In a Bad Way

by Karin Tabke

  In a Bad Way

  Bad Boys of the Bay book four

  by Karin Tabke

  Copyright Information

  In a Bad Way by Karin Tabke

  Copyright © 2015 Karin Tabke LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9881879-8-6

  Editor: Christina Trevaskis

  Copy Editor: Martha Trachtenberg

  Cover Design: VMC Art & Design

  Ebook Production: Austin Brown

  V102115AMZ

  This book is an original publication of Karin Tabke LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner.

  Dedication

  First and foremost I must thank Tina not only for her friendship but for her belief in me as a writer. IN A BAD WAY would not be the amazing story it is had she not pushed me to work harder, go deeper, and not get lazy. Xo

  Virna, as always, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to be the first set of eyes on my ugly pages. Martha, the Mistress of Shred, thank you for always taking my pages and for making them better. Victoria, another beautiful cover! Austin, thank you for taking me on and hanging in there with me. (good job Josie and Martin!)

  To my husband, thank you for helping me out with those tough action scenes but more so, thank you for always being ever so tolerant of your krazy wife the romance novelist.

  To my readers, thank you for your support and patience while I gave Izzy and Flynn the story they deserved. These two are so very much worth the wait. I love them and know you will too.

  ~Karin

  xo

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  NOVELS BY KARIN TABKE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CONNECT WITH KARIN ONLINE

  DISCOVER OTHER TITLES BY KARIN TABKE

  Chapter One

  “Vilde Style, you get promotion tonight.”

  Isadora Marisol Fuentes Chastain (the Chastain was silent), aka “Wild Style” on the nights she cocktailed at the Surf’s Up strip club, looked up at Andre the Giant (Russians were so not original), so named because he was nearly seven feet tall and not loaded with a full deck.

  Sitting at her dressing table where she’d been applying a liberal coat of pink sparkly lip gloss over bubble gum-flavored lips, Izzy showed no outward emotion. Inwardly, she cringed, knowing what a promotion meant.

  “What kind of promotion?”

  Andre held her gaze in the mirror. If he wasn’t such a hard-assed dick and he cleaned up his act a little bit, he might actually be a catch, not that the girls didn’t throw themselves at him already. He was tall, but his features weren’t distorted like some people as large as he was. And for all intents and purposes, he looked out for them. “You have good tits, round ass. You entertain cops in private room tonight. Do good job, I make you Tits of Month.”

  Lucky her. Tits of the Month got her twenty percent more of her tips and her name on the Tits of the Month board by the front bar. For that extra twenty percent, she was required to take off her top, and provide lap dances with a smile for private parties. She shivered again and reminded herself why she was there. Big picture, Izzy, big picture.

  “Thanks.” The urge to bolt grabbed hold of her. Instead, acting nonchalant, she popped a piece of bubble gum into her mouth and started to chew loudly. “It’s about damn time, Andre. I have bills to pay, you know, and humping for a measly forty percent of my tips doesn’t go far.”

  “You make more in tips on floor than all girls do taking top off.”

  Okay, that was true. But that didn’t mean it was good money. Robbery was what it was. Most of the girls were worn-out addicts angling for their next fix money or so anti-male it oozed from every pore. Isadora wasn’t a big fan of the opposite sex, but she didn’t play for the same team like so many of the dancers did. Because she wasn’t spoiled or soiled goods, and despite her disdain for men, especially the type that frequented strip joints, Isadora was fresh meat in a rotten container. That was going to change as soon as she got what she came for.

  Andre’s dark eyes narrowed and he crossed his big arms over his wide chest. Continuing to hold her gaze in the mirror he said, “You want big money?”

  She blew a bubble that popped on her nose, and as she pulled it off, she said, “You know, Andre, for a guy with such a big head, one would think you had a big brain in there. Of course I want big money!”

  “You make video, Boris pay big money.”

  Oh, no, no, no, no. She hadn’t signed up for porn. That was a line she wasn’t going to cross. “What kind of video?”

  “With cop. I give you pill. You put in drink, he gets whoo-whoo. Take him to hotel and make video. He remembers nothing.”

  Izzy shrugged and puckered her lips, looking at herself in the mirror as if she was asked to drug a cop and make a sex video every day. That was asking for all kinds of trouble. Not that anyone would recognize her. She went a long way to camouflage the real Isadora Fuentes. By day she was a struggling college student, by night a bikini-clad cocktail server who had just been promoted to stripper at the Surf’s Up club in San Francisco’s notorious Tenderloin district.

  “I appreciate the offer, and the Tits of the Month moniker, but I’m going to pass on them both.”

  Andre yanked off her blue spike wig and grabbed a fistful of her hair, wrenching her neck so far back she cried out in pain.

  “You want job?” he growled.

  “Just the cocktailing part,” she gasped, standing as he pulled harder.

  Grasping her shoulder with his free hand, Andre shook her head as if he was listening for marbles or something. Izzy swallowed hard, refraining from grabbing his balls and twisting them off. She stood her ground. If there was one thing Andre respected, it was the dollar. She made lots of them at Surf’s Up.

  “I can get a job next door at the Red Door and make twice as much as what B
oris pays me.” She twisted out of his grip, but he kept a big hand on her head. “And Stan doesn’t manhandle his girls.”

  Andre pushed her head away. “I give breaks, extra tips sometimes, now you betray Andre?”

  While Izzy felt no loyalty to the giant, he was, for all his gruffness, not a total pig. He didn’t touch any of the girls and he was always near if a customer got out of hand. For what he did, she trusted him to protect her. Oddly, she trusted his word, too.

  That was as far as it went. They’d never be friends or hang out. Eyeing him in the mirror, Izzy snatched her wig from the counter where he had flung it and fitted it back on her head, tucking in the stray pieces of her hair.

  “You have little girl body with fat tits and plump ass. Fucking bastard cops feel like hero protecting little girls. Make hero tonight, you keep job.” He laughed, showing straight white teeth with identical spaces between them. Like a jack-o’-lantern. “Boris give last girl who make video retirement money.”

  From what Izzy had been able to bribe out of the girls here at the club with her hard-earned tip money, that last girl was a dancer by the name of Jasmyn.

  “Tell me about her?”

  Andre scowled. “She not ask questions like you.”

  “Who did she make the video of?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t ask questions, I don’t have to shut you up later.”

  Message received.

  “Go so I can get dressed.”

  His black eyes held hers in the mirror for a long minute before they dropped to her breasts covered in a tattered pink silk wrap. “I pinch your tits, I give you ten bucks.”

  The first time Andre had asked to touch her for ten bucks, Izzy, shocked and appalled, had crossed her arms over her chest and refused him. Fifty-plus requests later, it hardly fazed her. There was a lot that didn’t faze her these days. In this life, she couldn’t let herself take anything personally. If she did, she’d get eaten alive. So she kept her head down, played off guys like Andre, and tried to stay invisible as she quietly put the pieces of the puzzle together.

  Izzy pushed the chair hard against him and stood up. When he whoofed a breath, moving away rubbing his belly, she grinned. “No pinching for any price, now get out before I tell Boris.”

  “Fucking Boris don’t care.”

  She moved past him to her microscopic string bikini hanging on a hook on the wall near the door. It was hot pink and every time she put it on, Izzy blushed just as pink. She reminded herself why she wore it three nights a week.

  Looking up at Andre, who stood staring at her as if she was going to hand her tits over on a platter to him, she said, “Andre, I know Boris only cares about his bottom line. That’s fine. But I want something more important to me than money for the video.”

  “What is more important than money?”

  “Information. I want to know about Jasmyn. Why she doesn’t work here anymore. Where did she go?”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

  “Personal reasons.”

  For a long drawn-out minute, Andre just stared at her, debating on whether the video he wanted her to make was worth the information she asked for.

  “Jasmyn run with boyfriend.”

  “I happen to know that’s a lie.”

  Andre shrugged. “I don’t know where girls go. Only Boris know.”

  “She’s alive?”

  “Boris is not murderer.”

  That remained to be seen. What she had heard about Boris, the club owner, could fill a thimble, but all of it was bad. Russian mafia, bad. “I’ll make the video, but only if you give me your word you’ll arrange for me to meet with Boris, before I hand it over.”

  “Show me video first, I give answer then.”

  “No, I want your word!”

  “I give you nothing until I see quality of video. Make good, I give you money and tell Boris to give information.”

  Izzy exhaled. What other choice did she have? Boris was a cold, calculating man who scared her. He wasn’t often in, but when he was, it was like the artic doors had opened. He was always surrounded by goons as big as Andre, but ugly and armed with big guns.

  She extended her hand. “Okay, Andre, you have a deal.”

  He took it in his big hand and squeezed a little harder than necessary. “Disappoint and we have big problem.”

  Swallowing hard, Izzy nodded. “I won’t.”

  Chapter Two

  “Ryker, you going to loosen up and have a drink or are you going to sit there like the stuffed shirt you are?” Flynn’s friend, Simon, asked.

  Flynn looked at Simon, fellow cop and ringleader of this bachelor party, as he was pouring shots all the way around. Then he glanced over at Jack, who, in a little more than a month, was going to trade his single status card in for one with a ball and chain.

  Flynn nodded and called to the entire room of cops, “I’m on babysitter duty tonight, boys, but I’m good for one.”

  “Tell that to the ladies, Ryker,” Simon said, holding up a shot glass and looking around the large private room they had been shown to and the handful of “servers” looking to “serve.”

  Flynn wasn’t happy with the private room for several reasons and even less thrilled with the multitude of bikini-clad women waiting to sink their claws into them. Drunk cops in a strip club could get dicey. He’d much rather be out in the main club area where whatever happened would happen in a more public spot. There were a bunch of younger guys along for the festivities tonight and he supposed privacy was the order of the evening. What happened in the room would stay in the room. Not that Jack would go sniffing after one of the scantily clad strippers. He was completely committed to his fiancée, Stevie. Simon had a baby on the way and was still in the honeymoon phase. The other guys, maybe. Probably. They were at a strip club for a reason.

  Flynn would most definitely keep his hands to himself. Strippers were not his sport of choice. He mentally shook his head. In his experience, strippers as a breed lacked self-esteem, culture, and a clean bill of health. He liked his women, tall, sleek, sophisticated, and disease-free.

  The sexual encounters facilitated by those worldly goddesses? Neat and à la carte. It was how he rolled. No extras, easily digested, and a fleeting memory.

  “I’d like to propose a toast to the last man on earth I ever expected to tie the knot,” Simon said as he raised his shot glass toward their mutual friend. “Jack, you had me scared there for a minute. I thought you were going to let Stevie slip through your fingers.”

  Flynn grinned and said, “He fought the law, but the law won.” He slapped Jack on the back. “Stevie is exceptional, and you’re damn lucky I didn’t give you a run for your money.”

  Jack elbowed him good-naturedly in the gut. “You might be the prettiest fed in California, but Stevie likes more than a pretty face.”

  Flynn laughed and raised his shot glass. “To discerning women and the lucky bastards they prey upon!”

  The dozen men threw back a shot in Jack’s honor.

  When Simon poured another round of shots, Flynn covered his glass. Simon nodded and continued to pour past him. Flynn didn’t mind the babysitter role. He’d die for every man in the room. He’d worked with all of them in one capacity or another since he graduated Quantico eight years ago. Jack and Flynn came out of Quantico together and had managed to stay together through several reassignments. Once Jack had reconnected with his ladylove, who was an Oakland PD detective, he’d hung up his federal shield for an Oakland PD detective’s star.

  Flynn smiled as the boys threw back shots like water. It was good to be him. He loved his job. Had money in the bank, no one interfering with what he wanted to do, and not even a plant to answer to. He was footloose and fancy-free. As much as he admired the women Simon and Jack had chosen to spend the rest of their lives with, Flynn just couldn’t see tying himself down like that. He liked his freedom. No, scratch that, he required it. Needed it to survive. He pulled at his shirt collar as if he was loos
ening a noose.

  “Hey, handsome, care to buy me a drink?”

  Flynn looked down at the skinny redhead sporting a badly fitting green bikini. He smiled politely and figured why the hell not? It was a night to celebrate and everyone had to make a living. “Sure,” he said.

  She pressed her bosom against his arm and ran her fingers along his thigh. “That’s real sweet of you.” As she smiled up at him, he felt a wave of nausea rush through him. Not for her, but for how she was forced to pander herself for a living. Just as he was about to move away, two more “servers” moved in on him and before he knew it, he was surrounded by women.

  He looked over to the boys for some help and all he got for his trouble was barn door sized grins and shaking heads.

  “Ryker, what do expect? You’re prettier than the girls!” Jack said, laughing.

  “Ladies, ladies!” Flynn said, throwing his hands up and backing out of the throng. “Drinks on me. Whatever you want.”

  The bikini squad squealed, squeezed most of his body parts in gratitude, and hurried off to place their orders. His tab was going to be astronomical, but it was worth it. He needed some breathing room if he was going to enjoy himself tonight. He looked around the room feeling like some sport, but he knew he wasn’t going to find his type here. Hookers and strippers had been his father’s choice of companionship, not Flynn’s. Besides, even if he rolled in this direction, these girls had seen better days. They were drug-haggard or man-eaters.

  So when he looked up from his club soda to say something to Jack about a case he was collaborating on, his eyes caught sight of a bodacious little number in a spiky blue wig with full pouty lips, a body that was custom made for his dick, and a look that could kill. His jaw dropped as a violent wave of desire swept through him. “Fuck me,” he mouthed.

  When her glossy pink lips turned up into an “I’m-so-going-to-work-you-over” smile, he knew life as he’d always known it would cease to exist if he went there. On that note, he mentally drew the line in the sand and dug his heels in. He would resist.