Four Seconds to Lose

by K. A. Tucker

  In a way, he does.

  And my gut says he’s going to use it to his full advantage.

  Swallowing, I explain calmly, “I have to finish my shift behind the bar. And you should go. I happen to know the bouncers here aren’t very friendly to patrons who lay hands on the girls.”

  “Then it’s a good thing that no one’s gonna tell them, right?” He gives my arm a painful squeeze in warning. “As soon as I get a private show, you can do whatever the fuck you want. On the house, of course.”

  He’s drunk, I remind myself. His reflexes will be slower . . . “Okay, sure. One song. Sit down in the chair,” I agree calmly, trying to placate him.

  The second his fingers release me, I run for the door.

  Drunk or not, Bob’s not as dumb or as slow as I had hoped, and he was expecting my dodge. Pain shoots through my scalp as he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me into him, until my back is against his chest. He coils his fingers around my hair, pulling my head back until my entire body twists in an awkward angle as I look up at his face.

  And then he slaps me across the cheek.

  It’s open-handed but it’s with the back of his hand, and it’s hard enough that the sting brings tears to my eyes. I’m sure there will be a mark.

  “You’re not afraid of me. You should be.” He jerks my head, earning another wince. “You think you’re protected? You think you’re safe?” A wicked chuckle escapes his lips. “I kind of like you, Jane . . . Charlie . . . whatever the fuck your name is. You’ve got balls. Well,” His eyes drift downward as his free hand finds its way under my skirt, looping around the back of my tiny bikini bottoms, making as if to pull them off.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  He leaves them on. “Metaphorical ones, anyway. But I don’t like that you think you can just dismiss me. I don’t like that at all.” He launches me toward the pole. I manage to grab hold of it before I lose my balance and tumble to the ground. Crossing arms over his broad chest and planting his feet solidly on the ground—clearly poised to block any more of my attempts to flee—he snaps, “Any time now.”

  My eyes dart to the door. It’s only five feet away.

  That earns Bob’s toothy grin. “Take your pick—it’s here or the next time I see you.”

  I’m no idiot. If I give in now, he’ll still try to make me do it at the drop and there are no bouncers there to save me. “Eddie wouldn’t allow that,” I answer, forcing certainty in my voice. I have no idea what Eddie might allow but he hasn’t had patience for Bob’s leisurely search tactics so far, so I can only hope I’m right.

  By the narrowing of Bob’s eyes and the sudden flushing of his cheeks, that was the wrong thing to say. He’s on me in a flash, kicking my feet out from under me and pushing me down onto the ground. I land with a hard thud, knocking the wind out of my lungs. “You think what Eddie says goes?” He reaches down to grab and lift me up by the face, his strong fingers squeezing my jaw until tears spring to my eyes. “Eddie doesn’t own me. I do what I want!”

  Bob’s muscular arm pulls back and I see him make a fist. I close my eyes and wince, bracing myself against the impact that’s about to come, knowing it’s going to cause severe damage.

  It never comes, though.

  The sound of the door being thrown open and a shout comes a split second before Bob’s painful grip vanishes and I drop to the ground again, spending a few seconds working the ache out of my face by wriggling my jaw. When I manage to pick myself up, I find Nate and Ben flanking Cain, who has Bob on his knees with a white-knuckled grip of his shirt collar. Bob has at least thirty pounds on Cain but right now, with the blazing rage in my boss’s dark eyes and the way his muscles cord along his neck and arms, I don’t doubt that Cain could bury Bob in seconds.

  And that he very well might.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Cain growls, all semblance of his reserved, professional nature gone. When Bob doesn’t answer, his eyes panning back and forth between Nate, Ben, and the door, Cain’s nostrils begin to flare. “You’ve got about four seconds to start talking.”

  “Easy to threaten when you’re three on one, isn’t it?” Bob tosses back with a sneer, trying to stand his ground, even while on his knees.

  That makes Cain’s lips curl into a smile. Not the smile I love. A wicked smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. As if he was waiting for an invitation. “Nate, Ben, . . . take Charlie and step outside.” His icy tone sends a shiver through my insides.

  Ben and Nate share a look but don’t move.

  “Outside. Now!” Cain’s bark makes me jump.

  Ben moves as if to comply, reaching out to me with a hand. Nate doesn’t budge, though. “You know I can’t do that, boss.”

  “And why is that?” Cain taunts, never leaving Bob’s eyes. It’s as if he knows the answer but wants Nate to say it out loud, to have Bob hear it.

  “Because this fool will not walk out of here if I leave you alone with him,” Nate answers, just as calmly. “So why don’t you let me take care of him.” Adding a little more softly, “Let it go, Cain.”

  I haven’t taken a single breath since they stormed in. I have to take one now. It’s small and shaky and, as I study Cain’s face—a mask of cold, detached hatred—I realize that I’ve now gone from one dangerous situation to another.

  I need Bob gone. Immediately.

  “I’m fine, Cain. He’s just some guy who thought I was someone else,” I explain, taking a step forward.

  Cain’s severe gaze finally settles on me. There is a turmoil within his eyes that can’t be missed—fear? Panic? Anger? Shock? With tentative steps, I close the distance and place a gentle hand on his forearm, which is taut with tension. His eyes haven’t left mine. “Cain, please. Just let Nate take him out.” I hate the pleading in my tone but at this point, I’m desperate. I can’t have Bob saying a word and I definitely can’t have Cain beating the hell out of him. That will just end badly for me down the road. As it is, I don’t know what this is going to mean at my next drop. I can’t think about it right now.

  Right now I have to defuse this situation.

  I slowly rub my hand back and forth over Cain’s arm, each muscle ripped, as tightly wound as he is.

  After another long pause, he finally releases Bob from his death grip and steps in front of me, shielding my body behind him protectively.

  As Bob struggles to get up, his eyes flash to me. I see the promise in them.

  The promise of retribution.

  I fight the tremble that skates along my spine.

  “Your type isn’t welcome in this club,” Cain warns. “Stay the fuck out.”

  Bob snorts, trailing beside Nate, who’s got one mammoth hand resting on his shoulder to steer him in the right direction as quickly and quietly as possible. Bob throws back, “Maybe you should look more closely at the type of whores you hire in here.”

  Nate and Ben—obviously knowing their boss too well—anticipated his reaction because they move fast, Nate shoving Bob out of the room while Ben blocks Cain from chasing after him. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him,” Ben says, stepping backward slowly, “and you take care of Charlie.”

  My hands find my stomach, pressing against the growing tangle of nerves inside. Why couldn’t I just keep these lives separate for a while longer? It’s as if the universe is conspiring against me, reminding me that I don’t have an indefinite amount of time. That everything will come crashing down. With just one phone call, just one visit . . .

  Ginger already suspects something. She’s still talking to me, but she’s moody.

  Now Bob knows how to find me. What if that had been Jimmy coming in here? Hell, tomorrow it could be Jimmy out there, watching me strip. My insides coil tighter at the thought.

  And Cain . . .

  At some point he made his way back into the V.I.P. room. He’s studying me with those hawkis
h eyes. Can he see my inner turmoil? My guilt? My duplicity? If he does, he doesn’t let on. He just stands there, studying me in silence until I’m ready to scream.

  “Say something,” I finally demand in a hoarse whisper. I wait for him to growl at me as he did at Bob. To fire me for being in the V.I.P. room with a customer, though clearly I wasn’t doing any entertaining. I wait for him to look at me with hateful, disgusted eyes. To interrogate me, hammering me with questions, accusations, theories.

  But he does none of that. He calmly pushes the door shut. Then, so fluidly that I miss his movement, I feel my body tugged toward him by the wrist, into his firm chest as his arms wrap around my frame, pulling me close, until I can almost feel the mess of emotions radiating from him—that same worry and pain and fear that I saw in his eyes.

  And the last thing I expect him to do at this moment is the first thing he does.

  With one hand lifting to curl around the back of my neck, Cain’s head dips to seal his mouth over mine. There’s no hesitation, there’s no doubt. There’s certainly no shyness, his tongue coaxing my lips apart and then diving in to claim my mouth as if it belongs to him already, skillfully stroking in a way that makes my knees weak and a low moan rumble in my throat.

  It takes a few seconds for my shocked brain to fully grasp what’s happening but my willingness is immediate when I do, falling into him, my hands crawling up his stomach and chest—relishing every hard ridge that I’ve envisioned touching for weeks. He deepens the kiss, his arms pulling me tight to his body, trapping my hand over the spot on his chest where his heart rests. I feel it beating more wildly than my own and I marvel that I may be doing that to him.

  His lips steal my breath completely, kissing me with demanding thirst, as if he’s been waiting forever to do this and he’ll be waiting forever to do it again. But I can’t ignore the tremble in his body, this close to him.

  Cain is shaking.

  This game we’ve been playing doesn’t feel like a game anymore and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  Just as suddenly, he breaks free of me.

  chapter nineteen

  ■ ■ ■

  CAIN

  “Cain!” Nate’s fist pounds on the steel door of my office so hard that the picture frame hanging on the inside crashes to the ground. Normally I have a hard time hearing anything because the walls aren’t soundproofed and the music from the club resonates loudly. But I hear the unnatural shrillness to his natural boom and it sets off alarms.

  Sprinting to unlock the door—I always lock it when the safe is open—I meet Nate’s ashen face, his eyes wide, as he stares down at the ground, mumbling, “I tried to get here. It all just happened so fast.”

  I follow his gaze.

  And I stop breathing.

  Penny’s crumpled, frail body sits in a heap, facedown. I can see the gaping gash along the back of her head, the blood flow darkening her blond hair.

  The blood trail starting five feet down the hall tells me that she managed to pull herself a fair distance. And the way her hand lays, stretched out toward my door . . . I see the streak of blood along the bottom half of the steel.

  Finger smears.

  Reaching.

  The smudges of blood around my handle.

  I can’t keep my hands off of her.

  The second I saw Charlie’s face—her eyes shut tightly against the coming blow from her attacker—my fear exploded.

  It could have happened. Again.

  “Cain, are you all right?” Charlie’s voice brings me back to reality, a sweet song to remind me that she is not Penny. She is not dead. She is right here, in front of me, my forehead pressed against hers as I grip her arms, as I struggle to calm my ragged breath.

  I just kissed her.

  I needed to do it. I needed to be close to her, to feel her heat, her life, against me. And now, as I focus on that beautiful face so close to mine, her soft pants caressing my skin, her ever-perceptive eyes watching me with unguarded apprehension, I’m fighting myself to keep from doing it again.

  No. Not in a fucking V.I.P. room, where hundred of guys have gotten off for a nominal fee, after she’s just been attacked, you asshole!

  I grit my teeth against the consuming urge but I know that if I remain this close, my self-control will lose. So, I pull away. Just far enough that I can get a good look at her face, my hands cupping her chin in a gentle grasp. “Where are you hurt?”

  “Just my cheek.” A tiny scowl flashes over her face, as if remembering the pain, “and my scalp, when he pulled my hair like a fucking little girl.”

  I slip my hand around to the back of her skull—through her silky hair that is not matted in blood because she’s not Penny, I remind myself—and let my fingers rub gently. Soothingly.

  She closes her eyes as her lips fall apart, clearly enjoying the attention, and I yet again fight the urge to bend down and kiss that wide mouth. I’ve been watching her on the stage for weeks, thinking about her nonstop, telling myself a thousand different ways that this can’t happen.

  It almost doesn’t seem real.

  “Better?”

  “Hmm . . .” Her hand reaches up to steal mine from where it rests on the back of her head, pulling it down to sit laced within her fingers. I don’t know that I’ve ever held a woman’s hand like this. It’s making my nerves short-circuit. I wonder if she feels it too, or if it’s just me. Vibrant eyes open to skate over my features, settling on my mouth. “You’re shaking.”

  She’s right. I am shaking. I hadn’t even noticed.

  I exhale deeply, trying to regulate my pounding heart. We’re standing so close that I wonder if she can sense it. “When I came in and saw that guy ready to hit you—” My voice cuts off with a crack. “It reminded me of someone. Of something that happened, years ago.”

  Charlie’s cool fingers crawl over my neck, tracing the letters of my tattoo, as if showing her understanding without uttering a word.

  Keeping my eyes locked on her I ask cautiously, “Who was he, Charlie?” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice but it’s impossible. Even thinking about the bald fucker makes my fists clench. As happy as I am here with Charlie, a small part of me wants to run out to the parking lot to cripple him. I know Nate will likely rough him up a bit in warning, but it’s not enough.

  Her hand finds its way to my cheek, her delicate touch smoothing over my light stubble. I instinctively turn in toward it, letting her fingers graze over my mouth. “I told you, he thought I was someone else,” she purrs, feigning disinterest. But by the sudden tensing in her body, I know it’s all an act. She leans in to rest her cheek against my chest, snaking her arms around my waist, and I selfishly accept the affection, wrapping my arms tightly around her warm, strong body once again, while I let my chin rest on top of her head.

  And I marvel at how fast things can change. Ten minutes ago, my cock was throbbing as I watched Charlie’s perfect body torment me onstage, wondering what the hell I would say to her tonight. Wondering if there was anything more to this than an irrepressible physical attraction.

  Three minutes ago, I watched someone try to break that same perfect body and the ground opened up beneath me, reminding me how easily I could lose my chance to find out.

  And in just seconds, I’m sure that something more profound than strip shows and physical attraction is beginning to develop between us.

  In seconds.

  I shouldn’t have waited this long. I should have swept her off her feet when she walked through my door. Every second since then, I’ve been losing precious time and possibilities, repeating the mistakes of my past. Nate is right. I can’t change anything that’s happened. I can only learn from it.

  But what if this is nothing more than a game for Charlie? I know she’s lying to me about that guy. The only reason I even found out she was in there was because Jeff—one of the ­boun
cers—said something about her going in over the earpiece and Nate caught it.

  I thought I was walking into a completely different scene when I barged through that door and yet I barged in anyway, like a jealous freak, ready to scream at her for toying with me the way she has. A part of me is relieved by what I found instead. Knowing that makes me nauseous.

  So what the fuck should I do now? Pushing her to tell me who that guy really is won’t get me anywhere. I sense that by the way she’s acting. But I also can’t have her under a spotlight, having more guys “mistake her” for someone else.

  Maybe that’s why the command slips out. “You’re not going up on that stage again for a while.” I hear the tone—the possessive, controlling one that I hate—creep into my words and I immediately recognize that command for what it really is: an excuse to stop her from stripping.

  Her arms loosen their hold of my waist as she starts to pull away. “I need the money, Cain.” Her refusal sounds half-hearted, as if she’s saying it because she feels she has to.

  I can’t say I’m not fucking ecstatic about that. I want her to hate the stage and hate stripping.

  For anyone but me, that is.

  Pushing a strand of hair that’s fallen across her forehead back, I don’t hesitate to offer, “I’ve got some administrative stuff around here you can help me with. It’s easy and I’ll pay you the same. And you’ll be with me.”

  Nodding slowly as if processing that possibility, she murmurs, “I guess that will work . . .” In her calculating eyes, I catch a flicker of softness. Relief? “For how long?”

  “We’ll see.” Yeah, we’ll see, all right . . . My gaze can’t help from drifting down to the two firm mounds pressed up against my rib cage. If I have my way, this body will never see the stage again. I want these long, muscular limbs, and these perfect tits, and this soft, silky skin to be for my eyes only. I want all of her to myself . . .

  A light gasp escapes her lips. Her big brown irises begin to sparkle as she looks up at me and I realize just how close she’s standing to me. By the ghost of a smile touching her lips, she felt that movement.