by K. A. Tucker
He edges past me through the door and I catch that fresh woodsy scent that I first inhaled in his office. It’s pleasant. More pleasant than mine, probably, given that I just spent the night in bed, perspiring. “I’m sorry. The air-conditioning unit broke down and the landlord hasn’t fixed it yet. It’s kind of hot in here.” “Kind of hot” isn’t the right description. It’s stifling.
Cain’s eyes roam over my space as if taking inventory. There’s not much to catalogue. I rented it furnished, which entails a simple two-person folding table, a puke-orange love seat made of a weird vinyl-like material, and a bed that’s called a double but is more like a twin. I’m not the neatest person in the world but, aside from a few shirts strewn over a chair and a hamper of washed but unfolded laundry, everything’s put away. My kitchen is spotless. Not a crumb. That’s more a necessity of survival than tidy habits. It’s me against the roaches, and one open bag of bread will secure their victory. I’ve even strategically placed a can of Raid on my counter as a warning to them.
It’s not really working.
Cain’s focus settles on my hastily made bed for a moment and a thought hits me. Is this where he gives me the “if you want the job . . .” ultimatum that the dirtbag from Sin City did? Maybe that’s his M.O.—in the privacy of my own apartment instead of his place of business? Maybe he lives by that “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy.
Could I do it?
Unable to help myself, my eyes roll over the defined ridges of Cain’s back, visible through the clingy shirt. I don’t think it’s simply his physical appearance that catches women’s attention. The way his body moves radiates a strength and control that many women would find sexy. I imagine he’s quite demanding, maybe a touch aggressive. The type to take a woman up against the wall because that’s what he felt like. I doubt much emotion ever plays into Cain’s motives.
Still . . . I have to admit, sleeping with Cain for this job wouldn’t exactly be comparable to, say, a public flaying. It would be sordid and completely physical, but just thinking about this man on top of me on my bed right now stirs a need in my belly, one I haven’t felt for months.
But . . . no!
What the hell am I going to say if that’s what he intends? Fresh beads of sweat are rolling down my back. And my superior improv skills? It’s as if they never existed. Confident, witty Charlie Rourke has left the roach-infested building, leaving a wooden pawn in her place. I need to pull myself together. If I can do it for drug dealers, then I can certainly do it for a strip club owner.
Cain turns to regard me again and I fight the urge to fidget. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “A girl like you shouldn’t be living in this area.”
By his authoritative tone, I can’t help but feel like Cain is scolding me, and my cheeks heat slightly with embarrassment. I give a one-sided shrug. “It’s not so bad.”
That might have been convincing if not for the sudden screams of “skank bitch!” and “festering dick!” through the wall.
Silence hangs in the air as Cain regards me with an even stare, likely waiting for my response to that. There isn’t much that I can say, short of trying to make light of it. I give him a sheepish grin. “Ike and Tina are getting awfully creative with their pet names.”
He doesn’t return the smile. Clearly, he didn’t find that funny. I wonder if he finds much funny. I can only imagine the kind of place Cain lives. He’s so well put together, from his wavy dark hair down to his stylish but masculine shoes. If he only saw the kind of house I grew up in, maybe he wouldn’t be looking at me with such pity now. Or maybe it would be ten times worse, because he’d be wondering how I fell so far from my privileged life.
“Here.” He holds the tray of drinks toward me, his eyes locked on my face. “There’s an iced latte, a Frappuccino, and a regular coffee—cream and sugar on the side.”
“A caffeine overdose. Exactly what I need right now,” I muse, tucking my hair back behind my ear.
Finally, that one earns an amused upper lip curl. “I’m sorry I left before you finished last night. I had to . . . ,” he sighs, his eyes hooded for just a flash before returning to normal, “. . . to go.”
Busying myself with the lid of the iced latte, I wordlessly await the ruling. Will it be pole-dancing topless and bartending at the best strip club in town or . . . worse? Much, much worse.
His low voice breaks the silence. “So, how many nights could you work?”
I stop fumbling with my cup and look up to find that unnerving gaze still on me, “Do you mean . . . do I have a job?”
Cain’s head bows once, as if in assent. I catch a hint of something like conflict flash through his eyes, but when he’s facing me dead-on again, the look is gone, replaced with a completely unreadable expression. “You can dance on the stage and bartend with Ginger. Working the floor will have to wait.”
A burst of relief floods my chest as my escape moves one step toward reality. Shocking myself with a rare, uncontrolled reaction, I leap forward and throw my arms around him. “Thank you, so much! I mean, I didn’t think you would hire me! I thought I wasn’t good enough. I . . .” The overwhelming relief has taken over all instincts and suddenly I’m babbling like an idiot, all the while my arms are wrapped around my new boss’s neck and his body has gone rigid under my touch.
Oh God. Did I just break the record for quickest firing after hiring?
I rush to pull away, smoothing my shirt down. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. I’m . . .”
To my surprise, Cain begins to chuckle. It’s such a lovely sound. “It’s fine.” I’m still probably standing too close to him but he’s not moving away. I notice for the first time the golden flecks within his dark brown eyes and a scar above his left eyebrow.
I also notice that the tattoo on his neck, behind his ear reads “Penny.” My heart throbs. She was obviously someone very important to him. He must have loved her. Where is she now?
Clearing his throat, he adds with an easy smile, “I’m used to a lot worse than a hug, Charlie. A hug is fine.”
Okay. Maybe Cain isn’t so intimidating all the time. I reach for my iced latte, which I can now enjoy with ease. Except . . .
“So, I guess my boss at The Playhouse had good things to say about me?” I try to sound as casual as possible.
“Still validating your references, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and let you start tonight,” Cain confirms quietly.
“Awesome.” So, I could still get fired. Or maybe I can impress him enough before then that he’ll let it slide. “How many nights can I work?”
“As many as you want.”
“Really? And everything I did was fine? I mean, the outfit and—”
“It was fine.”
“Are you sure?” I swallow, not wanting to offer what I’m about to offer. “I could probably lose the shorts if you want me—”
“I don’t,” he cuts me off, his tone suddenly cutting.
“Okay,” I force out between pursed lips. And we’re back to stern Cain. If the dress incident and this reaction tell me anything, he has issues with the dancers doing things for him. Or maybe just me doing things for him. That’s fine. The shorts are staying on!
Taking another glance around my apartment, his jaw muscles visibly tightening, Cain mutters, “I know of a better apartment building to live in. I could make a call—”
“It’s fine, really. You’ve done enough for me already.” The last thing I want to be is a charity case for Cain.
With a reluctant twist of his mouth, he inhales deeply through his nostrils. “Okay, well, I guess . . . I should go.” I’m sensing that he’s not pleased. His hand slides over his neck, over that tattoo. He does that a lot. I wonder if he even knows that he’s doing it.
Lifting the giant latte up in the air in a sign of cheers, I offer him a smile and begin to thank
him for the coffee and the job, only the shriek of, “Get out! Get out of my life and never come back!” cuts me off, followed by a piercing scream, a loud bang, and the sound of crashing glass inside my apartment.
Before I can figure out what just happened, Cain’s strong body plows into me, pulling me to the ground, sending my drink out of my hand to splash all over the wall nearest us. His arms wrap around my body protectively, his palm cradles my head, and I can feel his breath against my cheek, he’s that close to me.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
When I don’t say anything, one hand lifts to my chin. He gently turns my face so we’re head on, and he’s a mere inch away. “Charlie. Are you okay?”
All I can manage is a nod and a swallow. I should be focusing on figuring out what the hell just happened in my apartment but instead, I’m inhaling that delicious mixture of soap and cologne, hyperaware of my body being pressed against his and each beat of his heart, its rhythm faster and harder than my own. Being this close to Cain is paralyzing. He could easily keep me like this all day long.
Unfortunately, that’s not happening. “Okay. Stay down,” he growls before leaping up and tearing out my front door, his shoes crunching over something as he passes. It takes me a moment to process that my mirror is shattered. A glance to the opposite wall shows me the small hole.
Those lunatics have a gun.
And, by the shouts I’m hearing, Cain just charged in there, unarmed.
chapter nine
■ ■ ■
CAIN
Charlie almost got shot.
Right in front of me, as I lingered there like a horny teenager—looking for an excuse to talk to her for a little bit longer, maybe persuade her to move—Charlie almost got shot.
And I’d just stood there, only seconds away from being shot myself.
The first thing I see when I step through the already open door of this shitty apartment in this shitty building in this shitty neighborhood is a scrawny white guy in a stained tank top and ripped cargo pants, with a trickle of blood running down the side of his face. His red, glossy eyes alternate between me and his hands, which are fumbling with a handgun. It’s jammed, clearly, or I’m sure the strung-out ass would be firing bullets like Yosemite Sam right about now.
This fucker could have killed Charlie.
I can feel my nostrils flaring as I stand in the doorway, like a bull about to attack. My hands automatically tense—a natural tendency, dating back to my fighting days.
I need to get that gun out of his hands.
And then I’m going to beat the scumbag to within an inch of his life.
I’m halfway to him when I suddenly hear a scream and feel a weight land on my back. Someone starts thumping my shoulders like a chimp gone rabid. It’s got to be his woman.
I don’t have patience for women who defend men trying to kill them. I twist and spin, reaching up to dislodge and throw her a few feet away. She lands on her skinny ass beside the couch, without injury. Any additional injury, that is. Based on the nasty gash across her forehead, it looks like she’s already been hit once.
In my peripheral vision, I catch Charlie standing in the doorway. I’m about to yell at her to get away when I hear a click, followed by bang and a howl of pain. I turn to find the guy crumpled to the floor, his hands wrapped around his left foot. Blood is already beginning to trickle out.
The idiot just shot himself.
I’d laugh if there weren’t a loaded gun lying on the floor beside his writhing body. I need to deal with that first. My rage has all but defused now—he got exactly what he deserved. Instead of punishing him further, I simply march over and kick the weapon under the couch.
And then I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking the situation under control.
“Cain!” Charlie screams a second before something heavy cracks me across the back of my skull. It’s not enough to knock me out, but fuck if it doesn’t hurt. Wincing and ducking, with my arm in the air to avoid further attack, I spin on my heels to find the crazy bitch back on two feet and the brass vase that she launched at me lying near my feet. She’s frozen, those hateful eyes—red and glassy like her husband’s—shifting between me and the gun pointing at her head.
Charlie’s gun.
“Calm down or I will shoot you. Do you understand?” Charlie says with an impressive degree of composure, slowly stepping into the apartment. Her hands aren’t even shaking.
The woman has enough sense to realize that Charlie isn’t bluffing. She edges back and around me—giving me a wide berth—until she reaches the moaning, writhing idiot on the floor. Dropping to her knees next to him, she starts sobbing as she presses her lips to his head, her arms loosely around his body. “I’m so sorry, babe! Are you going to be okay? I love you! I’m so sorry!”
Sirens sound in the distance. Someone has called the cops. “Charlie.” My eyes land on the gun in her hand. “You should go back to your apartment. I’ll take care of it from here.”
I don’t have to ask her twice. She tucks the piece under her shirt before she steps out, hiding it from any curious witnesses.
■ ■ ■
A few hours and a barrage of questions from the cops later, I’m facing a very quiet Charlie in her sweltering apartment once again.
“Here, take this.” She holds out a bag of ice for me. But I don’t take it. All I do is reach out and touch her delicate hand, attached to her delicate arm, attached to her delicate body, which would have crumpled to the ground had that bullet sailed only a few inches to the left.
She shifts from my touch, gingerly lifting the bag to my head while on tiptoes. I wince as it touches the bump. “Sorry, but you need to ice it. Come and sit. You’re too tall for me.” She wraps her fingers around my bicep and guides me toward the red folding chair next to her dining table. It’s a foreign feeling, having someone leading me. Ordering me.
Caring for me.
I go willingly, finding myself intrigued by this role-reversal.
Pulling up the other chair, she rests on it with one knee and continues her silent tending to my lump. Luckily, that was it. I don’t want to deal with stitches. Charlie’s mouth works as if she wants to say something but is hesitant. And so she says nothing, content to half stand, half lean while I simply stare up at that perfectly proportioned face. Because I can’t help myself.
Charlie’s eyes aren’t brown. They’re a deep, mesmerizing bluish-purple. I’ve never met anyone with violet irises. I’ve heard they do exist, but they’re rare. Elizabeth Taylor apparently had violet eyes. If they looked anything like Charlie’s, then it’s not a wonder she kept landing husbands. Why the hell Charlie would want to hide those gorgeous things is beyond me.
Everything about Charlie looks different from the woman who showed up in my office two days ago. I knew those big, springy curls probably weren’t natural, but they actually change the shape of her face, making it appear rounder than it really is. And why the fuck does she wear all that makeup? She’s stunning without it. I’ve never seen natural lashes that long before. And her skin is porcelain smooth, like one of those dolls. That’s what Charlie looks like. A perfect little doll. Except with that ultrawide, sexy mouth.
A young, perfect little doll.
I’m not sure that she’s twenty-two. It’s so hard to tell with women these days. I’ve seen fourteen-year-olds look legal. It could be that Charlie’s license is fake and she’s a minor. I’ve already sent her paperwork off to my private eye and I’m expecting a call from him any minute. Short of robbing her previous employer blind or attacking other dancers, I don’t care too much about her past experience at the Vegas club. But I am a little worried about her age . . . fuck.
What if I just put a fourteen-year-old on my stage?
I push that thought out of my head with force. Now I’m just looking for excuses, reasons for why hiring her is a f
ucking bad idea. Reasons besides my own selfish ones.
Short of being underage or being a criminal, she can have a job at Penny’s for as long as she needs it. That, I know for sure. After distancing myself—with Rebecka’s help—I was able to see that I was overreacting. I thought about telling her she can only bartend but decided against it. The stage means a difference of a couple hundred dollars a night. It’ll be fine. I’ll just have to get used to seeing Charlie topless every day. I’m not going to send her off to suck Rick’s cock—or worse—because I want to avoid a case of blue balls.
So now here I am, with this angelic-looking violet-eyed young woman playing nursemaid to me. And all I want to do is touch her.
Fuck.
She clears her throat and then, with a slight chuckle, says, “Can you believe he shot himself in the foot?” The sound of her voice and the way her face softened are so contradictory given the words she just spoke, and what we just went through. Most women—and men, frankly—would be rattled after a bullet barely missed them in their own home. Penny would have cried. Ginger would be throwing a proper fit. Kacey, my former bartender, would have murdered the man with her bare hands. But Charlie continues to be surprisingly calm and unperturbed by the entire experience.
Is this the way she has always been? Or did something, or someone, make her like this?
“Drug addicts,” I mutter, causing her giggle to die off abruptly. Ah, Cain. If only you had a sense of humor, like Ben, she’d still be laughing.
And probably on her back in that bed.
But none of what happened today is remotely funny. “Charlie, I really don’t like the idea of you staying in an apartment next to gun-wielding neighbors. You could have been shot.”
Her unreadable eyes flash to me. “And you could have been shot.”
I sigh, not sure what else to say. I’m trying my best not to come off like the control freak that I can be. These girls don’t need a dominating boss and I don’t own their lives. They need to feel like they’re making their own decisions, even if it’s with my help. But, seriously . . . a bullet just flew past her head and she still doesn’t want to move? Does she not have any common sense?
