by Brenna Zinn
Tatum took in the large, filthy room with its dressing tables, weight bench and barbell, and corner shower. What would this place be like filled with half-dressed strippers rushing in and out while music boomed in through the thin wall separating this space from the main room? The dancers most likely used the shower to wash off between sets and before leaving for the night, so they were naked at various times in the evening. The beer cans and empty bottles of whiskey littering the floor and piled up by the trash can suggested at least some of the dancers drank while working.
A bitter lump caught in Tatum’s throat. This was no place for a young child, not even for a few minutes. How could Lyle have done such a thing?
“Why didn’t Bennett just stay home with his mom?” The solution to Lyle’s childcare situation seemed so obvious. Surely having his son at home was better than keeping him in a strip joint.
“From what I understand, Lyle and Gwen, Bennett’s mom, were divorced, and Lyle got custody of Bennett for part of the summers.” Dan gave the wand a final twirl before tucking it in his back pocket. “If the stories are true, it was a pretty nasty divorce for one reason or another. The guys who worked here before I came along seemed to think some kind of payola happened during the proceedings to get Lyle to back off. Right after the divorce went through, he suddenly had enough money to start buying up real estate around Austin.”
Dan’s attention shifted to the walls and ceiling in the large room. He meandered around, poking at holes and checking outlets. His mind seemed to be more focused on the work needed in the space than the conversation.
Tatum had never heard the specifics about Lyle’s family life or his rise in fame, particularly how he found the money to acquire his properties. She’d known he was an Austin native who had climbed his way up from being a stripper to a big-time businessman. She’d always assumed he’d done well as a dancer and the club’s manager, and had invested his money wisely.
“So you think Lyle was paid off?” Heather asked the question sitting on the tip of Tatum’s tongue.
“Makes a bit of sense, don’t you think? I mean, come on. Gwen was an Ashton before she married Lyle.” The big man’s forehead scrunched and his eyebrows knitted as he stopped from his tour of the room long enough to take in Heather and Tatum. “You all never heard of Ashton Paper Products?”
“Whoa.” Heather glanced at Tatum. Big brown eyes wide, she looked like a deer caught in a set of high beams. “I guess that does make some sense.”
Tatum’s equilibrium tilted precariously as the information sunk in. Ashton Paper Products, one of the oldest paper manufacturers in the United States, had its roots deep in American history. The family name was as synonymous with their product as other biggies such as Rockefeller’s Standard Oil and Carnegie Steel.
How in the world did the daughter of an Ashton ever get involved with a stripper from Austin? The likelihood of Lyle Truitt and an Ashton getting married seemed as improbable as the Kardashian sisters staying out of the news for more than a week.
And just as improbable as a simple country girl from West Texas having anything serious to do with Bennett Truitt.
Suddenly dizzy and feeling overheated, Tatum clutched at the collar of her shirt and pumped the fabric several times to create a breeze on her warm skin. Good God. What was she thinking by carrying on with Bennett? She had stubbornly refused to believe he was better than her. She’d even hoped there might be a chance for them to be more than sex partners who enjoyed each other’s company. And why not? Bennett might be a very rich and important man, but he was the son of Lyle Truitt, a sweet old man who seemed like the salt of the earth. Lyle was made of the same stuff as her own parents. She and Bennett had that in common.
But Bennett was more than just Lyle’s son. He was the heir to the Ashton Paper fortune.
Bennett. The poor little rich boy who spent his summers in a strip club with his father and a dozen strippers.
Tatum shook her head, reeling from her naïveté and the information overload.
“I still don’t understand why Lyle had Bennett stay in the club with him,” Heather continued. “Why not hire a babysitter while he worked?”
“Then he’d never get a chance to see his son.” Dan opened an electrical box and fidgeted with switches. “Not that he saw much of Bennett anyway. Lyle’s one of those type-A personalities. He’s always doing something, whether it’s working, biking, ranching, whatever. I always kinda felt sorry for the kid. He tried so hard to get his father’s attention, like with the magic tricks some of the fellas who worked here taught him how to do. As hard as Bennett tried to get Lyle to watch him perform, his dad seemed too busy doing other things to notice. When Lyle married Annie, the poor kid finally had a mother figure to help care for him and keep him out of Iron Rods.”
“Mother figure?” The words flew from Tatum’s mouth the moment Dan’s comment made sense. “What about Gwen Ashton? She’s Bennett’s mother, right?”
Dan paused from his inspection and turned his formidable body toward Tatum, his face grim. “She committed suicide a few years after divorcing Lyle. I’m not sure of the specifics, but I think Gwen’s father, a tough old cuss by the name of Montgomery Ashton, somehow gained custody of Bennett.”
“Oh my God,” Heather gasped, fingers fluttering over her chest. “I didn’t know Bennett’s mother killed herself.”
“Neither did I.” Tatum felt for a chair near one of the dressing tables, then fell into the seat. A deep heaviness weighed on her chest.
Too much. This was all too much to process at once. She was in over her head with Bennett, believing there could be something between them when he clearly should be with someone who was more than a down-and-out dancer who managed a strip club.
And then there was Bennett. Poor man. He had endured so much as a child. More than she ever could have imagined.
If what Dan had said was true, it helped make sense of the strained relationship between Bennett and Lyle. No wonder Bennett wanted to demolish the building so badly. The place most likely held memories he’d rather forget.
“Forgive me, ladies,” Dan apologized. “I sometimes run my mouth more than I should. And I don’t want you thinking Lyle Truitt is a bad man. He’s not. Quite the opposite. He’s helped more folks than he’ll ever admit to. He’s probably given away more money than I’ll make in a lifetime.”
“I know,” Tatum said on an uneven exhale. “I know. I really like him. He’s been wonderful to me.”
As if speaking his name aloud had conjured the man, Lyle stepped into the dressing room.
“How are things going in here?” The old man looked around and did a double take at Tatum. “What just happened? You look like a fox done run off with your prize hen.”
Tatum cut her gaze to Dan, whose formidable body had stiffened. The news the contractor had shared would not be repeated, at least not by her.
Despite the ache in her heart, she forced a smile on her lips. No need to give the old man any reason to think anything was wrong.
“I was just trying to figure out where I can have Steele and Gangsta G practice the dance routine I’ve choreographed for their auditions,” she lied, although she had actually wondered about this situation. “Once the construction starts here, I won’t have a place to work with them. I’ve only used the dance studios at the university to practice in, but I was a student at the time. I doubt they’ll let me use them now that I’ve graduated.”
“Tell me what you need. Maybe I have a place that will work for you.” Lyle took off his Western hat and placed it on a dressing table. He shook his head, allowing the long, white locks to free themselves from the shape created by the hat.
Tatum tried to imagine the club owner thirty years younger. No doubt he had been a good-looking man. He still was, as well as extremely charming and hardworking. She could see why a socialite from New York might fall for him. Yet despite his attractiveness, his bright personality and his work ethic, something between him and his first wi
fe had gone wrong. Very wrong.
The same thing will happen to me and Bennett. We might share the same planet, but we are in very different worlds. And he also wants to close down Iron Rods, taking away my shot at redemption. How did I allow myself to get involved with him? I need to stop this nonsense before I end up getting hurt.
“I need a good-sized room, preferably air-conditioned,” she said, struggling to focus on her answer instead of the chaos currently storming in her mind. “Hardwood floors would be a plus. Mirrors on the wall are a must. And, I’m not sure if this is even possible, but if I could get a stripper pole for the guys to practice on, that would be good too.”
Lyle hiked a booted foot onto one of the chairs and stroked his mustache. After several seconds, he snapped his fingers. “I think I just bought a place that might work. It’s on the East Side. A former warehouse. You remember me talking about the place, don’t you, Dan?”
“The building you want to convert into a community center?” Dan asked, leaving the electrical box and coming closer to the group.
“Yep, that’s the one.” Lyle leaned forward and rested an elbow on his raised knee. “The place has hardwood floors and A/C. I can’t imagine it would take much to put up some mirrors.”
“Nope. Neither would a stripper pole,” Dan said. “Just need to anchor it securely to the floor and the beams in the ceiling. I could have it done in a day.”
“Is it big enough to hold the stripper auditions?” Heather asked.
Her brilliant roommate was on the ball and thinking two steps ahead. Right now they needed a safe, clean spot to hold the auditions before Iron Rods opened its doors.
Lyle smacked his knee with the flat of his palm. “You bet it is. And you can use the building for as long as you need it. Ol’ Dan here is the general contractor for the warehouse renovation too. He won’t be able to start on the work there until he’s finished the work on Iron Rods. It couldn’t be more perfect if I had planned for it.”
“Then I’ll get with Steele and Gangsta G. The sooner I start working with them, the better.” And the sooner she held the auditions, the better. Even if she had a crackerjack bunch of guys who knew how to dance, she needed time to prepare choreography for them, as well.
Between the renovations, finding dancers, training staff and the dozens of other things she had to do for Iron Rods grand opening, she would have little idle time to think about Bennett or worry about the many reasons why she shouldn’t see him again. She shivered. Now that she was finally at a place in her life when she wouldn’t be traveling around the country and could find someone special, why had she started seeing a man who could only cause heartache? Perhaps the time had come to step back from temptation before things went too far.
Chapter Nine
If smiling faces were an indicator of having held a successful meeting, then the one Tatum had just completed with some of the Iron Rods staff and Dan “The Man” Camden was not only successful, she had knocked it out of the park. Luckily, the staff in attendance seemed as eager to reclaim Iron Rods’ former glory as she did.
Only ninety-nine thousand things left to do, including today’s practice session with Steele and Gangsta G.
A happy, glowing buzz radiated from her insides out and continued its contented hum even an hour later as she pulled her old pickup into the parking lot across from the East Side warehouse. When her POS truck finally coughed its final breath several long seconds after she’d turned off the engine, she opened the squeaky door. The Austin heat and humidity met her as she unfolded her six-foot frame from the truck’s small cab, making her skin instantly hot and her light clothes feel too heavy and warm.
She placed her flattened hand on her forehead, sheltering her eyes from the bright sunlight. Her friend Nicko Guerra waited across the street at the door to the warehouse, a large canvas tote bag and blue ice chest at his side. Ever the professional, he had prepared himself for a long day of working with Steele and Gangsta G, including his own wardrobe of a snug-fitting muscle shirt and baggy cotton pants with an elastic waist.
Chuckling, Nicko pointed a hand toward her truck as she crossed the road. “I can’t believe that old thing is running.”
“I can’t believe I’m still making payments on it.” She adjusted her oversized carryall bag over her shoulder and tightened her hold on the heavy boom box she’d remembered to bring. If there would be dancing, there must be music.
“My theory is it will die on the side of the road within a week of paying it off,” she lamented, stepping over the lip of the curb onto the sidewalk. “I’m thinking of creating a truck death pool and selling squares for ten bucks apiece. Winner gets fifty percent and I get the other for a down payment on another dying vehicle. Why not keep the tradition of me driving death traps going?”
“If you do, I’m in for ten squares.” He picked up his bag and grabbed the cooler, then nodded at her portable stereo. “They make wireless speakers now that can do the job of that antique. Just sync the speaker to the Bluetooth from your phone, pull up your playlist, and just like that, you’ve got tunes.”
She cocked her head and offered him a blank-faced stare. “You see my crappy truck over there in that parking lot, right? What makes you think I could possibly own a phone smart enough to have playlists, let alone Bluetooth capabilities? Methinks the antique CD player my father gave me will have to do. Unless you’ve got a wireless speaker and a smartphone we can use today.”
“The next time I’m in Austin to help teach strippers how to dance, I’ll be sure to bring them with me.” He winked.
They walked side by side into the empty warehouse after she unlocked the double front doors. At five foot seven, with well-defined muscles and a slim, athletic build, Nicko personified the professional dancer. She towered over the smaller Hispanic man. The familiar feeling of being an Amazon reared its uncomfortable head. No wonder she had never landed a dancing job. Nicko, on the other hand, worked for a dance company out of Dallas, as well as stripping on the side. Attractive, tidy and talented, her friend would eventually make a great partner for some lucky guy.
In the middle of the wide hallway, behind a metal door with a small window, they found the room Dan had transformed to use as their dance studio. When she flicked on the fluorescent lights, she murmured in approval. The original wood floors had been stripped, refinished and polished. One entire wall held floor-to-ceiling mirrors. On opposite sides of the space, Dan had installed stripper poles. She couldn’t have asked for a better practice place for her dancers. If this typified Dan “The Man” Camden’s work, then the Iron Rods transformation would be nothing short of art. Maybe even worthy of an article in Texas Monthly magazine.
Now wouldn’t that be great publicity?
For the next few minutes, they admired Dan’s handiwork and then set up their equipment. After stretching, they cranked the music on the old boom box and walked through the routines she’d prepared for Steele and Gangsta G. The steps in each choreographed dance were relatively simple, so the strippers would be able to master their individual routines with a few days of practice. Depending on the competition the two faced, they might actually make the cut if they could nail their auditions.
Tatum caught her smiling reflection in the mirror as she and Nick strutted forward, their shoulders shifting in an exaggerated up and down motion to the beat of the song she’d chosen for Steele’s routine. Here in the studio, dancing and sweating for the effort, she felt alive. This place, with its dark wood floors and smell of wax polish, was her element. The awkward fish had found her way back to the comfort of a familiar pond, doing what she did best.
On the last resounding note of the song, they both ended their tightly choreographed movements with their feet spread just beyond the length of their shoulders and their right arms out and cocked in the pose of a muscle man. A powerful finale for an electric routine charged with sexual energy. As long as Steele could find and keep his rhythm, he’d kill with this number.
The l
oud clang of the double front doors closing sounded down the warehouse hall. Tatum peeked around the doorframe to the renovated studio space, drawing the dancers’ attention to where they needed to be. Steele, dressed in a black Austin City Limits music festival T-shirt and sweatpants, led the way. His long, bulky legs easily ate up the space to the studio. Gangsta G, his usual ball cap turned at an angle on the side of his head and a flashy square diamond the size of a nickel in his left ear, nipped at Steele’s heels. The oddball pair, one tall and oversized, most likely from years of steroid use, the other shorter with gawky thin arms and legs, looked like a Warner Brothers cartoon come to life.
“Glad you could make it, guys.” Tatum held the door wide, inviting the less than dynamic duo into the studio. “Let me introduce you to my friend, Nicko Guerra. He’s helping me teach the routines we created for each of y’all. He’s also going to show y’all some techniques to help improve your pole work.”
Gangsta G didn’t say a word, but thrust his hands into the pockets of his sweats and nodded. Steele reacted on a wholly different plane. He stiffened while his already grim face hardened and his lips flattened to a harsh line. The hulking stripper grabbed hold of Tatum’s biceps and pulled her to the side.
“I am not having some pansy show me how to dance,” Steele growled, his voice low.
“Excuse me?” His statement set her teeth on edge. “Your friend is gay. About as gay as pink marshmallows. Ain’t no way I’m allowing him to teach me how to dance.”