. “Confirmed. Sh
e’ll be here tonight.”

  “Which brings me to the second fishing expedition,” Simone said. “Is she the one I met on Auction Night?”

  Cole paused to fix Simone with a level stare. Holt took notice.

  Cole was remembering that night. The first time he saw Bette. He’d called her a liar, told her she was dressed like a stripper. It had been true, but it had been harsh. Simone had seen all of it.

  And Simone had processed the fake ID Bette had been using.

  “That she is,” Cole said.

  His look let Simone know that was all the info she was going to get. Cole wanted Bette to learn what Club Volare could offer her, but on her own terms. Bette would introduce herself, name and all. And Cole knew Simone would welcome her no matter what.

  “What’d I miss?” Holt said. “She the one who interrupted that scene the other week?”

  Cole nodded. “Yes, and she’s paid for it. Jim and Robbie accepted her apology.”

  “Ah,” Simone said quietly. “And now she’s coming to a movie night full of people she doesn’t know after that. Got it.”

  “That’s almost like a date night, Cole,” Holt said.

  “It’s what she needs,” Cole said. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  He felt Simone’s watchful eyes on him as he dragged another comfy-looking chair into the makeshift theater room, and remembered what Holt had said, that same night he met Bette. Simone wanted to see Cole settled down, for some unknowable reason. One thing about this club—the subs were pushy as hell when it came to taking care of people they cared about. Even when they should mind their own business.

  “You will make her feel welcome,” he said, straightening up.

  It wasn’t a question. But he already knew the answer anyway. Simone would bend over backward to make Bette feel like she had a friend, because that was who Simone was. And it was why Bette needed to be there tonight.

  Date night, my ass.

  “Of course,” Simone said, slightly hurt. “You want me to bring her to you as soon as she arrives?”