by Joanna Wylde
“Yeah?”
“You got a girl here to see you, boss,” he said. “Says she talked to you earlier this week. Looking for work.”
“Send her in.”
He nodded at me as he opened the door. This was it. Taking a deep breath, I stepped through. Inside I found three men, McGraine and two I didn’t recognize. All of them wore suits and an air of nervous tension filled the room.
“Hi,” I said, trying to radiate confidence. “I don’t know if you remember, but—”
McGraine cut me off.
“You still looking to dance?”
“Um, yeah, I am.”
“Great, you can start right now,” he told me. “Half the staff called in sick. You can do lap dances. Don’t want you on the stage until I’ve had a chance to see you perform. In a while we’ve got some guests coming in—you do whatever the hell they say. We’ll make it right with you afterward, got me? Don’t worry about collecting money up front. You’ll get whatever you’re owed and a cash bonus.”
That sounded shady. My eyes narrowed.
“Do you have any paperwork . . . ?”
“Later,” he snapped. “Get your ass into the dressing room and get ready. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
McGraine strode over to the door and opened it. “Crouse—you take her back. Have one of the other girls fill her in on the house rules.”
Then he shoved me out the door—and it was a real shove, as in his hand on my lower back, propelling me through—and I found myself staring up at the bouncer who’d been checking me out.
Of course Crouse would be the creeper. Just my luck. He smiled at me.
“Follow me.”
—
The “dressing room” was more like a locker room—obviously the budget for fixing up the interior hadn’t stretched to give the girls more than the bare essentials. There was a row of metal cabinets along one wall, two big mirrors, and a counter with a utility sink.
Three girls were getting ready—one of them was obviously a waitress. She wore a black corset top, a short black skirt, and black fishnet tights. Her shoes were a good five inches tall, and they made my feet hurt just looking at them.
“New dancer,” Crouse announced, looking over the women. One wore a bra and G-string, and the second was dressed like a slutty cowgirl, complete with a lariat. All of them jumped when Crouse spoke and I got the sense that employee morale wasn’t very high at the Vegas Belles.
Didn’t matter to me. This was all about the money.
“Hi, I’m Venus,” the cowgirl said. “When did you start?”
“Right now,” I replied, feeling a little nervous. “Mr. McGraine just hired me.”
They exchanged looks.
“Lucky you,” the waitress said. “It’s not always that easy. They’re fucked today—bunch of people didn’t show up.”
“They said I can’t dance on the stage until they have a chance to audition me,” I explained, feeling almost apologetic. If the bartender had been telling the truth, these women had done more than just show up to earn their spots. “I’m supposed to stick to lap dances.”
“Try to get them in the champagne room,” said the half-naked girl. She leaned forward into the mirror, carefully layering her lashes with mascara. “Get the right guy in there and it won’t matter that you aren’t up on the stage. Just don’t forget to tip the waitresses.”
“Thanks, Claire,” said the one in black. She tied a little apron around her waist, then smiled at me. “You’ll do great.”
Then she turned and walked out of the room.
“What are you going to wear?” asked Venus the Cowgirl.
“Um, I have some lingerie,” I said, looking around awkwardly.
“Grab a locker,” Claire said. “Doesn’t matter which one. Put your shit in there and pull out the key. The bartenders will hold on to it for you while you dance.”
That didn’t seem like the best of systems, but I figured it didn’t really matter if someone cleaned me out. I’d only be here one day anyway. I’d left my purse and a spare set of keys hidden in the car. Earl had built a secret compartment into the trunk, so I should be safe even if someone broke into it, unless the entire car got stolen.
I supposed if that happened I was fucked anyway.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” the cowgirl said.
I pulled off my shirt, showing them the black and red bra I’d bought the other day at Walmart. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. Then I unzipped my pants and pulled them down. Underneath I wore a matching thong.
They exchanged unimpressed glances—apparently stripping at the Vegas Belles was more sophisticated than at an MC clubhouse. Noted.
“I’ll take you shopping after the shift ends,” Claire said. “You’ll make more with something else. It’ll have to do for today.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “How naked do you get for the lap dances?”
“On the main floor, keep your bra on,” Claire said. “We do full contact here, but if they want your boobs they can buy a room. You take a waitress with you . . . Oh fuck.”
“What?” I asked anxiously.
“We don’t have enough waitresses.” She frowned at me. “Okay, here’s the situation. You’re not supposed to go into a room without a waitress. They bring the drinks, but they’re also in there to keep an eye on you, make sure you stay safe. Sometimes guys don’t listen to the rules, you know? The waitress can get a bouncer for you . . . Except today we only have two, which means you’ll be on your own.”
“I guess we’ll just have to let the security guys know they should stay close,” Venus said. “If we need them, we can always scream.”
“I want to go back to The Line,” Claire announced. “This is fucking ridiculous. I shouldn’t have come over here. They give all the good shifts to the Vegas dancers anyway.”
A man stuck his head in.
“You’re on in two minutes,” he told her, then disappeared again.
“That’s Trey. He does the music and announcements,” Claire explained. “Okay, let’s get out there. If you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask. There’s hardly anyone in the club right now, but we should have more at noon. Lots of guys come over from the tech park on their lunch breaks for a quickie.”
“Quickie?” I asked.
“Whatever happens in the champagne room is up to you,” Claire said, winking. “Just remember, the house gets a cut. Lisa—she’s another dancer—held out on them and someone beat her up in the parking lot. You figure it out.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Okay, let’s go.”
—
It’s one thing to bravely determine you’ll make enough money to fund a road-trip-slash-killing-spree by selling lap dances. It’s another to actually do it. Close to fifteen men were in the club now. I knew they had money and that I wanted to get the money from them. I even knew what to do to them to make it happen. I just wasn’t sure how to get started.
“Walk over and ask him if he wants a dance,” the friendly waitress said, coming to stand next to me. “Look at that guy in the corner. He’s just been sitting there for half an hour. I’m sure he’d buy a dance from you—he’s hardly even watching the stage, which means he’s here for something else. He’s a big tipper, too. Gotta love that in a man.”
She nodded toward a figure sitting in the shadows.
“Okay, I can do this,” I said, then started walking toward him. They really needed better lighting in here, I decided. Dim light might be a stripper’s friend, but this particular corner was like a black hole.
I glanced at the ceiling and realized the bulb was out—that’s why I couldn’t really see him until it was too late.
“Hi, would you like to buy a dance?” I asked. A hand shot out, catching my wrist. “Hey, you can’t do that . . .”
My words trailed off as he leaned forward. Oh fuck. Then he stood up and I decided I must’ve done something truly horrible in a past life. It was Painter. The sa
me Painter who’d dragged an unwilling woman out of the clubhouse last night.
Worst. Luck. Ever.
“Let’s go to the champagne room,” he said in a low, menacing growl.
“Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I replied, trying to back away. He didn’t give an inch, something dark and predatory in his gaze. I’d seen that look before. On Puck. Painter was hunting. I needed to get the hell out of here. Immediately.
“I’ve made a mistake,” I babbled. “I’ll leave now. You can tell Puck I’m going home. He can talk to me there.”
“Too late,” he said. “Champagne room. Now. Get your ass in there.”
My chest tightened.
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked, my voice a whisper.
“We got a problem?” a man asked. I looked up to see Crouse looming over us. Painter’s hand tightened, and I considered saying yes. Then he’d fight with Crouse and I’d have a chance to get away. There must be a thousand strip clubs between here and California—I’d go to one of those instead.
Yeah. Perfect solution.
I’d just opened my mouth when someone caught my eye. Behind the bouncer.
Demon.
Oh double fuck, I thought. Everything fell together in my head. The meet last night. Puck having “shit to do” all day. The clubs were up to something and if two of the brothers were in here right now, odds were good that I’d found myself right in the middle of it.
The Vegas Belles had opened up right down the street from The Line . . . This was bad. Real bad.
“Everything is okay,” I squeaked. “He’s an old friend—I was just startled to see him here. We’re going to the champagne room now.”
With that I grabbed his hand and started dragging Painter across the room toward the hallway housing the champagne rooms. Along the way I saw one, two . . . three other men from the clubhouse. None of them wearing their colors.
Definitely a major operation. Painter followed me, his face grim, as Crouse opened up the last door on the right for us.
“You need a waitress,” the big man told me.
“The other girls told me we’d be working without them today,” I replied. “Because so many didn’t show up to work.”
Jesus. They must’ve had an idea what’s going on . . . More pieces fell together. The bartender saying it was a bad day to start. Half the staff gone.
“I’ll be outside,” Crouse said, glaring at Painter. “She’s new and I like her. Don’t fuck her up or you’ll pay.”
Giving a high, nervous laugh I shut the door and turned on Painter.
“What the hell did I walk into?” I asked.
He stepped toward me, darkness written all over him.
“If you needed to know that, we would’ve told you. See how that works? Why the fuck are you here, Becca? Puck thinks you’re safe at school. I don’t like bitches who lie to my brothers.”
I swallowed, noticing how he stood between me and the door. For the first time I realized that maybe bringing him in here wasn’t such a great idea. No witnesses. Crouse might be outside, but there was a lot of music in the club, too. Would he be able to hear me if I called for help?
“They said some important people were coming into town today. Is that why you’re here?” I said, trying to distract him. The room was only about ten feet square. I felt my back hit the wall. Painter stepped into me, his body hard and unforgiving. Then he leaned down and spoke directly into my ear.
“Do you realize what I could do to you in here?” he asked. “How dangerous this is? I could rape you, Becca. Kill you. Blackmail you. Hell, I could even force you to spy on the Silver Bastards, now couldn’t I? Or has that happened already? Are you working for the Callaghans? Puck’s gonna want to know the details.”
He reached up and caught a lock of my hair, combing it out with his finger, then stroking my shoulder.
“I just needed some money,” I said, terrified. “This seemed like the best way to get some fast. One shift here, then I was leaving town. Puck never has to know.”
“Puck and I don’t lie to each other,” Painter snapped, stepping back. He ran a hand through his hair, glaring at me. “We did time together, do you know what that means? My life was in his hands every day—couldn’t lie to him if I tried.”
“Not even for his protection?” I whispered. Painter shook his head.
“You don’t get a vote, so shut the fuck up,” he replied. “Shit’s going down soon. I love my brother and for some reason he cares about you, which makes you my problem. I’m assuming they have video monitoring in here, so we’re going to have to pretend for a while. I’m gonna sit on that big, comfy chair for a while and you’re gonna sit on my lap and wiggle around. Don’t get in my face and don’t piss me off more than I am already. I’ll tell you what to do when the time comes.”
With that he turned and sat in a smooth, leather-covered chair in the center of the room. I’d been so focused on him that I’d hardly noticed it.
“Lap.”
Then he whipped out his phone and started sending text messages without looking at me. I walked over and dropped my G-string-clad ass into his lap, praying very hard I wouldn’t feel a hard-on.
Oh, thank God. Nothing.
I gave a sigh of relief—I’d screwed men to survive before, but I wasn’t sure I could handle it again. Not with Puck’s friend. I closed my eyes and started wiggling my butt, making sure to stay as far forward as I could.
Had anything ever been more awkward in the history of time? No. No, it hadn’t. I wanted to disappear, just completely cease to exist.
“In a few minutes things will start happening,” Painter said quietly. “Sure you’ve figured that much out. Here’s something to consider—you fuck things up for us, it won’t be your head that rolls.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re Puck’s old lady. That means he’s responsible for everything you do. You ruin things today, he’s the one who pays. Choose your actions carefully. Right now this is still a private matter between him and you. Not that anyone will be terribly impressed with your shit, but punishing you will be his business, not ours. Once your actions impact the club, retribution moves to a new level.”
My stomach roiled and I thought I might throw up.
“I had no idea you’d be here today,” I whispered, wondering if he’d ever believe me. Did it even matter? “If I’d known, I never would’ve come. All I wanted was enough money to get out of town . . . I’m sorry. God, I fucked up everything.”
“Save it for Puck. I don’t care about your bullshit.”
Horrible, awkward silence fell as I continued rubbing against him. I started counting in my head, focusing on each number to keep myself from freaking out, making things worse. Then a loud scream cut through the music drifting in from the club, followed by some thudding noises.
“That’s it,” Painter said, shoving me off the chair. I landed on my knees and found myself scrambling to get out of his way. “You stay in here, keep your head low, and don’t fuck anything up. I’ll send Puck to get you after it ends. Do not talk to anyone about this or I will personally hunt you down and kill you. Got it?”
I nodded quickly, eyes wide.
“Got it.”
Painter nodded, stepping across the room to open the door. He gave me one final look. “My brother deserves someone better than you.”
Nodding my head, I agreed with him. He really did.
PUCK
Boonie and I pulled up behind the club in the van. A prospect sat in the driver’s seat—he’d stay there for the duration, ready to take off as soon as we came back out. In less than a minute we’d walk over to the back of the Vegas Belles building, where our plant, Maryse, would let us in through the emergency exit by the champagne rooms. We’d debated quite a while over which route to take—the rest of the club had gone in through the front. The other exit would take us closer to the office, but would be harder for Maryse to reach, too. Not only that, any firepo
wer in the building would be concentrated there.
Another van pulled up near the far exit. Waiting. So far as we knew, the men inside were clueless about the raid. Jamie Callaghan and his entourage had gone inside five minutes earlier. If things went right, he’d spend less than ten minutes total time in the building.
My phone buzzed.
PAINTER: Problem. Beccas in here. I put her in a private room. She’s safe, but we need to pull her out bef leaving
What. The. Fuck.
For a minute I thought my head might explode. Becca was supposed to be at school. I started typing a text back, then realized it was pointless. We didn’t have time to talk, let alone change the plan. Painter had saved my life more than once, a favor I’d returned. I’d have to trust him.
“Becca is inside,” I told Boonie. He nodded sharply, although I knew he had to be curious. A thousand possible scenarios ran through my head, each one worse than the last.
No matter how I looked at it, there was no excuse for her to be here. None. Christ, had she been working for the Callaghans all along? Impossible.
“Time,” Boonie said. We started toward the door, which opened on cue. Maryse held it as we entered, then she bolted toward the van. The prospect would protect her until it was time to go. I passed by the champagne rooms, wondering which one held Becca. Didn’t matter now—the best way to protect her at this point was to finish out the operation as fast and efficiently as possible.
Then I’d have time to strangle her in comfort.
We passed through the hallway and onto the main club floor. Painter and Gage held two groups of people hostage, already ahead of schedule. Six of them were obviously customers, terrified men who’d been herded back into a corner with several strippers and waitresses.
In the center of the floor stood four more men, hands on their heads. Two wore “Security” shirts while the others had on suits.
Jamie Callaghan’s entourage. There’d been three of them total.
If our count was right, that meant six more men were in the building. The bulk of the brothers was out of sight. According to the plan they’d gone for the office, hopefully grabbing Callaghan and McGraine and pulling them out through the back and into the vans.
