Expose

by C. D. Breadner

  Tank shook his head, watching the two of them kiss each other hello like it had been three weeks since they’d seen each other, not that very morning. They’d been like that since Sturgis, actually.

  “Things must be getting better between them again,” Jayce mumbled, knocking Tank’s shoulder when he paused to watch the PDA.

  “I guess so,” Tank returned, trying to sound indifferent. He was actually plenty happy for Buck and Gertie, but out of respect for Jayce’s domestic situation he didn’t let it show.

  Jayce shrugged one shoulder indifferently as well, eyes narrowing on the two of them.

  “Hey,” Tank called his attention back, deciding it was as good a time as any to broach the subject. “I know we were all on board for earning Italian cash, but … I’m worried about who these guys are selling to.”

  Jayce’s eyes were steely on his. “Yeah, me too. But we said we’d work with them, I told them that. And this is what they do.”

  Tank’s laugh was humorless. “That was when we thought it was semi-automatics at the very worst. Military-grade shit isn’t what we were expecting, Jayce. This isn’t street-level turf war shit. This is people who want to make a fucking statement. I don’t really want to be a footnote on it. We’ve done well staying low-level.”

  Jayce nodded. “Yeah, we have. But like Fritter said: forty grand for one day’s work? I mean, we’d have to make three runs for the Nomads to bring in that much cash. More time on the road, more chance to be caught, more risk.”

  “Yeah but if we get caught for this, Sharon Downey ain’t getting us out of it,” Tank returned, his voice terse, but he could give a shit. “This means we’re on Federal radar, and with the attention the Gypsys are bringing to our little corner of the world that makes me extra nervous.”

  Jayce narrowed his eyes. “So the next trip we say no, is that what you want to hear me say?”

  Tank sighed, shaking his head. “Of course not, just let us in on that decision before you agree.”

  “Anyone who wants to sit it out is welcome to,” Jayce snapped, turning on his heel and heading to the clubhouse door without another word.

  Tank stated after him, completely stunned. No one seemed to notice the Prez’s pissed-off stride, but Tank knew exactly that was what it was. Well, Tiny apparently noticed it.

  “You tried,” Tiny assured him, hand on his shoulder.

  “I don’t understand what the fuck is going on. He used to be careful with this shit.”

  “Well, that’s easy to explain. He’s a selfish prick, and without anyone else to give a shit about he doesn’t give a shit about anything.”

  Tank digested that. “You’re pretty fucking intuitive, Tiny.”

  “I don’t even know what that means. I gotta take a piss like you wouldn’t believe.” Tiny gave him a mighty slap on the shoulder before heading to the clubhouse himself.

  Buck and Gertie sauntered past in the opposite way, heading towards the dorms. She pointedly didn’t look at Tank, which was kind of cute since he knew very damn well why they were headed for Buck’s room. Buck however, caught his eyes and gave him a smile like he’d won the fucking lottery, which Tank returned with the international tongue-in-the-cheek-pumping-fist blowjob mime. Buck lost the smile and flipped him off in return.

  Tank chuckled and decided a beer couldn’t hurt, then maybe a nap. His fucking back was killing him.

  Chapter Eight

  “Rosie, you got a customer.”

  She smiled, turning to the bouncer who’d called for her. “Really?”

  “Yup,” was Thomas’s indifferent answer. “Room four.”

  That was her fifth private dance of the night. Jesus, this was one of her best nights since arriving in Markham. Maybe she was extra attractive after being so properly and thoroughly fucked the previous evening.

  She pulled on the lime-green, blunt-bang wig that fell halfway down her back and matched her lime and yellow two-piece underneath a matching tear-away blouse and ruffled skirt. The heels were yellow, too. She looked like a citrus advertisement.

  On her way down the narrow dark-grey hall, she passed Coco who was grinning maniacally. Rose took that to mean the place was raking in cash that night, and she raised a fist which Coco immediately bumped with her own.

  Inside the room, a young man was already waiting. Rose gave him a brilliant smile, then crossed to the stereo to put her track on. There was no need to go over ground rules; the bouncers drew the line when they showed a customer to their room, and they were far more intimidating than Rose could ever be.

  Her customer didn’t really react, just blinked and waited. He was dark-skinned, maybe Middle-Eastern? His eyes were incredibly dark, his hair shorn close to his skull, but she could tell it was dark and thick. He looked tall, too; his legs were so long his knees seemed very high in front of him. His hands were clasped in his lap, and he just … stared.

  Well, quiet was polite, at least.

  The music kicked in loud, aggressive and driving. She started on the raised platform at the room’s center, using the brass pole to show off a little at first. Then as the song launched into its chorus, she removed the clothing before bringing the act closer to him.

  His eyes trailed over her, mouth open as he breathed. His hands stayed put, which was fine with her. With the throbbing beat she tore off the top, straddling his lap, and sat on his knees, rolling her hips as she did it, eyes closed, concentrating on the music, knowing that as she rolled her lower body her hips, stomach and breasts were shifting in a tantalizing way. Then she stood again, smiling down at him as she opened her eyes, making eye contact again and holding her breasts up before letting them drop. His eyes were on them. Polite but enthralled. That was good.

  She moved off to do a few more pole tricks, using her leg and arm length to full advantage before again moving to his lap for what the VIPs really paid for. As she was approaching he dropped his hands to the bench at his sides, knuckles showing strain. He licked his lips, looking nervous.

  Rose smiled encouragingly at him, willing him to just relax and enjoy the show.

  Suddenly he got to his feet, and she stopped. That was unusual, and her guard went up. She was raising her hands and about to tell him to sit down when his hand came out and he threw something at her.

  By instinct her arm shot up and she turned her head to the side. It hit her wet and cold, and it didn’t feel like water. It felt thicker, but then quite suddenly she knew something was very, very wrong.

  Burning. Christ, it felt like scalding water that she couldn’t pull her arm out of. It was on her neck, her cheek, one side of her chest. Without realizing it she was screaming, too scared to move, too much in pain to do anything but make noise.

  The door was thrown open, and Thomas was there in record time, stopping to take stock of what had happened. When he looked at her his face went pale, his eyes grew wide. “Shit,” he muttered. Then he looked to the customer, fury taking over the shock. “What the fuck is that? What did you do?”

  It was loud chaos around her. The music was still blaring, Thomas was roaring at the customer who was chattering away in something other than English, and Rose couldn’t stop screaming. When Coco joined the mix, nothing got better but at least she turned on the lights and killed the stereo.

  In the harsh overhead fluorescent glow, Rose lowered her arm. The burning wasn’t stopping and she wasn’t going numb to it, either. With a whimper she took in the damage on her forearm and nearly lost consciousness.

  The skin was blistering away to the bright pink tissue underneath, and her vision swam. People were still shouting around her, and Rose fought down an overwhelming urge to wipe at the burning on her cheek and neck. That would make it worse and it would burn her hand.

  This was fucking acid.

  “Get me bottled water!” Coco was shouting down the hallway. “Lots of it! And call an ambulance!”

  Rose was aware of her attacker being dragged out by Thomas and another security guy, Jerry. She had
n’t even seen Jerry enter the room.

  “Rose, we gotta rinse that off you before it burns any deeper honey. Don’t worry. We got you, baby.” Coco’s tone was soft but it barely contained a hysteria that Rose cottoned onto right away.

  It was bad. It was really fucking bad.

  Trudy entered then with four bottles of water, cracking the tops as she stared at Rose, her skin paling under all the pancake makeup she was wearing.

  Rose had to stop screaming. It was hurting her throat. She let Coco lower her arm, pointed downward, and as the woman poured the first bottle down her arm her screaming found a whole new decibel level.

  “I know, honey. Shit, I’m so sorry, Rose.”

  The face was trickier. Coco was clearly worried about splashing anything into her eye, so Trudy took off, then returned impossibly fast with an empty shot glass. “Put this over her eye,” she said. “Tilt her head down and pour it across so it all runs downward.”

  Thank Christ everyone else was smart enough to handle this. She’d likely be trying to wipe it off with a towel.

  “Come on, Rose. Let’s get you sitting.” Coco helped her find the edge of the platform, and she plopped down while leaning forward, Coco’s hand on her back forcing her that way. The shot glass was pressed in around her right eye, the water bottle positioned next to it, and as she was nearly doubled over the water poured down her cheek. That was when Rose realized she was sobbing; the shot glass was filling with salt water.

  The chest was tricky. Wearing rubber gloves—wherever the hell those came from—Coco held a towel under her breast and poured water across the burn. The towel caught the liquid so nothing could run to any other parts. Then they rewashed everything a second time.

  Somewhere along the way Rose stopped shrieking. It was probably from exhaustion. And she was still surprised she hadn’t passed out from pain or the ugliness of the burn or both.

  The ambulance ride was a blur. She did remember the pain of being jolted while being transferred into the ambulance on a gurney.

  And Tank. Yeah, she remembered seeing him as she was rolled out of the club. He was waiting by the door, and as she passed by he followed the gurney, saying her name. She didn’t answer. What the hell could she say? She hurt, she hurt so fucking much.

  At the hospital they continued with the rinsing. She tried to follow what the doctors were saying, but luckily no one seemed to need any input from her. That was good. She was so fucking tired.

  But they also made it hurt more. She was being cut up, that she could remember, too. They were cutting away all the blistered and puckered skin. It hurt, fuck it really hurt, but she didn’t squirm. Luckily they seemed to mostly be working on her arm; that must have been the worst of it. Maybe her face and chest weren’t too bad.

  She kept that thought in the forefront of her mind. Her face would be fine. Her tits were going to remain perfect. She’d paid good fucking money for them. They’d better be okay.

  But what if she scarred? As shallow as it seemed, that was her worry under the bright lights of the surgical room. Bad scars, no more dancing. Then what the fuck would she do?

  By the time she was left alone in a dim and quiet hospital room, she was as tired as she’d ever been in her life. But her head wouldn’t stop.

  A bright white bandage was on her forearm, hiding the damage done for the moment. She’d heard the doctors talking as she was being brought down to this part of the hospital. They’d need to keep flushing the burns every few hours to make sure they were clean. And in the meantime their priority would be preparing her for skin grafts.

  Rose held her good hand up over her face, palm to the ceiling. She’d always thought she had lovely hands; slender and elegant. Long fingers, thin palm, not remotely resembling a shovel. And dark.

  Where the hell were they finding skin for her?

  It was while she contemplated her hand that a throat being cleared in the doorway startled her. She gasped, dropping her hand and clutching at the blanket covering her from the waist down. It was Tank, and her vision swam as her eyes watered.

  He came forward looking like he was approaching a kicked puppy dog, and Rose put up a hand. “Don’t,” she begged, chocking on a sob. “Just leave. Please.”

  “Rose, sweetheart—”

  “Don’t,” she repeated. “I can’t have you see me. I’m sorry. I just want to be alone.”

  “No way,” he replied, stopping next to the bed. “I’m watching out for you tonight.”

  She couldn’t look at him. She was staring at the folded edge of the hospital sheet, wanting him to get the hell out of here. She honestly needed to be alone right now.

  “I want to make sure no one else is coming around, English. That’s all.” She felt better with him calling her by the nickname. Like there was no danger of him rejecting her now with these burns because they could pretend that last night hadn’t happened. Or something.

  He circled the foot of the bed, his boots loud in the incredibly quiet room. There was a chair tucked into the corner, to the right of her bed. The same side where a patch of gauze was currently taped to her cheek.

  “Are …” he cleared his throat, standing in front of the chair, not sitting. “Are you hurting? Do you need me to get you anything?”

  She shook her head. “They gave me drugs for the pain, and to help me sleep. They aren’t kicking in, though.”

  “Should I get a nurse?”

  “No,” she cut in quickly. “I just can’t get my brain to stop.”

  He nodded, hand fidgeting at his side, then after a long moment he sat, leaning forward on his knees. “Shit, English. I’m so fucking sorry—”

  “You didn’t do anything,” she cut in. “It was that asshole.”

  “I could fucking kill Thomas,” he growled, raking a hand through his hair rough enough that it made her wince. “How did he not know the guy had a bottle of fucking acid in his pocket?”

  Rose shrugged. “Baggy jeans? How would he have known, Tank?”

  At his name he brought those eyes back to her and she teared up again. She loved having him look at her, she really did. But what the hell would he see now?

  “English,” he mumbled, soothingly, coming closer to her bedside. The good side of her, she supposed. He leaned on the bars on that side, and after a pause where he simply looked at her the railing gave out and crashed to its down position loudly. They both jumped about three feet at the noise, him uttering a “Shit,” while she was asking if he was okay.

  They shared a look, then both collapsed into laughter, trying to keep it quiet since the entire hospital seemed to be sleeping.

  “I broke your fucking bed,” he whispered through low chuckles. “I’m sure there are better ways to do it than that.”

  She covered her mouth with her good hand to keep her laughter quiet, too.

  He reached out, pulling her hand down to hold it. “The club’s going to take care of your bills, so don’t worry about money. And I’m gonna take care of you, English. You don’t have to be scared, okay?”

  “You don’t have to do all that.” It didn’t sound casual, it sounded desperate.

  “Too bad,” was his perfectly Tank reply, and she looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was caressing her knuckles, and it felt wonderful, until she noticed the dark matter wedged in around his nail. It was dark-red, almost brown, and it looked like …

  “Is that blood?” she whispered, searching his face to see if he’d lie to her.

  His jaw hardened. “Yeah. Yeah, it is,” he said coldly, pulling his hand away. But not until the damage to his knuckles registered. They looked like hamburger.

  “Who’s blood?” she asked, voice stronger.

  “You know.”

  Rose swallowed hard, a cold flood starting in the center of her chest, ebbing out through her as it dawned on her that they hadn’t called the cops to have that guy arrested. “What did you do?”

  He shook his head and took a few steps back. “Don’t worry abou
t it. That asshole wasn’t worth the time or head space.”

  “What did you do?” she repeated, stronger.

  Tank lost her gaze, giving her all the answer she needed.

  “Shit,” she whispered, a cold calm washing over her. She knew who they were; she knew who she worked for. But it wasn’t real until she saw that blood around his nails. “Maybe you should go.”

  Chapter Nine

  It had been the screaming. He’d been on the sidewalk outside Rebel Circus when it started, and it was enough to make his blood go cold.

  Jayce and Fritter had been right behind him, Tiny leading the charge into the club and towards the private dance rooms. Tank was sure it was his imagination getting the better of him, that it wasn’t Rose making those ungodly sounds because that would be so coincidental. Too much of a coincidence. Seeing her had been confusing. Coco had flipped the lights on, and he couldn’t figure out what was so bad. It looked like Rose had maybe been hit with silly string or some weird kid’s toy that shot out foam. When he realized that was her skin that was peeling up, showing bright pink underneath, he’d felt the beginning of nausea.

  That was quickly replaced with terror. Fritter sent a girl off to call the ambulance, going with her, and Tank watched impotently while Coco took water bottles from another dancer and started rinsing Rose’s wounds. Her skin came away in the water and his terror turned to fury.

  The security guys had already dragged the attacker away to another VIP room; a dancer named Trix told him so. Rather than stick around, getting in everyone’s way and possibly pussying out and fainting in front of everyone, Tank took off in that direction.

  The security guys were hired because they knew the drill. Small infractions by shitheads too drunk to behave themselves were fair game to security staff. Anything more serious than that was left to the Rebels to sort out. So the guy was sitting on the vinyl bench along one wall, hands clasped in front of him.