Dangerous Moves

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Dangerous Moves Page 7

by Karen Rock


  “Look man, I don’t need your business.” Dixon passed the vials over to the football players. “I’m already selling to most of the club.”

  “Except Nash,” one of the college students put in, handing over a wad of bills.

  “That dude’s not even human,” the other football player added, pocketing the vials.

  Blake crouched down and peered in the mirror, pretending to examine himself while his eyes lingered on Dixon as he dialed his locker combination. “You sell to what, nine, ten dancers? You’ve got to want more business.”

  Dixon grabbed a black pouch from his locker, stuffed the cash inside, then shoved it into his backpack. “I’ve got other customers,” he replied, back hunched, defensive.

  Not as many customers as he’d like, Blake judged.

  “Later, man,” called the football players before they sauntered outside, leaving him and Dixon alone in the changing area. In the quiet, a shower dripped. Around the black curtain, the club’s lights flicked off, and the bouncer’s heavy boot treads crossed the floor to the front door. The faint sounds of traffic reached his ears, then silence again as the security guard locked up and headed home.

  “Is Mr. Landon cool with this?” he asked, referring to the club’s owner.

  Dixon bristled. “You trying to bribe me?”

  Blake tracked the performer’s hand as it automatically twitched to his jacket pocket. The guy packed heat. Interesting for a low-level dealer, if that’s all he was…

  Blake forced an easy grin, all kinds of friendly. “Hey, just don’t want to lose my job. I really need this gig.”

  Dixon’s shoulders lowered. “Let’s just say you’ve got nothing to worry about there. How about ninety-five?”

  “Eighty,” Blake countered, his mind probing Dixon’s last statement. Did Dixon mean Blake had nothing to worry about because Pete Landon knew about the steroid sales or, worse, Pete Landon’s shooting eliminated him as a threat…the shooter possibly being Dixon, the last guy to speak with Reese before her home invasion? What kind of car did he drive? The partial plates he’d run on the Escalade hadn’t turned up anything.

  Blake kicked himself for not checking the parking lot again after Dixon’s late arrival. Any cop who didn’t take the time to align all the dancers with their cars was clearly an idiot and not worthy of the promotion.

  Or up to fully protecting Reese…

  His thumb ran over St. Anthony’s engraved profile. Get it together, Knight. Prove yourself.

  Dixon let out a breath. “I ain’t running no charity.”

  “I’m not just buying for myself.”

  A light gleamed in Dixon’s eyes. “How much do you want?”

  “Twenty. I can have the cash for you tomorrow.”

  Dixon pulled a stick of beef jerky from his locker, ripped its plastic sheath open with his teeth, and bit off the end. “You’ll get the vials then,” he mumbled, chewing.

  “Give me one now. Call it market testing,” Blake insisted, adding the touch of desperation in every junkie’s voice.

  Dixon shook his head and laughed, pointing the half-eaten beef jerky at Blake. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  Blake grinned and slid four twenties into Dixon’s hand. “I’m also about to be your best customer.”

  Twenty minutes later, alone once more, Blake twirled Dixon’s locker combination. A satisfying click sounded when the dial landed on the final number. Bingo. He yanked open the door and rifled through Dixon’s possessions: power bars, protein powder, a moldy-smelling gym towel, dog-eared copies of something called Cheeky, and an electric razor.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Then an edge of paper caught his eye. He tugged it free from the locker’s back corner and examined the business card. Bulk Gym, he read, owner, Cherie Drew.

  Cherie Drew…

  The name sounded familiar.

  He tucked the card in his pocket, slammed Dixon’s locker shut, and scooped up his gear. At least he’d ferreted out his dealer. A start. One that hadn’t exactly ruled out Reese’s father’s involvement. Without sufficient evidence to tie Pete directly to the steroids ring, he couldn’t gain a search warrant for his home, business or laptop to peek at his financial information. If nearly all the dancers used steroids, possibly the bouncers and bartenders too, Pete must know.

  But Blake would keep that information to himself for now. He wouldn’t take a chance on trusting Reese, especially since he wasn’t sure whose side she was really on.

  And then he heard the scream…

  * * * *

  ONE HOUR EALIER

  “Open already!” Reese yanked at the stubborn drawer hard enough to send her chair skidding back on its rollers. The sounds of Ginuwine’s “Pony,” Dallas Heat’s finale tune, and the bartenders’ “last call” shouts drifted from below.

  She shoved herself forward and glared down at her father’s horrible desk. Ugh. She’d kick it if her feet weren’t insured. Then again…collecting the policy would pay some of her dad’s mounting debt.

  For the past three days, she’d practically chained herself to the desk, toiling over a backlog of overdue bills. After sorting through invoices, she’d begged suppliers for payment extensions. While some granted her a month’s reprieve, others flat out refused to continue supplying the club without payment. The misers. She’d dipped into her personal account, money earmarked for her dance studio, to keep Dallas Heat afloat and to meet this week’s payroll.

  Then Nash confided the employees had already missed two paychecks. When he’d assured her that he didn’t mind waiting, had—in fact—even offered to help her out with his savings, she’d nearly cried.

  Her cheeks blew out as she released a long stream of air. Since she wasn’t her father’s power of attorney, she couldn’t access his accounts or investigate the mysterious sums appearing then disappearing from the ledgers. Her father had cash coming in, so why didn’t he settle with his creditors or pay his employees? What was he up to?

  Her snooping was like a car stuck in a blizzard, all spinning tires getting nowhere. Her daily, one-sided conversations with her comatose father only left her drained and more lost than ever. At night, she lay awake listening to the house’s every creak and bang, wondering when the intruder planned to return. The officers assigned to guard her house only heightened her anxiety. They stayed out of view, but she sensed them in the dark, watching, their presence leaving her feeling vulnerable and alone. Even her daily dance workouts failed to release her building stress.

  Had Blake uncovered anything?

  She’d steered clear after watching his blistering performance three nights ago. His swagger, command and smoldering eyes set her aflame. He was definitely out of her comfort zone. The man had so much testosterone. His dangerous moves tempted her to drag him off stage and demand a sizzling private dance to satisfy the wanton desires he unleashed in her. It’d been a long time since she’d felt this way.

  If ever.

  The truth was, she’d never had such a strong and immediate attraction to any other man. Though she was surrounded by dancers with impeccable bodies in her troupe, they kind of blurred together. She’d indulged in short-lived relationships here and there, but she never let anyone close. A dancer’s number-one priority was him or herself and, after a childhood spent last on her father’s list, she refused to let anyone make her feel unworthy or rejected again.

  Blake’s laser focus on her, however, his dogged determination to protect her, drew her. Yet she didn’t dare get close. She needed to guard her family’s secrets from a man determined to uncover the truth at all costs. A man who could destroy her father. At least until she figured out what her father concealed.

  “Why is this sticking?” Reese slid off the chair and kneeled on the office’s rough industrial carpet. Probing the back of the drawer for the source of the jam, her fingers
encountered a soft lump taped beneath the desk. She ripped it free, stood, then dropped into the chair again.

  A gray, gummy wad filled her palm. Duct tape. She tugged each overlapping piece loose until it exposed a plastic bag. A silver-colored key, embossed with the numbers 428 pm, lay inside it. A safe-deposit box key. Did it contain something important enough to conceal? The large sums disappearing from her father’s account? Assets he’d hidden from the IRS? Consumed with curiosity, Reese texted her uncle.

  Does dad have a safe-deposit box?

  A moment later her cell pinged.

  Don’t think so. Why?

  Her fingers flew over the screen.

  Found a key beneath Dad’s desk & need 2 locate the bank. Maybe he’s stashing money? He’s overdue on bills.

  Three dots appeared, signaling her uncle was typing, then disappeared, then, a moment later appeared again.

  Give me the bills & key. I’ll handle the finances & locate the bank. Whatever’s inside could be related to your dad’s shooting. Don’t want you getting involved. Since your father’s stable, go home and open your dance studio. I’ll oversee the club & will update you if your dad wakes. Don’t want you in danger like the other night.

  Her gut unclenched. Uncle Tom to the rescue. She began to type her grateful response, then paused and hit the back button. She stared at the screen, and her mother’s eyes peered back at her.

  You promised to watch over each other…she imagined hearing her mother chastise her.

  And you’re not some runaway, she added, just as affronted.

  Reese pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed gritty eyes shut. When she’d fled Dallas, she’d thought she had no choice. Her father refused to report her attacker, and she’d blindly followed his wishes, leaving her feeling unsafe and unworthy. She’d moved away on her own steam—and maybe after a nudge from Uncle Tom. But no one twisted her arm. She’d chosen the easy way out and washed her hands of her heedless father.

  Now he clung to life, sunk in a coma so deep she could neither reach nor reconcile with him; she wouldn’t leave Dallas until she’d done both. No more running from her fears, her insecurities, her responsibilities.

  She wouldn’t abandon her father as he’d abandoned her.

  Got it covered, thanks. Love you. She typed, then flipped her phone over and laid it down on the desk.

  She ignored the subsequent pings, determined not to let her uncle’s insistence wear her down. She needed to handle her life. Not flee it.

  Did that include her aggravating attraction to “Hot Cop”?

  An hour later, Reese’s eye landed on the clock and she stiffened. Three a.m. Even her cleanup crew would have left by now. She shouldn’t necessarily fear her short walk to her car. The lot had overhead lights, and she’d parked close. Plus, her trespasser wanted something from her father’s well-guarded house…not her. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching her since her return to Dallas.

  She pictured Officer Bates’ snarl, felt his crushing weight again, and shivered.

  No. That was years ago. A lifetime ago—when she’d been another person.

  Reese squared her shoulders, slid her feet back in her sandals and scooped up her handbag. At the last minute, she grabbed the safe-deposit key, fit it inside her oversized, heart-shaped locket, then hurried downstairs, her accelerating heart rate keeping time.

  Reese silently lectured herself on the way to the door. Okay, you’re not some helpless, scared-silent young woman anymore. If anyone comes at you, you’re going to kick his ass. Whoever “he” was. No heart palpitations, no breathlessness, just a butt-whupping, mace-spraying, nail-clawing hellcat ready to be unleashed.

  Itching for it, even.

  Her shoulders sagged when she reached the exit, paused and hauled out her mace.

  Oh, who was she kidding? She was only human…not a Hunger Games contestant. She just wanted to go home, heat up a pepperoni Hot Pocket and catch up on her Bravo shows before grabbing some sleep. Was that too much to ask?

  She unlocked her car with her remote, shoved open the side door and gulped a lungful of the still, hot air. Overhead, a sickle moon disappeared behind thick cloud cover that snuffed out the stars. One of the parking lot lights had burnt out, she noted, striding on the cracked pavement.

  Breathe in. Out. Slow. Steady. Walk with intention. Like you’re not someone’s target, and if you are, they’d better think twice. Her eyes flicked around the dim space, straining to see into black corners. Overhead, a flutter of pigeons burst from the club’s rooftop, making her jump. She pressed a hand to her pounding heart. So much for no palpitations.

  The distance to Reese’s car stretched, fun-house style, so that the more steps she took, the farther it receded. The smells of the city: exhaust, curbside garbage, and cured meat turned her stomach. Her pulse banged against her eardrum, drowning everything else out.

  A white SUV swerved into the lot, zoomed in front of her then screeched to a halt, cutting her off. She whirled, breath harsh in her aching throat just as the passenger-side door flung open and a large man wearing a ski mask jumped out.

  Her home intruder?

  Flight or fight?

  She whipped her head around and peered at the club’s side door. She’d never make it in time. Footsteps pounded behind her. Instinctively, she raised her mace and ducked.

  A massive fist smooshed the air above her face, the force blowing back her hair. Strike fast before he can recover, her self-defense instructor had warned. Her left leg whipped out and caught the man square in his most sensitive parts.

  “Oof!” he exclaimed, doubling over.

  She pivoted, then unleashed a lightning-fast right kick to his windpipe. Her attacker wheezed and pinwheeled his arms as she sprayed mace in his eyes. There. That should give her enough time to reach the club and lock herself inside…

  When Reese turned, she banged into a wall of muscle and dropped her mace.

  Shit.

  Two of them.

  “Not so fast.” The second attacker bent her arm up, making her moan with pain. “You’re coming with us.”

  “Not likely, asshole.” She jammed her sandal’s heel down on his toes.

  “Bitch,” he hissed, then smashed her cheek into the SUV’s side. A muted scream ripped through her throat. Pain exploded up the side of her face.

  She jerked, fighting to shake him off, but he retaliated by twisting her wrist with one hand until she cried out.

  He leaned over her, his back pressing against her, flattening her painfully against the SUV. A large, gaudy ring, larger than his knuckle, glittered inches from her face. She couldn’t move, couldn’t counteract the hold he had on her arm, couldn’t even breathe.

  A cop hold. Like Officer Bates.

  Foul breath hissed over her ear. “You gonna cooperate now?”

  Hopelessness trembled through Reese’s limbs, paralyzing her. Last time, her father rescued her.

  Who’d save her now?

  Her jaw clenched. You will, she thought, snapping out of her fear and pushing it aside to scream, “Hell no!”

  She tried to turn around, but he jammed his knee into her lower back until her face contorted in pain. She sank her teeth into his wrist, hard. The moment his grip slackened, she ducked from under his arm, and raced for the club.

  Please. Please. Please.

  Almost there…

  Her hand grazed the door handle.

  Someone shoved her onto the ground, wrenching her shoulder, and brought the fingers of his other hand to her throat. Tightening them hard, his ring digging into her windpipe, he dragged her back to the SUV, writhing, kicking, twisting.

  Reese ransacked her mind, cycling through self-defense moves, trying to figure a way to escape.

  The backs of her bare thighs burned against the pavement as she struggled for
breath, reaching up now to claw his hand off her throat, twisting to get a purchase on the fingers. Her face throbbed, stinging so badly she fought to keep her eyes from watering and clouding her vision when she needed it most.

  “Hey. Boss said not a scratch on her,” one of the men growled. His voice sounded vaguely familiar.

  “Oops,” laughed the man holding her. Totally unmoved. Impervious to her pain.

  “Let me go!” Reese gasped.

  “Just shut her up and get her in the car,” ordered the other man, sounding bored.

  They hoisted her upright as she struggled. Resisted. Called out for help.

  “Shut it,” one of them warned, but she wouldn’t stay quiet. Wouldn’t go down without a fight. Not ever again.

  She opened her mouth and screamed, loud and long, using every bit of air in her body.

  Then he bashed her head, hard, against the doorframe. He did it again and again. Each blow reverberated through her body, making everything collapse and explode in agony.

  She reached out and grasped the doorframe tight, as though holding onto it would help her hold on to consciousness. Her body felt sluggish, her head fuzzy as the pair pried her fingertips loose, nine, then seven, six, then four, two…

  Her head grew heavier, her thoughts more clouded, until her last finger slipped off. Then—

  Bang!

  Her body hit the ground.

  “What the fuck?” one of the men yelled. “Who the hell’s shooting at us?”

  “Hands up where I can see them,” someone barked. Finally, a voice she knew. Blake.

  Hope zigzagged through her bloodstream, lighting her up.

  One of the men swore, grabbed her beneath the armpits and shoved her in front of him. Something sharp pressed against her throat. “Back off,” the man yelled. “Or she’s dead.”

  “Let her go,” Blake demanded.

  Reese opened her eyes and struggled to locate Blake in the lot’s dark corners. Her vision blurred along with her thoughts into one black hole.

  “Shit, man,” hissed the second guy, who crouched by the SUV’s grill. “Sounds like a cop. Just grab her purse and let’s get the hell out of here before more of ’em show up.”

 

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