Plain Jane and Mr. Wrong (Plain Jane Series Book 4)

by Tmonique Stephens

  Something wasn’t right, and he would know precisely what it was before the night was over.

  His men fanned out only to coalesce at the entrance. Bruno murmured for one to wait outside and the rest to follow them. The setup was the usual. Two bouncers at the door to check for weapons.

  “I got to check you.”

  “Get your boss, now. Tell him Harden Gage is at his front door.” One went to do Harden’s bidding while the other eyed him. “Party? For whom? Who you got celebrating tonight?”

  The man’s eyes shifted away.

  Not ordinary high rollers then. Harden swept past the man and entered the bar. Twenty feet in front of him was the stage. A girl dancing. His attention turned to the bar, expecting to see Jentry slinging drinks. Two women in bikinis were there. Neither were Jentry. If she wasn’t at the bar, then that meant she worked the floor. Crimson crept to the edge of his vision.

  He forced himself to calm down. There was a damn good chance he’d struck out and she wasn’t here. The blood pounding in his temples and the tingle in his palms itching for his gun were all for naught.

  He walked over to the bar, drawing the attention of a man seated at a four-top wearing a cut with a Black Dragons patch stitched onto the back.

  Black Dragons MC out of Pennsylvania with multiple chapters along the East Coast. A lot of them were here.

  The man whispered to his friend, who whispered to another friend. So on, and so on. Like the telephone game, his name traveled around the room until it reached the goddamn Ukrainians. Bresnik and Fisnik. The twins. Shit in a handbag. Why the hell weren’t they in Queens where they belonged, and what had Harden strolled into?

  His gaze cut to Bruno, who was already on his phone.

  Fisnik saw Harden first. His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. He whispered in his brother’s ear. Bresnik, the heavier of the identical twins, jerked around and glared.

  Harden sent both men a casual wave. Their confusion was comical. It wasn’t as funny when the two plus their entourage headed over.

  “Mr. Gage.” Bresnik, the younger, more reasonable to the duo, spoke.

  “Bresnik. You look well.” No use of their last names, and no title. They weren’t the head of the New York syndicate. Four families answered to him. The Irish, the Dominicans, the Jamaicans, and the Mexicans. He ran Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island, and Rockland County. Drugs, guns, gambling, chop shops, high-end imports and exports.

  None of that mattered when they were seriously out gunned.

  Bresnik’s already lowered brow dropped another centimeter. He’d caught the insult. “Taking a tour of the Bronx?”

  Harden’s mouth curled into a sardonic grin. “No. I’m not slumming tonight.” He perused the room slowly, taking everything in as if he hadn’t a concern in the world. Two emergency exits on either side of the room. One to the right of the stage, the other down a narrow hallway.

  The second bouncer returned with a short, round man with greasy hair and a seventies mustache. “Mr. Gage, Mr. Dhima, please, gentleman, have a seat. Let me get everyone a drink. On the house, of course.”

  “Fuck that! I want to know why you’re here, in our fucking territory.” Not to be outdone by his twin, Fisnik stepped up into Harden’s face. And got shoved back. Bruno pulled his gun but kept it at his side. As did everyone else.

  The music faded replaced with the DJ yelling, “Let’s have a big round of applause for Dixie!” A few catcalls and clapping from those oblivious to the rising tension by the bar followed the girl off stage while someone came onto the stage to collect the bills not stuffed into her G-string.

  Harden kept his gun right where it was, holstered on his hip. He leaned against the bar and looked over at the bikini clad bartender. “Whiskey, darlin’. Double shot.”

  She poured fast and handed him the squat glass. He took a sip and spit it out on the floor. Several people jumped back to keep from getting splattered. “You make that god-awful shit in the toilet? Crying shame when a bar can’t afford good liquor. I’ll hook you up with my distributor. Get you a discount.” The words were directed at whoever owned the dump with a dance floor, but his gaze remained on Bresnik. Harden had no idea whose name the club was in, but he had no doubt Bresnik and Fisnik ran things. It was their club as much as Catalyst was his.

  “You son of a bitch.” Fisnik growled and raised his gun at the same time Bruno took aim at Fisnik’s head.

  Music started again and from his peripheral a new girl walked on stage as the front exit slammed opened. In strolled Nick and company, five men, ARs leading the way. The men fanned out. Nick took one look at the crowd and lowered his weapon. His stroll continued until he joined the semi-circle.

  “Glad you could make it,” Bruno murmured, but his voice carried.

  Nick’s dry laugh held no humor. “I was checking out some stuff in the neighborhood.”

  That was red meat Fisnik and Bresnik. Not much they could do with automatic weapons trained on them. Though Harden was enjoying every moment of the encounter, it was time to wrap this up and get on his way even as his mind extrapolated the few reasons the Black Dragons and the Ukrainians were breaking bread over drinks and pussy.

  On stage, the stripper danced. The straight blond hair from her wig dusted her bronze hips and her ass dimples. Her movements were liquid and artistic more than erotic. They were exotic. Intoxicating. His cock filled—completely inappropriate given the current circumstances and the fact he didn’t do randoms anymore. Disgusted with himself, he returned his attention to the Dhima brothers fuming in front of him and arguing with Nick, who enjoyed baiting them.

  Harden had enough. He came for one thing, not to start another war. Maybe after Karpovilov was dealt with. For right now, he needed a few friends. “Everyone calm the fuck down. I’m not here for territory or to start any shit. No blood will be spilled today.” The stripper caught his attention again. She was on the pole, body in the perfect arch with her head tilted all the way back, long hair sweeping the dance floor as she made love to the pole. Her breasts and hips undulating. Fuck, she was hot. Who was she—

  The question was answered when she angled her face toward the crowd and his world rocked.

  Harden shoved everyone out of the way. Of their own accord, his feet carried him forward while she executed a perfect backflip, landed on her heels, hooked the pole with her knee, and spun again. Eyes closed, lost in her own bubble, she spun lazily around. Then she opened her eyes and released the pole to strut down the catwalk, pelvis leading the way. Her strut aggressive, demanding. The attention of your eyes and cock, she had it.

  All of Harden was attuned to her in stunning disbelief. He knew there was a possibility he would find her like this, but the reality was so much better. And so much worse. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t her.

  The fantasy lasted until their gazes met. Until that moment, he wasn’t absolutely sure. He left a fraction of room to be mistaken. Then her eyes widened in surprise, recognition, and fear. Any doubt he had fled. Now, he was furious.

  Chapter Ten

  Jentry was calm as she waited to take the stage. Calm, cool, and collected. She’d been here before. Done this dance, this routine hundreds of times. Nothing to get nervous over even if the other girls had said the crowd was rougher than usual, arrogant, disrespectful, and grabby.

  When wasn’t the crowd like that? Never, that’s when. Split-Tail wasn’t some high-class joint on Fifth Avenue. It was in the ghetto. Hunts Point in the South Bronx didn’t get much more ghetto than that. Parts of it had gone through gentrification. After all, fewer and fewer people could afford Manhattan rent.

  Not Harden Gage, though.

  Her music came on and she strutted, her back arched, displaying her tits and ass in profile as she swayed her hips to the beat. She preferred old school R&B, Isley Brothers, perfect stripper music. The dance lessons she took as a child didn’t go to waste. It started with ballet when she was three and ended with modern dance when she was twelv
e, then her interests turned to cheerleading and boys. Dancing helped when swinging on a pole. She used to love to move. She’d lose herself in the words and rhythm of the songs and wouldn’t stop until she was drenched and exhausted. That’s before money became too tight and boys became more attractive.

  But the body remembered and took joy in the stretching of muscles and the arching of her back. As long as she closed her eyes and ignored the men leering at her for as long as humanly possible. That’s the only way to find any joy in the moment until she had to peel her eyes open and make that money.

  Two minutes into the song, she pushed away from the pole. Facing away from the crowd, she backed up a few steps, giving herself plenty of room to work. Dropping to her haunches, with her hands on her knees, she balanced on her tiptoes. First her shoulders rolled, then her hips caught the rhythm and rolled clockwise, then counterclockwise. Back and forth, she flexed, bounced, popped her spine, made her ass move to the music as her mind detached, retreated to a small corner. Swaying, legs open, legs closed, body roll, one cheek up, one cheek down, she slowed each move down and took their imagination on a carnal ride. That’s all this was, let’s pretend the woman dancing for their enjoyment was riding their dicks, milking that sperm from their tiny cocks.

  Thighs burning, she popped up and bent over, let them get a view of what they’d never have. Straightening, she spun and strutted down the catwalk, making bedroom eyes at all the men. Midway, she dropped to her knees, spread them, then leaned back and let them imagine her dry pussy was wet and all theirs.

  Make eye contact. Draw them into the fantasy. Make them give up their dollars and make it rain. Gimme that mon—The world stopped when she met a pair of ice-cold blue eyes.

  Only after her heart resumed beating did the wavy blond hair, square jaw with the permanent five-o’clock shadow, nose with the slight hump in the middle, and the angry slash of still kissable lips register. His eyes bled cold, so cold it seeped into her marrow and stayed.

  A crook of his finger ordered her to get down. Instead, she rose and instinctively retreated. One, two, three steps. Between blinks, Harden leaped onto the stage. She stared up at him dazed. Her fight or flight response stalled. She froze like a deer in the headlights and had no response when he tossed her over his shoulder. Another leap off the stage jarred her back to her senses.

  She had enough common sense to not beat on his back like a damsel in distress, because she was no damn damsel. But she did the only thing she could. Tyler had placed two poles, one on opposite sides of the main seating area for impromptu performances. Harden passed right by the left one and Jentry latched on.

  He jerked to a halt, which tugged none too gently on her hips and waist. Snarling, he glanced over his shoulder at her. “Let. Go,” he shouted over the music.

  She had one chance to make him see reason. “I need my purse. It has my ID, mine and Allie’s birth certificates, and social security cards. I can’t leave it,” she shouted back.

  Clearly not pleased, he nodded once and snapped, “Where is it?”

  Jentry let go of the pole and pointed down the hallway. Without further commentary, Harden headed that way. She thought he’d place her onto her own two feet and let her walk, but no. He stomped down the hallway and kicked open the dressing room door. The six women inside screamed in surprise and stared wide-eyed at the man in their midst.

  “Get. Out.”

  Two words and they scattered like scared half-naked hens.

  Harden kicked the door closed behind the last woman. He spun to the nearest table and dumped her ass on the hard surface. Then he planted his fists on either side of her hips, caging her with his body, his brutally handsome face the only thing she could see. “Let me explain something to you right fucking now.” He paused to snatch the wig off her head and toss it aside like it was roadkill. Next, the wig cap went flying, exposing her short, flat curls.

  She flinched, preparing for pain, a slap, a punch, a hand around her throat, squeezing as he brought his hands up. Instead of pain, he gently threaded his fingers through her curls.

  His fingers massaged her scalp, scraping over the surface, sending awareness down her spine and to every nerve ending. His fingers strolled down to her nape, then her neck, and back up to her jaw.

  Their eyes locked. Dark brown met icy blue. Though his hands were sublime, his eyes were furious, until he gripped her chin.

  “You don’t ever disappear on me again. I thought you were dead, Jentry. Do you understand me? Your life is in my hands now, not yours!”

  “Bullshit,” she said without fear.

  “What did you say?” He actually growled and leaned closer until she could see ice chips in the frigid sea of his blue eyes.

  She knocked his hand away. “I said what I said. Bullshit. If my life is in your hands, then you damn well need to take better care of it.” She snarled, and he backed up an inch. It wasn’t much, but she took that inch and pretended it was a mile.

  “I was fired today. You know why?” His lips parted to give an answer she didn’t need. “Because my asshole boss told me to not worry about my job. Made me believe he’d take care of it, then he didn’t. I go to work and I’m fired. I have no job to feed my kid.”

  “All you had to do was tell Luce you were with me.”

  “I did!” she shouted in his face. “He called me a liar and said I’d have a better chance of going to the moon than being with you.” A sob caught in her throat as she remembered the disgust on Ralph’s face when he said that, as if she were untouchable, unworthy, lucky to be in the same room with any of them.

  Jentry buried that sob. Practically choking on it, she swallowed it back down. “None of it matters because in the end, I still need to feed my kid and keep a roof over my head.”

  His voice stony, he said, “You have a roof over your head.”

  She waved a finger in his face. “I have temporary shelter that you’ve provided because my home is too dangerous to be in because of something that’s not my fault!” She forced herself to breathe. “That luxury apartment my hovel could fit into four times is not my home. I know it and you know it. So, I go back to the only job I know how to do because my kid’s gotta eat and not sleep on the street when you get tired of playing protect the best friend’s baby mama’s cousin.”

  They were at a standoff. He said what he had to say, and she said what she had to say. But he continued to loom over her, bigger than life. Carefully, she brought her hands to his arms and pushed. He didn’t budge, not even a little, until his muscles coiled—the tension registered through the layers of his clothing and coat—and he decided to move away.

  He gave her enough room to ease her ass off the table and teeter on her heels until her knees locked. A permanent frown on his face, his gaze never wavered as he looked down at her.

  It was too much, another person judging her. Well, fuck you. The sting of unshed tears burned her eyes. She’d be damned if she let one tear drop in front of the asshole. She walked around him to the other side of the room for her purse and clothes, his gaze following her. She knew this because she could feel it, his gaze a lead blanket on her shoulders.

  She knew the moment he saw it. The sharp inhale followed by a hiss of breath. In her anger she’d forgotten, forgotten it was there and not hidden by the wig or the bolero that wasn’t in her duffle.

  “What the fuck!” Harden grabbed her shoulders. She wrenched free only to have him grab her again tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh, keeping her immobile when she wanted to be free.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said matter-of-factly and wasn’t surprised he didn’t release her, though his fingers were gentle on her flesh again.

  “Property of CDJ.” His voice was bottom of the barrel low, guttural, dark. A shiver ran down her spine.

  Jentry swallowed her sudden fear. “I know what it says.” She waited for his hands to drop to his sides and continued to wait until she couldn’t take it anymore and had to be free of his touch an
d oppressive presence. This time when she wrenched herself free, he didn’t stop her. She rushed for her coat. Only when she’d sheltered into the satin lined interior of the thrift store find did she turn and face Harden Gage.

  “Is that the child’s father?” He hammered the words at her, like a punishment.

  “Yes.”

  “Was there a choice or did you let him put that on you?”

  Let him! It was either the tattoo or he’d brand his initials into her skin. Jentry’s answer was to gather her purse and her clothing, then head for the exit. He grabbed her arm, halting her. In his free hand, her wig.

  “Put it on.”

  Pain flared in the center of her chest, but she snatched her arm free and grabbed the wig. In the nearest mirror, she straightened the blond piece and slapped it back on her head. It was horrible, and she really didn’t care. Apparently, neither did Harden because, hand on the back of her neck, he guided her out of the room.

  Split-Tail was pin drop silent as they approached the main area. Eyes shifted between the two of them, judgement again. She was sick of it and couldn’t do a damn thing about it. The exit was right there. She angled that way but the hand on her neck tightened, halting her in front of every single person in the bar, strippers included.

  “Bresnik. Fisnik. Sorry about the intrusion. Me and mine will be on our way now. As a sign of good faith, you’re welcome to stop by Catalyst, any time. Just call ahead with a reservation.”

  The two men—twins though there were some notable differences—Jentry had never seen before stared blandly at Harden, then her. The shorter of the two nodded once. “Absolutely. I would be delighted to take you up on the offer. Soon,” he said with deadly intent.

  “I look forward to it,” Harden said with eager intent.

  No handshake. No brotherly love. No pat on the back. No dap. Jentry snorted. She didn’t need eyes when her ears worked perfectly well to know everything Harden just said was bull. Someone should warn the wonder twins not to fall for it. She’d do it, but she’d pissed Harden off enough for one night and there were way too many firearms on display. She wanted to leave. Now. Particularly with the way the twins kept eyeing her even with her head ducked and her wig hiding most of her face.