by Joanna Wylde
She needed that time, dumbass.
Kicking my legs powerfully, I lay back in the water with her on top of me, sucking on her lips as my hands roamed free across her body. I found the crack of her ass, then slid my fingers lower. Now there was a nice way to warm my fingers . . .
Becca shivered, and I liked to think it wasn’t just from the cold. Her arms came around my shoulders, clutching me tight. Loved holding her like that.
Then she reared up and shoved me under the water.
I came up with a sputtering roar to find her swimming away as fast as she could, laughing hysterically the whole time.
“You’ll pay for that shit!” I shouted, starting after her.
“Whatcha gonna do? Spank me?”
“That’s a great idea, babe. I’m all over it.” Thirty seconds later I had her again, and we wrestled in the water and splashed each other until her lips started turning blue.
Fortunately I had a plan for warming her up.
Course, I’d have to thaw out my dick first.
—
An hour later we lay in the grass on the side of the river, dry and happy. I’d eaten her out, she’d sucked me off, and then we fucked again just for the hell of it.
Life was good.
Unfortunately the sun was starting to set. The river valley was narrow enough that the light tended to fade fast. Becca climbed up and over me, straddling my lap as she leaned her hands against my chest. I caught her by the waist and considered my woman.
She was braless under her tank top—somehow I’d managed to lose it when I got our clothes off the rock. Shit happens, and all that. Now she wore the tank and her jeans, and I swear to God, she was a biker’s dream come true. Her hair hung down in water-kissed locks and she had just a hint of pink burn across her nose.
“You get that I’m keeping you, right?” I asked. “We can call it whatever you want, but it’s real. Admit it.”
Becca cocked her head, and gave a soft smile.
“Yeah, I guess it’s real,” she whispered, then she leaned down and kissed me.
Biker heaven, right there. Too bad I couldn’t get another rise out of my cock if my life depended on it—straight-up fucked out, more’s the shame.
Still, it was a great problem to have, all things considered.
BECCA
Puck snored. Not a whole lot, just enough to be really cute.
“Cute” wasn’t really a word I’d ever associated with him, but when he fell asleep there was something soft and almost gentle in his face. The scar was still there, of course, but now he was totally relaxed—happy—and it showed. I still wasn’t sure about the whole “I’m keeping you” thing, but I figured it would work itself out because he was right. Whatever this was, it was real and it made me happy, too.
What time was it? The clock said five in the morning . . . I wanted some water. Slipping out of bed, I padded softly into my kitchen to grab a drink of water.
We’d decided to stay at my place because it was nicer overall—homey and comfortable.
The blink of the message machine caught my eye after I got my drink. Someone had called—maybe while we were taking a shower together? I grabbed the handset and pushed the button.
“Becca baby, it’s Mom. I told you that it was okay and I’d be fine. I’m not fine, honey. I’m beat up real bad. My arm is definitely broken and I’m pretty sure I have a concussion. Some of the girls tried to take me to the hospital but I’m afraid to go. If the cops come after Teeny, they’ll only lock him up for a few hours and when he makes bail things will be worse. I really need you to send me money. A lot of money. Otherwise I’ll never get out alive. I hate to do this to you, baby, but this is for real. I don’t want to die.”
My stomach crawled up into my throat—she’d never sounded like this before. Like she’d been strangled. I knew how that felt.
He’d strangled me once, too.
I had to do something, I realized. Puck had been right—the woman was a con artist, no question. But she was my mom, and she truly believed she was going to die. I heard it in her voice.
You can’t fake something like that.
I walked over to my Singer and sat down in front of it, fingers running over the black enamel and gold leaf. It was more than a hundred years old . . . The most valuable thing I owned. How much was it worth? Should I try to sell it?
I thought of Regina’s kind, loving face, the wrinkles around her eyes . . . the way she’d held me while I cried.
Priceless.
The Singer was priceless and I had no right to sell it—it wasn’t really mine. I was just using it until it went to its next owner, because a thing like that can’t be bought or sold.
Instead I went over to my tip jar counting the piles of quarters, dimes, and nickels. Twenty minutes later I’d determined that I had $122.16, counting the hundred bucks I’d gotten from Prince Handsy. Combined with my checking account that made $144.79—my entire cash value as a human being, and that was before I paid my power bill or filled my gas tank.
It would have to be enough. I’d call her in the morning.
“You okay?” Puck asked as I slipped into bed.
“Yeah, it’s all good,” I whispered, hoping it would be. He grunted and pulled me into his arms protectively. Not even the memory of Mom’s voice could keep me up after that.
—
There’s something wonderful about waking up in bed with a sexy man. Well, lots of wonderful things, not least of which was the way he flipped me on my stomach and fucked me from behind.
Yeah, that part was good.
Even better, though, was the big breakfast he helped me cook. I didn’t have any ingredients, a problem he solved by walking across the roof and raiding his own kitchen. Together we made eggs, bacon, and coffee, then sat down to each together like a real couple.
“So what’s your work schedule like?” he asked. “I know you have school during the day . . .”
“I go to school about twenty to thirty hours a week,” I told him. “It’s usually a full-time program, but they made an exception for me. For now, Teresa has me on nights, Tuesday through Saturday.”
He frowned.
“Doesn’t leave a whole lot of extra time.”
“I’m a busy girl,” I said, realizing this could be an issue. “There’s nobody but me, Puck. If I don’t pay the tuition bills, nobody else will. I’m not afraid to work hard.”
“How much longer until you graduate?”
“Probably six months, if things go well. Longer if they don’t. I knew it was a tough schedule when I started, but I don’t want to wait tables forever. Don’t want to move away from Callup, either. The options are limited.”
He nodded, still looking less than thrilled.
“So you have school today?”
“Yeah, I’ll need to start getting ready soon,” I said. “I want to get there by ten. That way I can leave around three, which gives me time to bake a pie for Earl before I go out to their place for dinner.”
He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. “So you’re telling me I’ve been beaten out by school and a pie?”
I smiled apologetically.
“In my defense, it’s a huckleberry pie—last berries of the season,” I said. “I’d invite you to come with me, but I think I’ll need some time to explain this to them. This is a big turnaround for me . . . being with you, I mean.”
“I think they’ll be less surprised than you think. But I’m guessing they go to bed pretty early. I’ll come over after that.”
“That’s a pretty big assumption,” I murmured, sipping my coffee. He raised his brows and I had to laugh. “Okay, it’s not that big of an assumption.”
“I’ve got shit to do today,” he said. “So it looks like maybe I should get started. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it back in time to steal a slice of your pie.”
“That sounds really dirty.”
“That’s why I said it,” he replied, then leaned forward across the table,
catching me by the back of the neck for a coffee-flavored kiss. There was something so controlling and possessive about the way he always did that. It should bother me. Instead it turned me on.
Fucked up.
—
Right on cue, my phone buzzed to life not long after I reached the main highway. Usually I’d wait to check my messages. Today I wanted to call Mom and let her know that I had money for her.
“Becca?” she asked, her voice a harsh and broken whisper. “Becca, is that you?”
“Yeah, Mama,” I said, whatever leftover glow I’d had from my morning with Puck well and truly gone. “I got your message. How are you doing?”
“Not so good,” she whispered. “You have to get me out of here.”
“I’ve got a hundred and forty-four dollars,” I told her. “I can send it today. It’s not enough for a bus ticket, but it should get you to a shelter.”
Silence.
“Baby, I told you I needed two grand,” she said. “I mean, I definitely want you to send whatever you’ve got, but it won’t be enough. Not even close.”
I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose.
“Mom, that doesn’t make any sense. You can go to a women’s shelter. They’ll hide you until you’re healed up and can travel. We’ll save up for a ticket to Spokane and I’ll pick you up, take you home with me.”
More silence, then she sighed heavily.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” she said. “It’s not just about bus tickets. I need the money to pay off some of the club girls.”
“Mom, if your life is in danger, I don’t care about whatever the hell you owe those women. They were idiots to lend you money in the first place. This is reality—I have a hundred and forty-four bucks. That’s all there is. If I send it, I won’t even be able to pay my power bill or buy gas.”
She gave a harsh, humorless laugh. It turned into a terrible, racking cough that didn’t stop for a good thirty seconds—sounded like she was gacking out a lung.
“I wish it was that easy,” she said. “They’re watching over me. Teeny’s convinced I’m going to run away, so he’s got them watching me all the time. I need to pay them off. I do that, they’ll let me leave and I can come up to you. Things are different down here than they used to be, Becca. I need that money or I’m going to die in this house. Please, I’m begging you . . . Shit, he’s coming. I have to go.”
The call ended.
I sat in my car, hands trembling, trying to think of what to do. I had to save her, of course. I couldn’t just let her die because I was too squeamish about how I made money. Maybe I should go check out that strip club after all? I knew girls could earn a lot fast stripping—Mom always had.
Puck flickered through my thoughts and I pushed his image away. I couldn’t worry about him and my mom, and I’d be damned if I’d ask him for money. He could talk about “keeping” me all he wanted but I was my own woman. I’d fought too hard for that independence to just give it away. Mom was a kept woman and look how that turned out.
So. Money. I needed to get money, and I needed to get it fast.
First things first—I called the school and told them I wouldn’t be in.
Then I searched for the strip club’s address, which wasn’t hard to find. There were only two clubs in the area—zoning restrictions were harsh, something I’d always assumed was heavily influenced by the Reapers MC. How a second club had managed to open up right down the road from theirs was a mystery, but I didn’t doubt for a minute that someone had been paid very well for that particular privilege.
There it was. Vegas Belles. They opened at eleven, which gave me just enough time to stop off and fix myself up a bit before going in.
Hopefully they were hiring.
—
I’d like to say that I’d never been in a strip club. That’d be just peachy. Even better, I’d love to say I’d never worked a stripper’s pole, but I actually had a real talent for it.
How did I get so good?
Well, it goes back to all the time I’d spent in strip clubs years ago. When I was a kid, stripping was one of Mom’s fallback income sources, ranking above outright prostitution (plan C) and finding herself a man stupid enough to support her (plan A). I’d grown up around them, in them, you name it. Hell, I’d spent more than one night sleeping under a dressing table or on a pile of discarded clothing.
Most strippers have big hearts, at least when it comes to little girls. They’d give me candies between snorting lines, and one even taught me how to do my stage makeup. By the time I was ten, I had that shit down cold. I’d never actually worked in a club myself, but I had no doubt I would’ve if I’d stayed in California.
One or two nights wouldn’t kill me.
I’d stopped off at Walmart to invest in a cheap but sexy G-string and demi bra from the clearance rack, which I’d changed into in the store bathroom. Then I’d driven to Post Falls and parked outside the Vegas Belles building, waiting for them to open.
Unfortunately, they were located just down the street from The Line, which was run by the Reapers MC, so I felt like I had to duck down every time a car or bike drove past. I didn’t know any of the members well, but we’d traveled together five years ago. Painter and Puck still hung together a lot—I’d seen them out riding together. I couldn’t risk one of them seeing me and reporting to Puck. (Yeah, I know I’d said it wasn’t any of his business, but I wasn’t stupid. Puck would shit bricks if he knew what I was doing.)
The doors opened at eleven. I straightened my hair, slapped on some fresh lipstick, and walked into the building, trying to radiate confidence.
A bouncer met me at the door, looking me over with raised brows.
“You guys hiring?” I asked brightly.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on what the boss needs and how good you are. He’s not here yet. You can wait over by the bar.”
Well, crap.
“Okay, thanks,” I said, smiling brightly. Never piss off the bouncers—Mom taught me that early on. An angry bouncer can cause a girl all kinds of trouble. I walked over to the bar and sat down. A woman wearing a bustier was setting up for the day—she looked like she was about thirty. Blonde hair teased high and heavy makeup.
“Dancing or waiting tables?” she asked, her voice friendly enough.
“I’ve already got a job waiting tables,” I said, shrugging. “Don’t really need another one of those.”
She nodded.
“Have you danced around here before?” she asked casually. I found her phrasing interesting . . . She hadn’t come right out and asked me if I’d worked at The Line, but there weren’t any other options.
“No, but I’ve had some experience,” I said, deciding to keep things ambiguous. She nodded thoughtfully, leaning forward on the bar.
“You look like a nice kid, so I’m going to be straight with you. You go in there, they’ll probably expect a blow job. You up for that?”
My eyes widened, although I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d heard of that happening, of course, and I was pretty sure my mom had done it a time or two. But The Line had a reputation for not forcing girls to do anything . . . I’d assumed this place would be the same, given the direct competition between them for dancers. Stupid of me.
“Seriously?”
She nodded, her face sour.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s bullshit. I mean, I’ve got no problem with anyone who chooses to do it, but if you’re looking for quick cash, you’d probably do better turning a couple tricks.”
I sat back, stomach churning.
“Or you could go over to The Line and get a real job,” she added. “They’ll treat you better.”
I frowned. “Why are you working here if The Line is better?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Yeah, my life is complicated, too. The Line isn’t an option.”
Curiosity sparked in her eyes, and she bit her lip. Something felt off here. What was her angle
?
“You want some water or something?” she asked. “It’ll be a while before Mr. McGraine gets here. He’s the manager.”
“Sure, thanks,” I said absently, then pulled a dollar out of my purse to tip her. She waved it off, setting a glass in front of me. I sat drinking it, looking around the club. They’d taken the Vegas theme all the way. There were neon signs covering the walls, along with big murals of various casinos and attractions. Along one wall was a row of slot machines and video poker, although they were clearly labeled as being “For Novelty Purposes Only.”
Right.
Tubes of tiny white lights lined the stages, and the poles were each lit up with different colors. The whole place was tacky as hell, but somehow still smooth and polished.
Slick.
Like Vegas.
Everything was obviously set up for the day, but nobody was dancing yet. This was probably because the place was empty. Apparently most of the area’s hornier men weren’t up and about just yet.
“They did a good job decorating in here,” I said, nodding toward the stage. The bartender shrugged, then turned away pointedly as another woman strolled up to the bar. She was young and pretty, but I could see the faint hint of a bruise on her face, covered by makeup. She was dressed like a showgirl.
“Hey,” she said, her voice low.
“Hi,” I replied, wondering if I was going to get another warning.
“You looking to dance?” she asked. I nodded. “You should leave. Get out now. This isn’t a good place.”
“Lisa—don’t you have somewhere you should be right now?” a man asked, his voice firm. Lisa stiffened, then nodded her head quickly and scurried off. I turned to look at the man, who wore a suit and had a broad, friendly smile on his face.
“Hi, I’m Lachlan McGraine. I’m the manager here. I hear you’re interested in becoming one of our dancers?”
He looked so nice, so normal. Utterly harmless in every way to a degree that it creeped me out. Something about him made the little hairs stand up on the back of my head . . . His smile was just a little too bland, his eyes a little too flat.
