Four Seconds to Lose ttb-3

by K. A. Tucker

  For months.

  Oh, God. I’m going to be sick.

  I take a deep, calming breath and remind myself with a mutter, “You deserve this, you drug-trafficking wench.”

  “How’s your stage-fright thing?” a husky voice calls out behind me.

  “Ginger!” I shriek—partly in happiness, mostly in panic that she may have heard my little pep talk. By the smile on her face, I know she didn’t. I throw my arms around her neck, as I did the previous night. “I hate doing this,” I admit in a rare burst of weakness.

  “Wow, you really do have bad nerves.” She chuckles as I peel myself off her. “You’ll do fine. You’re incredible up there.” Waggling her eyebrows, she adds, “I should know.” There’s a pause and then a tiny smirk curls her lips. “Cain’s watching.”

  “What?” I feel my eyes widen as I spin and peer out again. Sure enough, I spot his lean frame hanging over the railing next to Nate, his gorgeous dark eyes on the stage. Quietly waiting. My heart starts pounding against my chest wall. “You said he never comes out to the club!” He wasn’t out there when I left the bar area to get changed.

  And I know because I was watching for him.

  She shrugs in an I-don’t-know-what-to-tell-you way. “He doesn’t. He never watches the dancers, Charlie.”

  “Yeah, he also never sleeps with the dancers, right?” I mutter derisively, earning her questioning frown. With a sigh, I explain, “I saw him leave China’s tonight. It was pretty clear what our pimp daddy was doing over there.”

  “Oh.” Ginger’s face scrunches up tightly as she waves me off. “He was helping her study for her GED. The girl is majorly dyslexic. She couldn’t string five words together when he hired her and now she wants a high school diploma. That’s all that was. Trust me.”

  I look out at the suave strip club owner. Helping her study? Really? “She sure didn’t make it look like that,” I say and my doubt is obvious in my tone, though I feel a wave of relief course through my body.

  “Of course she didn’t. China’s been in love with Cain for years. Any chance she gets to claim her fictional territory over him, she’ll take it. And, word of warning,” she adds, “don’t ever let Cain hear you calling him a pimp. That’s a sensitive spot for him. Your favorite, Rick Cassidy, called him that once, to his face. Cain beat his ass good. Nate pulled him off before he could kill the guy.”

  I try to picture that reserved man out there pounding the crap out of someone. It’s hard. Even today, when he was dealing with my crazy neighbors, he was unusually calm. The only signal that he was ready to deliver a beating was the tensed hands at his sides.

  “Why is he out there, Ginger?” The last thing I want to do is make Cain regret hiring me.

  “Well, according to Ben, Cain really enjoyed your show last night.”

  “Enjoyed as in . . .”

  I look over to find a lascivious grin. “As in enjoyed.” How the hell would Ben know? Were they talking about me? A new and more powerful rash of nervous flutters hits me. I tense as her cool hand rubs over my shoulder. “So you should go out there and tease him.”

  “What?” I shriek. Cain does not seem like the kind of guy who would appreciate teasing.

  Her slender, bare shoulders shake as she giggles. “Look, if I had to go out there and strip for a bar full of men, I’d pick one and pretend no one else is out there. One who I’d actually want to strip for in a room, alone. You know . . . if I weren’t a lesbian.”

  “You’re nuts.” A knock against the glass above me tells me Terry’s about to hit play and my stomach constricts.

  “I am, but that’s beside the point. Hannah hates getting up on the stage and so that’s what she does. It works for her.”

  “Why Cain?”

  She snorts. “Because I know you think he’s gorgeous. And I can tell you for a fact that he is an incredible man. And because every single one of the dancers here would die to have Cain’s attention on her. So take advantage of it. He’s sexy and he’s safe.”

  Music starts pulsing through the speakers.

  Strip for Cain. “I don’t know if doing that is going to help with my nerves, Ginger.”

  She shrugs. “Worth a shot. You said you were into acting, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, go and act like you’re trying to seduce your sexy, gorgeous, rich, untouchable boss. He can be a prop, like your wig.” She snorts. “Could be fun.”

  * * *

  There’s a chance I just got myself fired.

  I don’t know why I listened to Ginger. Probably because I was desperate. And stripping for Cain would be enjoyable. Ideally, not with a hundred other men watching. And, truth be told, it did make being on that stage a little easier.

  The fact that Cain apparently “enjoyed” watching me last night spurred a need in me to please him again. But the fact that he has already asked me not to take my clothes off for him should have stopped me.

  Maybe he didn’t notice what I was doing? By the cool, hard expression on his face, and the way his body shifted until he was standing stiffly, I’m seriously doubting that.

  When he approaches me tonight, I’ll deny it, of course.

  But he doesn’t approach me after the show. He leaves immediately after I get off the stage and no one sees him out there again.

  And so I finish my shift, pushing the reality of stripping into a tiny, neat box. I tuck it away into the recesses of my mind, as just something I have to do, for now. Just like what I do for Sam.

  It won’t be forever.

  chapter thirteen

  * * *

  CAIN

  Show Number Three

  I thought it was my imagination yesterday. Just my dick’s wishful thinking.

  I came out to watch Charlie perform. Call it a gut instinct. More like a groin instinct, if I’m being completely honest. Either way, I came out to see if her second night would be as good as the first.

  It wasn’t.

  It was better.

  Because her eyes were on me the second she stalked out. And they kept stealing passes on her way around, sliding over mine intimately, as if sharing a secret.

  And each article of clothing that came off was done facing me, so I got the full impact of the reveal, her breasts springing out to greet me.

  So did every other guy in my vicinity, but fuck them.

  My dick told me that was all for me.

  So of course I needed to come out here tonight, just to see if my dick was playing tricks on me before.

  I think Charlie just winked at me.

  I shouldn’t be enjoying this but I can’t help myself. I am. Too much.

  I need to stop coming out here when Charlie dances.

  chapter fourteen

  * * *

  CHARLIE

  Show Number Seven

  I’m playing the role of a stripper who’s taunting her stoic boss. That’s all this is.

  And I must be doing it very well, because there’s no doubt in my mind that Cain is enjoying it. I can tell by the way he leans forward, the way his mouth parts, the way his hands grasp the railing so tightly that the tension ripples up through those arms . . . By the very fact that he’s out there, watching. Night after night.

  I take a deep breath and roll my hips with the slow guitar twang of Head of the Herd’s “By This Time Tomorrow” as I reach up to loop my finger through the tie of my bikini top. Baring my breasts like this still feels like a punch to my stomach. The only thing that makes it easier is ensuring that I’m facing Cain when I feel the cool air hit my skin and I toss the small scrap of sequinned material down. I don’t mind Cain looking at me like that, and it helps block out the random catcalls and hoots of appreciation from the real customers.

  I do that again now, as I have every night since my second show, slowing my hips and locking eyes with his as I toss my top in his direction. Normally I’ll catch his eyes drop to my body for a second before lifting to my face again.

  Tonight, though
. . . Cain’s hand slides off the railing to reach down and adjust himself. I’m not sure if he meant for me to see it. It would be the first time he’s done something so visibly sexual. I can’t help my jaw from dropping for a split second. When my eyes snap back up to his face, I see his usual indecipherable mask and I assume he doesn’t realize that he did it.

  Until he winks.

  The simple act sends a jolt through my body, right down to my thighs. Taking a deep breath, I’m unable to suppress my smile as I dive into an invert.

  It appears that I’m not the only player in this little game anymore.

  * * *

  “Oh, come on. Like you weren’t trying to make those drinks unpalatable,” Ginger mutters, pouring a round of Guinness as her hips bop to the music. Ginger doesn’t stand still. Ever. “Who doesn’t know how to mix a Harvey Wallbanger?”

  My third night here, Ginger decided it would be a good idea to move me on from pouring straight shots and pints of beer to mixing cocktails. Without instruction. The customers didn’t seem to mind, especially when she announced my “de-virgining” was on her.

  After my first creation twisted a customer’s face so sickly that DeeDee ran for a bucket, it quickly became a game. Ginger makes me do at least one foreign-to-me drink per night, awarding my concoction with a new name based on her mood and what that brave customer’s face looks like the instant his taste buds get assaulted.

  The names usually make my jaw drop.

  Ginger has a surprisingly foul imagination.

  I raise one hand to cheek level. “Clearly, me.”

  “Oh, still so much to learn,” she murmurs, winking at me as she slides the drinks over the counter. “I swear I’d think you never partied a day in your life before Penny’s.”

  Do high school house parties with cases of beer and Smirnoff coolers count? Sam was strict about only a few things, and drinking was one of them. He said it was dangerous, that you end up saying things you shouldn’t say and getting yourself into a lot of trouble. Well, I sure didn’t want to slip about anything I was doing, so I avoided alcohol for the most part, nursing a drink all night just so I wouldn’t be empty-handed. So I’d fit in.

  I’ve been working at Penny’s for over a week and, as shocking as it is to admit, I don’t know that I’ve ever had more fun in my life. Hanging out with Ginger and DeeDee on the bar all night is entertaining, the nights go by quickly, and I’m making good money. Not as good as what I’d be making in the V.I.P. rooms, but Cain hasn’t allowed it yet. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved about that. And dreading the day he gives his okay.

  Because then I’ll have no valid excuse.

  Stripping onstage is still a horrendous, nerve-wracking four minutes, at best, but my mind no longer has to wander off to the mountains and the beach and all those other places I imagine myself going when I’m finished being Charlie Rourke. It keeps getting stuck in a dimly lit room, alone with Cain.

  In his office.

  In a V.I.P. room.

  In the walk-in beer cooler.

  Really . . . anywhere.

  Ginger has created a monster.

  And what feeds these illicit thoughts is the fact that Cain keeps coming out to watch. There haven’t been any more cock-adjusting, winking moments. He’s made no effort to speak to me since hiring me. The few times I’ve crossed paths with him in the back hallways, I’ve gotten nothing more than a nod.

  But while I’m on that stage, I feel those dark eyes on me, like those of a predator stalking his prey, while the music vibrates through my body, and my limbs coil around the cool brass, and my hips swirl and curl and dip and bend.

  I really am a fantastic actress.

  And Cain is an even more fantastic distraction.

  * * *

  Show Number Thirteen

  I’ve become bold. I’ve switched up my short shorts because, despite what he said, I don’t want Cain getting bored. So I’ve adopted this little short-skirt–bikini-bottom combo that is more revealing but not completely. Like a skimpy bathing suit, I tell myself.

  And I don’t bother to hide what I’m doing anymore. I face him head-on as my fingers curl around the fabric of my top and peel it off. As I offer him a wink. I see his lips part slightly and his ghost of a smile as his eyes rake over my body, shamelessly. Even from here, I see the fire in them.

  I love the feel of his eyes on me.

  Although the possibility of him being my pimp has faded, I still don’t know what the hell to think about Cain. At night, when I’m lying in bed, relieving myself of this pent-up frustration so I can actually fall asleep, I’m still picturing him as an unemotional, demanding man.

  Only now, it’s in a very appealing way.

  I’m not sure how accurate Ginger was when she called him “safe.”

  This is my boss.

  But, while I silently wait to escape my life, this is also one hell of an intoxicating game.

  chapter fifteen

  * * *

  CAIN

  “Cain!”

  “Two and a half weeks for a simple background check! What the fuck am I paying you for, John?” I’m glad I had the good sense to install a sound barrier in the walls of my office. It doesn’t completely drown out the throbbing music in the club, but I can at least have a phone conversation without shouting.

  A horn blasts in the background and I picture my P.I.’s round belly pressed up against the steering wheel of his nondescript black sedan, tailing someone’s cheating spouse or a fraudulent insurance claim through the streets of L.A. He spends most of his days doing just that. And they’re long-ass days from what he tells me. John works more than I do. After his third wife left him, he figured out that marriage and his career don’t mix.

  I met John ten years ago, when he was still a cop. He’s well connected, fast, trustworthy, and—most important—he’s as discreet as they come. He’s also expensive, but it’s worth it. I use him for all of my employee history checks. He finds things that no typical background check would ever uncover, and I can usually get answers from him within a few days.

  “Yeah, well, this isn’t Backgrounds R Us,” he grumbles wryly—the usual dig at the kinds of places normal employers use. “This one took a little bit more work . . .”

  My stomach tightens as I silently await his verdict, wondering what he uncovered. I’ve been dreading this moment.

  “You’ve got yourself a runaway there, Cain. Charlie Rourke was last seen four years ago in Indianapolis. She took off on her eighteenth birthday and no one’s seen her since. No police record to speak of. She’s been a ghost until she opened a bank account and booked a flight from New York to Miami in May.”

  “Huh.” I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet I am. I’ve had other runaways here before. Kacey, an exceptionally bright redheaded bartender and Storm’s best friend, was one. It hadn’t taken John long to gather the basics that explained the unapproachable fiery-haired woman—the accident that killed her parents, her serious injuries, the long physical recovery, the nonexistent mental recovery.

  The self-destructive aftereffects.

  But it wasn’t hard to figure out what Kacey was trying to escape. “What’s Charlie running from?”

  “My guess is her drunk, abusive father. Beat the shit out of her mother, who finally bit the bullet three years ago. Daddy-O’s in Pendleton for life for that one.”

  “Shit . . .” I run a hand back through my hair. If she’s been on the run for four years, I wonder if she even knows that her mother is dead. “Any other family?”

  “Useless uncle. Father’s brother. Otherwise, no one.”

  “So she’s legit. I mean, her age, everything else checks out?” I hold my breath. There’s nothing about the woman teasing me on that stage that says “child.”

  “Yeah, looks like it.”

  I sink back into my chair, weeks of tension pouring out of me.

  “Driver’s license that came up is the same as the one you sent me. No previous one on
file. I also found an older picture of her. They look like the same girl. Hard to tell with those, though, especially when your girl’s all done up like she is.”

  That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve seen Charlie under all that makeup. She looks like a completely different person. “Her eye color?”

  “Blue, I think. Wait . . .” There’s a rustling sound. “Yup . . . blue.”

  Violet could be mistaken for blue. Unless the photo is a good-quality close-up, no one would be able to tell. “And I wasn’t able to confirm her working at that club in Vegas, but my sources tell me the owner’s been known to do under-the-table hires, so it’s quite possible she’s telling the truth.”

  “Huh.” I don’t doubt that she worked there. The way she dances, she knows what she’s doing. “Okay, good.”

  “Why . . . you tapping that?”

  “John . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.” His disbelief annoys me. “I’m gonna be in Miami in a few months, I think. I’ll swing by. Enjoy a show or two.”

  “You do that. Ask for Mercy. Your fat, old ass will have a heart attack.”

  The responding roar of laughter makes me shake my head and smile. John is in his early fifties and, if he’s as I remember him, he’s still living off black coffee and greasy burgers. “It’d be good to see you again, my friend.”

  Hanging up the phone, I flip through the stack of papers with Charlie’s scrawled handwriting. So, she’s been off the grid for four years. She would have been crashing at friends’ places. Guys’ places. Taking jobs under the table to make ends meet. I guess that’s why there’s no record of her. No gas bills, no credit cards. Nothing.

  Maybe she was afraid of being found and that’s why she laid low. Or maybe she found out that her dad is in jail for life and figures she’s safe, so she’s come out of hiding.

  Speculation. That’s all I’ve got.

  That she refused Rick Cassidy’s demands tells me she probably wasn’t making ends meet in alleyways. I find myself breathing easier over that knowledge. But she’s got the designer shoes and clothes. And the brand-new car that she got from a supposed inheritance. I find that detail hard to believe, especially now.