by K. A. Tucker
Cain leans back against his desk and folds his arms over his chest, only accentuating the defined muscles in his shoulders and biceps. “Do you have a preference?”
I keep my face composed—I’m an expert at stone cold—while I struggle to decipher his question. Preference with what exactly? The desk? The floor? That couch? Is he seconds away from undoing his zipper?
Either Cain interprets my long pause as confusion or he replayed the question in his head and realized how it could be taken because he adds very clearly, “On the stage. When you’re dancing.”
I exhale and silently admonish myself. “I’m pretty good on a pole.” That isn’t a lie. That’s actually a discredit to my talent. I’ve been in gymnastics since I was five, so my body is strong and limber. Then, two years ago, I needed an excuse to visit a specific dance studio in Queens once a week so I enrolled in a pole-dancing class. Not under my real name, of course.
It turns out I took to pole-dancing naturally. I just haven’t worked up to the move where I drop my clothes.
“Okay,” Cain says slowly, his jaw shifting, appearing as if in thought. He hesitates for a second. “Full nude or topless?”
“Topless.” I shouldn’t be so eager. I’ve heard what these girls wear as bottoms and they may as well be completely naked.
Cain’s eyes automatically drop to my chest when I say that, and they seem to settle there. His entire form is frozen in place.
As if he’s waiting.
Of course he is. He wants to know what he’s putting up on his stage.
A quiver runs through my stomach. I can do this. This will be way less mortifying than the last time. Trying to pace my breathing before my heart explodes out of my chest, I quickly slip my thumbs beneath the spaghetti straps of my lemon-yellow sundress and pull on them until they pass the balls of my shoulders. With a sharp inhale, I let my arms drop and the dress goes with it. I intentionally didn’t wear a bra today. I figured that would make this uncomfortable process quick and a tiny bit less embarrassing. The last thing I wanted to do was fumble with bra hooks . . .
Because that would make standing in this man’s storage-room office in my white thong that much more awkward than it is already.
Cain’s lips part but not a sound comes out of him as his eyes widen for one, two, three, four seconds. And then it’s as if he wakes up, because he’s suddenly moving. Standing, unfolding his arms, and taking steps forward to reach me quickly, I watch with my lungs constricting as he crouches down in front of me and grasps the straps of the dress pooled around my ankles. He pulls my dress back up, his fingertips leaving hot trails against my skin as he affixes the straps. If my body weren’t already as stiff as a corpse, his touch probably would have made me shudder.
Locking eyes that look wise beyond his years on me, he says in a strained voice, as if he’s holding his breath, “You don’t have to do that for me. In fact, I ask that you please don’t do that for me again. Ever.”
I swallow and nod, my cheeks flaming, somehow more humiliated by his reaction than had he groped my breasts like that other pig. Spinning on his heels, he marches over behind his desk, a grimace on his handsome features. I don’t know if I’ve done something wrong or if I have the job.
I need this job.
Cain speaks up again. “Just stage dancing? What about private dances?” I see his gaze on me from beneath a fringe of thick lashes. “I don’t charge any stage fees, so what you earn up there, you take home.”
The small exhale escapes my lips before I can stop it. When I came up with this plan two weeks ago, I wasn’t fully aware of the inner workings at these clubs. But you can find anything on the internet. I found out that many owners charge a high stage fee, so the girls actually earn their money working hard on the floor and in the private rooms. Rumor has it that, though illegal, many of them do “extras,” on top of the lap dances. The idea of stripping on a stage in front of people is a giant pill to swallow for me. But lap dances . . .
I’ll do it.
I have to do it, I remind myself.
When I ran out of Sin City that day, I was sure that my plan was dead in the water. I mean, how was I going to perform daily lap dances when I couldn’t even get through my interview!
But Ginger told me that Penny’s is different. That Cain is different. That no one in the private rooms will be taking their pants off, and that doing “extras” is one of the only ways that you get fired at Penny’s.
Cain sounded too good to be true.
Setting my chin with steely determination, I say, “Both, please.” Swallowing the revulsion bubbling up in my throat, I clarify with a struggle, “I want to work the private rooms as well as the stage.”
Cain blows air out of his mouth, one hand on his hip while the other pushes through perfectly styled, slightly wavy dark hair as he stares hard at me. There’s an inexplicable look in his eyes, but I know he’s trying to read me. I wonder if he’s deciding whether to ask me for a demonstration. My gaze drifts to the couch again and my stomach tightens. Somehow I think giving this guy an interview lap dance might be harder than doing one for a sleazeball.
Because if I could get past the embarrassment and nerves, I might enjoy it.
But he doesn’t ask me to demonstrate. Instead, he asks me, “Have you ever bartended before?”
I shake my head, frowning.
“I have too many girls working the private rooms right now. But working behind the bar would bring your earnings up significantly. It’s what another stage dancer of mine used to do.” He continues, more to himself, “Maybe we see how that works out first.”
I came in here expecting the worst—that I’d be grinding on guys’ laps by the weekend because I have to. And yet, now, the relief is pouring out of me.
“Why are you in this profession?” he suddenly asks, lifting his eyes to bore into me once again.
One question I did expect. I meet his stare and hold it as I explain, “Because I’m good at it, I’ve got a decent body, and have no interest in serving French fries for minimum wage while I figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.” I deliver that as I practiced it—calmly, clearly, convincingly. It’s a good answer. One that creates no doubt. And so far from the truth. I know exactly what I want to do with my life.
End it and begin a new one.
He nods slowly, his lip pressed together in a grimace. I don’t know if that means I’m hired or not, so I bite my tongue and wait for a concrete verdict. I’m still waiting for Cain’s decision when his cell phone rings. I watch with fingers laced together in front of me while he answers with a gruff, “Yup.” He listens, his free hand absently rubbing a small tattoo behind his ear. A second later he barks, “No! I’m on my way.” Hanging up, he digs into a drawer and comes out with a handful of papers. “Fill these out, please. Bring a copy of your driver’s license tomorrow night with you.” Whatever gentleness crept into his voice before has vanished. It’s all business now, as he slides the sheets across his desk with hands that look strong and muscular but incapable to soothe. “If the crowd likes you, you’ve got a job.” Turning those eyes my way once more and pausing for a moment, he adds, “Fair?”
“Absolutely. Thank you,” I say with a nod and what I hope is a courteous smile as I collect the forms.
With that, he turns and crouches down behind his desk. I hear something metal slam that reminds me of my stepdad’s safe door. When Cain stands again, it’s to fit a holster and gun on him, startling me. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a gun. I have a gun. I’ve used a gun. But seeing Cain with one right here, right now, was unexpected. Why does he even need one?
Throwing a light jacket over himself to conceal it—he’ll die wearing that in the summer heat, but concealing your weapon is a law in Florida and I guess Cain is a law-abiding citizen—he walks over and, with one hand on the small of my back, ushers me toward the door. I
t’s not exactly rude, but it’s also far from polite. With me in the hall, he pulls his office door shut and marches out the back exit, not turning once.
I’m left standing alone, inhaling the faint scent of beer, my ears catching someone testing the sound system. The one that will play music that I strip to tomorrow night.
I take a deep breath as a rash of butterflies swirl through my stomach, the sudden urge to let loose my bladder overwhelming.
It’s not a big deal.
Mom did this.
I can do this.
After everything I’ve done, that I’ve been accomplice to, taking my top off in front of a bunch of drunks is nothing. I deserve to suffer a bit.
I glance down at the paperwork in my hand. He said he wants a copy of my license. That’s fine. The only accurate thing on it is my picture.
chapter three
■ ■ ■
CAIN
“Hi, Cain.”
She pushes one of those big, blond curls back over her bare shoulder, drawing my attention to her neck. It’s such a flirtatious move but, with Penny, I don’t believe she does it intentionally. “How are you, tonight?” She closes the distance and a delicate hand skates over my arm, as it does every time she greets me before her shift. Shivers run along my skin, as they do every time she touches me.
“I’m good, Penny.” I’m so much taller than her that, when she stands directly in front of me, she needs to dip her head back to peer at me. It gives me the best view of that wide mouth that I came so close to kissing last night. So close to giving in to a selfish urge.
I wish things could be different between us, but they can’t.
She deserves so much better than me.
Knowing that is what stopped me from kissing her last night, though she was obviously hoping for it.
I force myself to sound like I care when I ask, “How is Roger doing? I hope you two have plans for the holidays?” He’ll give her a good life. He’s a quiet plumber in his thirties who follows her around the club and desperately wants her to quit. They could have a nice life together. She’d be away from this world.
I can’t give her any of that. This is where I belong.
I catch the slightest furrow cross her brow before it’s gone. She tucks her hair behind her ear and steps back, swallowing before she speaks. “Oh . . . good. He’s good. Yes, we’re going to meet his mother.” Nodding her head as if to confirm her words, she tucks the same strand in a second time. “I should go and get dressed.”
I watch her walk away, drowning in my disappointment.
■ ■ ■
I know she’s not Penny.
And yet, as I race my black Navigator down the street—with the air-conditioning cranked to max—toward Cherry’s apartment, to deal with impending disaster, the name Penny plays over and over inside my head. Those blond curls, those full red lips, the eyes outlined in heavy black kohl that make me wonder what she looks like without makeup. Decent body, my ass! People pay thousands to have that beautiful hourglass figure. And those tits are fucking perfect. Plastic surgeons would use her as a design model. She doesn’t even need a bra to keep them up. She obviously wasn’t wearing one today when she slid her dress off.
Just like Penny that first day she walked into my dive of a club, asking for a job.
I don’t fuck my staff. Ever. I’m here to help them get on their feet and away from the sex trade, not drag them down further by being the sleazy boss who treats them like whores. From that day almost nine years ago, when I laid down the payment for The Bank—the club I owned before opening up Penny’s—I’ve maintained that code with stoic resolve. Of course, a young guy surrounded by strippers throwing themselves at him daily was a true test of willpower.
I had a lot of cold showers those first few months.
I figured I’d be fine. Then Penny walked in and, well, she was impossible to ignore.
Impossible not to love within seconds.
And if I had just stuck to my policy and stayed away from her in the first place, she wouldn’t have ended up with her head bashed in just steps away from my office.
If Penny’s death did anything, it stopped me from ever getting distracted from my purpose in this business. It sure as hell isn’t love.
Here I was, thinking I had put that tragedy behind me and moved on. Until tonight, a Penny lookalike walks in and blows my recovery to smithereens.
What did I do? I gawked at her like a fucking pervert. I stared at her body, I avoided her polite handshake, I made her squirm under my gaze.
And then she dropped her dress and that spark—the strange concoction of intrigue, hope, and lust that’s so much stronger than just a waiting naked body should provoke—hit me. The one I have felt only once before. When Penny walked into my office.
I went hard as a rock in an instant.
Ginger was right, though. She’s different. Unreadable, for the most part. Not cold, but she’s either very skilled at controlling her expressions or she’s not expressive at all. Aside from that blush when I pulled her dress up, she seemed unfazed through the entire ordeal. And that’s not normal. In all the years, in all the interviews, I’ve never seen a woman so calm as she asks for a job in my club. The women are always nervous. They’re usually flirting heavily. Once in a while, I’ll turn my back for a second and find them spread-eagled on my desk.
Not this woman, though . . .
She has never worked a private room. I caught that hard swallow when she stated that she’d like to work both. Either that or . . . she has worked a private room before and something bad happened. I’m keeping her out until I find out which it is.
I’ll certainly be passing her paperwork on to my private investigator. The one who does the kind of in-depth background checks average employers don’t bother with. I know it’s not normal, but I’m not normal and I won’t let any illicit shit get dragged into my place, derailing everything I’ve worked so hard to build.
Speaking of illicit . . . I pull into the parking lot outside Cherry’s apartment complex, wondering how long before this goes sideways.
■ ■ ■
“You sure you’re fine?” Nate’s booming voice thunders over the Bluetooth speaker in my Nav.
“Yeah,” I mutter. The passing streetlights cast enough light to reveal my swollen knuckles. I can’t believe I injured my hand, but I guess it has been a while since I’ve cracked a jaw with my punch. Years, actually. Despite the multitude of close encounters in this business, I’ve rarely had to lay a finger on the lowlifes that my employees naturally draw to themselves. Nate’s shadow passing over them typically has them running before there’s a need.
But Cherry’s ex is a special kind of scumbag—a small-time coke dealer with a penchant for slapping around pretty strippers. I guess he thought the “never so much as bat an eye at Cherry again” warning had a one-year expiration date. A more permanent removal from Cherry’s life was necessary.
And I think we made sure of that tonight.
While waiting for me outside Cherry’s apartment, Nate saw her son playing at the neighbor’s place, so we knew he wasn’t in imminent danger. A quick walk by Cherry’s window found her bent over the couch, clearly not fighting him off, while the jerk-off plowed into her from behind, in prime view of anyone passing by.
It took everything in me not to kick the door in. I was livid. Livid with her for letting the guy in.
Livid with her for allowing him to use her like that.
Livid that he’s still breathing.
As much as the idea of pummeling him into the ground appealed to me, there are better ways of getting rid of this cockroach. Nate stood guard while I ran back down to the parking lot. I popped the locks on the guy’s truck—some talents you just never unlearn—and, once inside, planted a sizeable bag of coke in the glove compartment.
I may avoid
the drug scene at all costs, but I have connections wherever I need them. Tonight, on my way out to Cherry’s apartment, I needed them. For her and her son.
We waited for him to leave Cherry’s. As I suspected, he was carrying, but it took nothing to disarm him and throw him up against the wall. I didn’t even have to pull my own gun.
I had no intention of laying a hand on him. But then the stupid fuck went and called me a pimp. I shouldn’t care what a degenerate like him says, but I do—because I know that, to anyone outside, it’s exactly what I look like. I got a couple of good shots in on Cherry’s “boyfriend” before Nate pulled me off. We let the jerk stumble away to his truck. I even gave him his gun back—unloaded and wiped clean of my fingerprints—and then we tailed him until the cops I’d notified of an intoxicated driver pulled him over.
He has a record, so I know they’ll do a full search. When they do, they’ll find the drugs and the gun.
He’s as good as dead for the next twenty-five years.
I know it was a dirty thing to do. And I know I’d do it all over again if I had to. Still, dipping my hands back into that world leaves me cold.
“I’ll be fine. You sure you can keep the bar up and running on your own?” I ask Nate as I turn onto the street leading up to my condo.
“Piece of cake. A chimp could run that place. Actually, a chimp does run that place,” Nate jokes, earning my chuckle. “Take a break. You need it.” It’s funny that Nate—who is at Penny’s almost as much as I am—would tell me that I need a break. Then again, Nate’s not the one losing his cool lately.
“Yeah, okay. Check up on Cherry later, will you?”
“Already swung by. Had to get fresh food. The other stuff went cold. She’s good. Clear-eyed. Looks like it was a straight booty call.”
I roll my eyes but let the smallest breath escape me. One of small relief that she’s not back into the blow and, that with that guy behind bars, his “booty calls” won’t involve pretty girls like Cherry for a long time.
“See you tomorrow, Nate.” After a long pause. “Thanks for your help.”
