by K. A. Tucker
And I don’t bother to hide what I’m doing anymore. I face him head-on as my fingers curl around the fabric of my top and peel it off. As I offer him a wink. I see his lips part slightly and his ghost of a smile as his eyes rake over my body, shamelessly. Even from here, I see the fire in them.
I love the feel of his eyes on me.
Although the possibility of him being my pimp has faded, I still don’t know what the hell to think about Cain. At night, when I’m lying in bed, relieving myself of this pent-up frustration so I can actually fall asleep, I’m still picturing him as an unemotional, demanding man.
Only now, it’s in a very appealing way.
I’m not sure how accurate Ginger was when she called him “safe.”
This is my boss.
But, while I silently wait to escape my life, this is also one hell of an intoxicating game.
chapter fifteen
■ ■ ■
CAIN
“Cain!”
“Two and a half weeks for a simple background check! What the fuck am I paying you for, John?” I’m glad I had the good sense to install a sound barrier in the walls of my office. It doesn’t completely drown out the throbbing music in the club, but I can at least have a phone conversation without shouting.
A horn blasts in the background and I picture my P.I.’s round belly pressed up against the steering wheel of his nondescript black sedan, tailing someone’s cheating spouse or a fraudulent insurance claim through the streets of L.A. He spends most of his days doing just that. And they’re long-ass days from what he tells me. John works more than I do. After his third wife left him, he figured out that marriage and his career don’t mix.
I met John ten years ago, when he was still a cop. He’s well connected, fast, trustworthy, and—most important—he’s as discreet as they come. He’s also expensive, but it’s worth it. I use him for all of my employee history checks. He finds things that no typical background check would ever uncover, and I can usually get answers from him within a few days.
“Yeah, well, this isn’t Backgrounds R Us,” he grumbles wryly—the usual dig at the kinds of places normal employers use. “This one took a little bit more work . . .”
My stomach tightens as I silently await his verdict, wondering what he uncovered. I’ve been dreading this moment.
“You’ve got yourself a runaway there, Cain. Charlie Rourke was last seen four years ago in Indianapolis. She took off on her eighteenth birthday and no one’s seen her since. No police record to speak of. She’s been a ghost until she opened a bank account and booked a flight from New York to Miami in May.”
“Huh.” I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet I am. I’ve had other runaways here before. Kacey, an exceptionally bright redheaded bartender and Storm’s best friend, was one. It hadn’t taken John long to gather the basics that explained the unapproachable fiery-haired woman—the accident that killed her parents, her serious injuries, the long physical recovery, the nonexistent mental recovery.
The self-destructive aftereffects.
But it wasn’t hard to figure out what Kacey was trying to escape. “What’s Charlie running from?”
“My guess is her drunk, abusive father. Beat the shit out of her mother, who finally bit the bullet three years ago. Daddy-O’s in Pendleton for life for that one.”
“Shit . . .” I run a hand back through my hair. If she’s been on the run for four years, I wonder if she even knows that her mother is dead. “Any other family?”
“Useless uncle. Father’s brother. Otherwise, no one.”
“So she’s legit. I mean, her age, everything else checks out?” I hold my breath. There’s nothing about the woman teasing me on that stage that says “child.”
“Yeah, looks like it.”
I sink back into my chair, weeks of tension pouring out of me.
“Driver’s license that came up is the same as the one you sent me. No previous one on file. I also found an older picture of her. They look like the same girl. Hard to tell with those, though, especially when your girl’s all done up like she is.”
That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve seen Charlie under all that makeup. She looks like a completely different person. “Her eye color?”
“Blue, I think. Wait . . .” There’s a rustling sound. “Yup . . . blue.”
Violet could be mistaken for blue. Unless the photo is a good-quality close-up, no one would be able to tell. “And I wasn’t able to confirm her working at that club in Vegas, but my sources tell me the owner’s been known to do under-the-table hires, so it’s quite possible she’s telling the truth.”
“Huh.” I don’t doubt that she worked there. The way she dances, she knows what she’s doing. “Okay, good.”
“Why . . . you tapping that?”
“John . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.” His disbelief annoys me. “I’m gonna be in Miami in a few months, I think. I’ll swing by. Enjoy a show or two.”
“You do that. Ask for Mercy. Your fat, old ass will have a heart attack.”
The responding roar of laughter makes me shake my head and smile. John is in his early fifties and, if he’s as I remember him, he’s still living off black coffee and greasy burgers. “It’d be good to see you again, my friend.”
Hanging up the phone, I flip through the stack of papers with Charlie’s scrawled handwriting. So, she’s been off the grid for four years. She would have been crashing at friends’ places. Guys’ places. Taking jobs under the table to make ends meet. I guess that’s why there’s no record of her. No gas bills, no credit cards. Nothing.
Maybe she was afraid of being found and that’s why she laid low. Or maybe she found out that her dad is in jail for life and figures she’s safe, so she’s come out of hiding.
Speculation. That’s all I’ve got.
That she refused Rick Cassidy’s demands tells me she probably wasn’t making ends meet in alleyways. I find myself breathing easier over that knowledge. But she’s got the designer shoes and clothes. And the brand-new car that she got from a supposed inheritance. I find that detail hard to believe, especially now.
I rub my chin slowly as I ponder this riddle. There’s an excellent possibility that Charlie was getting paid for sex, but if so, with a very wealthy clientele. A sugar daddy, even. But then, where’s all the money? Where did it go? Why no bank account until a few months ago?
It doesn’t matter, I decide, with steely resolve. If she’s here, she must be trying to start over. And it’s time that I stop avoiding her because, just maybe, I can help.
If she’ll trust me.
And if I can control myself around her.
■ ■ ■
Blasts of music hit me as I stroll out to the floor. Ben’s face splits into a wide smile when he sees me, and his mouth starts moving as he says something into his earpiece to all the bouncers. I have a good idea what it is, because Nate filled me in on the rising chatter. I just shoot him a severe look and keep walking. For years, I made a few laps around the club each night. But the customers started getting on my nerves, and watching my employees flaunt their bodies has never been my thing. So I stopped coming out about two years ago, unless there was an issue that security couldn’t handle.
And yet, every night for the past two weeks, when the hands on my wall clock approach eleven, I find myself wandering out with glass of cognac in hand to lean against the rail.
Like Pavlov’s dog.
Only there’s no juicy bone at the end of the road. Just a gorgeous dancer and mounting frustration.
I’ve become a masochist. The affliction seems to have developed overnight. The night that Charlie started working here, to be precise. And each night after that, as I came out to watch her strip.
For me.
It’s very clearly, very obviously, for me.
The
tension between the two of us is palpable and growing at an alarming rate into a heady, and highly risky, intimate connection. I’m addicted. There’s no way in hell that I can sit still in my office while Charlie’s up here on my stage anymore. Worse . . . I’ve started coming out to the bar later in the night. I have enough common sense to stay away from her, killing the time by having conversations with Nate, some of the other dancers, and the few regular customers whom I don’t want to choke.
But the electric charge between us keeps intensifying.
I find Nate standing in his stationary spot—with the best view of the floor—and slap him over the shoulder. He knows better than to comment about my timed appearance. “How’s it going? Crammed again, I see.”
With a grunt, he reports, “Tossed two guys out, but it’s been pretty tame so far.”
“Good.” My eyes drift over the floor, mentally calculating how much an average girl will take home tonight with this big a crowd. A solid amount, thankfully. A glance at the stage shows me that Cherry is nearing the tail end of her show.
She’s up next.
Nate’s attention shifts to his earpiece for a moment. With a scowl, I hear him announce, “Kinsley and China are at it again. Ben’s heading into the dressing room now to break it up.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “What am I going to do? One of them is gonna have to go if this keeps up.” It will have to be Kinsley. The girl is putting herself through college with this job, but I’m not as worried about her making the kind of stupid, desperate decisions that China might make. She’d end up back somewhere like Sin City if I fired her.
“Maybe you should go and talk to them,” Nate suggests.
“Maybe you should,” I throw back. The last time I went into a dressing room to break up a catfight, it ended in tears and two sobbing, naked women rubbing themselves up against my sides and pleading with me to forgive them.
“Hell, no. I take care of security. Find a manager to deal with that shit.”
“Sure thing! Just introduce me to someone who won’t rob me or treat my employees like whores.” Twice in the past, I hired managers because I knew that I needed help running a club this size. I caught the first one skimming from the late-night deposits, while trying to pin it on the bartenders. I caught the second one in a private room, demanding lap dances in exchange for better time slots onstage. The idiot didn’t even have the sense to turn the cameras off. When I played it for him, his only response was a shrug and, “I thought you were kidding about that.”
I shake my head. “I need a female manager to handle this shit.” Ginger already takes care of most of the female staff shift scheduling. She offered to take that on years ago, after one of the dancers handed me a sheet of paper with her menstrual cycle dates to plan around. I’m good at lining up apartments and chasing off deadbeat boyfriends. I’m not the guy who keeps track of hormonal schedules.
“And an onsite shrink,” Nate pipes in, earning my grunt of agreement.
Terry’s voice booms over the sound system as Ben sidles up next to me. “All sorted out. For now.”
“How?”
Ben runs his hands up and down his chest. “I told them they don’t have to fight over me. I’ll gladly take both of them out after work, tonight.”
“So you threatened them . . .”
Ben chuckles softly. After a moment’s pause, he casually asks, “What are you doing out here, boss? Oh, wait.” Glancing at his nonexistent watch with a mock frown, he announces, “Is it eleven already?”
“You can wipe that shit-eating grin off your face anytime now, Morris.”
It only gets wider.
“When do those bar results come back?” I keep my voice flat as I turn back to watch the stage.
“Why?”
“So I can fire your ass for real.”
“September.” He smirks, not in the least bit worried. “So . . . she’s still single, from the sounds of it,” Ben remarks as the first chords of a hard song come on. Every one of Charlie’s picks is different from the usual pop dance tunes. The songs are fast-paced and energetic, but with an edge, much like her on that stage. It’s as if she transforms into another person.
By the twinkle in Ben’s eyes, I know he’s egging me on. “No idea.” That’s a lie. I do have an idea. I’m pretty sure she’s single. Tanner hasn’t seen anyone coming in or out of her place, from what he’s told me.
And of course, I’ve asked him to keep an eye out.
“She’s something else,” Ben murmurs, standing straight as the curvy figure stalks out in a new outfit—a short, pleated skirt and torn-up tee—and dives right into a fancy, spinning move as her eyes graze over mine. “Shit, did you see that look she just gave me?”
“That wasn’t for—” I bite back the rest of my response. Fuck, I took the bait and Ben knows it, but he doesn’t call me on it. He only continues being an ass.
“Quiet and calm. Focused. Not annoying and whiny. Just so . . . mysterious. I could see myself with her.” I feel my teeth grinding together as Ben leans in toward me. “You’ve got a little while longer to grow a pair, but when I leave here . . . I make no promises. Except one.” His brow arches. “She won’t turn me down.”
“Get to work, Morris.” I’m ready to knock a few of his pretty-boy white teeth out of that arrogant mouth. But mostly, I want him to go away so I can focus all my attention on my girl.
Shit, not my girl.
Ben leaves with a triumphant grin on his face. I don’t know if he’s just goading me or if he’s not kidding about going after her. With Ben, you never really know. But what if the cocky bastard’s right and she doesn’t turn him down?
Ah, fuck.
I turn back to watch Charlie’s hips roll in a provocative twist, the tiny bikini bottoms beneath her skirt reveal enough ass to stir the all-too-familiar throb between my legs. She doesn’t even have to be naked for that to happen. She’s drop-dead beautiful, fully clothed. I’m kind of glad that she does herself up the way she does onstage, with the curls and the heavy makeup and the contacts. It means the crowd doesn’t get to see her as she is. The real her. What I got to see.
And maybe that’s what she’s hiding.
“She’s as good as Penny was.” Those words feels like a punch to my gut. Nate never brings Penny up. In fact, he hardly ever refers to this place by its name. It’s always just the bar, or the club.
“She is.” Maybe even better. The crowd loved Penny. She was beautiful and sweet and, despite working the VIP rooms, she still somehow maintained that air of innocence. I think she was just looking for someone to love her. Using her body as enticement was the only way she thought they might.
“Is that what all this is about?” Nate prods. “She reminds you of Penny?”
I run my tongue over my teeth, deciding what I want to say. Nate’s not a guy I brush off. Not after everything we’ve been through together. Not when he brings up Penny. “No. I mean, she looks like her and dances like her, but . . .” Charlie doesn’t seem so innocent. And where Penny was bubbly and sweet and transparent, Charlie is reserved and impossible to decipher. I don’t think she’s devoid of emotion; I think she just internalizes it more than most. But why?
“She seems to have her head on straight, from what I’m hearing. And she can’t keep her eyes off you.”
Here we go. This is what I’ve been putting up with from Ben and Ginger. Apparently, now I’m going to get it from Nate. “I don’t know when this place turned into a fucking high school cafeteria at lunchtime, Nate.”
He ignores me. “You know, everyone here would be happy if you’d make a move.”
I peel my focus off Charlie’s muscular legs looping around the pole to look my giant confidante straight in the eye now. “Oh, yeah. They’d be really happy to watch the boss exploit the fresh twenty-two-year-old stripper,” I mutter, my voice full of sarcasm. Nate’s v
oice turns rough as he crosses his arms. “Yeah, they would, Cain. Well,” he adds, “maybe not China, but she’d get over it.”
My eyes roll. China’s had a thing for me for years now. While she’s respected my insistence that we keep our relationship platonic, I’m no idiot. I know her interests have lingered.
“My point is that you’ve proven your point. You’re not in this for the ass or the money or a power trip. You’re not a fucking criminal.” He levels me with one of his more ominous Nate stares. “You’re not your parents.”
I turn to match his stare and lower my voice. “Charlie doesn’t need to be tied to someone like me. I can’t do that to her.” He knows what I’m talking about. He carries my guilty secrets with him as if they were his own.
A loud round of cheers erupts and I turn back to the stage in time to see Charlie’s top fly off, a coy smile curving that wide mouth of hers as she watches me take in her black lace bra. Beneath that . . . My breath hitches. Damn. I’m pretty sure I could have that. Tonight, if I wanted. If I were a complete asshole.
Thank God my office came equipped with a private shower. I’ll have that dial cranked to ball-shrinking cold tonight. Just like every other night since she started this whole game of hers.
I never expected this from her.
And I never expected to enjoy it so much.
“Why haven’t you let her work the rooms yet, then?” Nate asks.
I take a sip of my drink. My fourth of the night. “I don’t think she’s ever worked a V.I.P. room before.”
“So what? Neither had Mercy. Or Hannah. Or Levi . . .”
I know exactly what Nate’s getting at. I’ve never stopped any of the girls from doing what they want to make money, as long as they’re safe and it’s legal, because I’m smart enough to know that if they’ve wrapped their heads around the idea of doing it, then me telling them no isn’t going to stop it from happening. They’ll just end up at some sleazy place like Sin City or Teasers. Or worse . . . in a back alley. Somewhere no one’s looking out for them. “You know, for a man with a daily word maximum of ten, you’ve gone way over today.”
