by Aubrey Cara
What pisses me off even worse is how much Candice is flirting it up with Wyatt. She sounds like some fake, superficial twit. The more I have to watch her little charade the more I want to put her over my knee.
My plan isn’t going well. The kid is chatty after a few beers, but all Dylan wants to talk about is me and Wyatt’s time in the military. Anytime I ask about Candice, Dylan gets a serious look on his face and asks again about the Marines.
“You don’t like her, do you?”
“What?” I’m so wrapped up in watching my little faker that I’ve forgotten her brother is sitting next to me.
“My sister, you’re glaring at her. That’s not how most guys look at her.”
Yeah, I can just imagine how most guys look at Candice. “No, I mean, she’s fine.” A fine pain in my ass. I’d like to be a pain in her—
“She’s not really like that, you know?”
Into butt sex?“Like what?” I ask, feeling like I’ve missed part of the conversation.
“Silly and stupid. It’s all just an act. I don’t know why she does it, but she’s done it for as long as I can remember. I think it’s easier for her.”
“Easier than what?”
Dylan shrugs and slouches further into the old couch we’re sitting on. “Candi always took care of me. Hell, she took care of everything.”
“You mean, like when your parents weren’t around, or what?”
Dylan opens his mouth like he’s going to say something then closes it again, shaking his head.
“Hey man, don’t worry about it. Forget I asked. So your sister’s kind of flighty. It’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“Man, Candi’s not like that,” Dylan says defensively.
“I’m sure she’s great,” I say intentionally sounding sarcastic. I have a feeling if I keep picking at it the kid will spill.
“You don’t get it. You don’t get her.”
“Then explain her to me. What am I missing?”
Dylan shakes his head. “Never mind, forget it.”
“I’m serious. Were your parents not around? I mean you said she took care of everything…”
I’m sure I’ve lost him and he’s not going to say anything, but then he starts talking quietly as to not be overheard. “Our mom died when we were little and our dad…well, he’s not exactly the responsible fatherly type.” He doesn’t look up at me once, but slouches in his seat, picking at the soggy label on his beer bottle. “He’s got a bit of a gambling problem. Always has,” he continues with a shrug. “It’s like a disease or something. He used to leave us home alone a lot. That’s why Candi had to take care of everything.”
“How old were you when your mom died?”
“Three, but Candice was six.”
Holy shit. I hadn’t expected that. A man had more than a bit of a gambling problem if he left his small children home alone. “How long would your dad be gone for?” I almost don’t want to hear the answer.
“I don’t know. Days, maybe? I don’t really remember anything from back then. It wasn’t too long before he found out about Candi. She has this gift with numbers, like, I don’t know how to describe it.”
“I saw her do the books at the bar today.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about,” he says, looking excited. “She’s crazy smart. Not a flighty ditz at all.” It’s obvious he’s proud of his sister and happy to brag on her. “After that my dad started taking us with him. So Candi could help him cheat. He used to always tell her to play stupid. ‘Never let them onto you, Candi girl,’ he’d say. ‘No man wants to be shown up by a little girl.’ It was like a nightly little pep-talk he’d give her before we went in anywhere. I don’t think she knew he was cheating people,” he says, lost in thought. “Maybe she did, and she liked us being taken along instead of left behind all the time. Who knows? She stopped helping my dad scam people when she was fifteen.”
“Wow.” There is a special place in hell for men like their dad.
“Yeah, I was mad at Candice for a while after that, too. I feel bad for how much I hated on her. It wasn’t her fault. She’s always been taking care of everything. I’ve never met anyone more responsible than my sister. It’s a lot to live up to, man. I think she just wants a break from that sometimes. She doesn’t deserve all the shit that’s heaped on her, even by me.” Dylan says the last like an afterthought, more to himself than to me. He drains his beer and peeks one eye inside the bottle and I realize he’s drunker than I had thought. “I think I need another beer.”
I eye the six sitting in front of him on the coffee table and shake my head. “I think you’ve had enough.”
Rather than argue with me he says, “Your friend, he seems okay. Should I be worried?”
I give the kid an assessing look. Dylan’s eyes are a bit glassy from all the beer but peers back at me levelly. “She’s not going to date my friend.”
At that Dylan’s brows shoot up. “No?”
“Nope.” Not if I have anything to say about it. Which I do.
When I look up Candice is staring right at me. She only holds my gaze for a penetrating moment before turning back to Wyatt, but her smile isn’t quite as bright as it was before. “So Dylan,” I say, not taking my eyes off the blue-eyed beauty that has been driving me mad all night. “You like to play football, huh?”
“Umm, yep,” Dylan says looking down, suddenly interested in peeling the label off his beer. “I, uh, don’t play often.”
When I look up again Candice has disappeared and Wyatt is wandering into the living room. Once he and Dylan start talking I take the opportunity to slip out. It’s time to hunt down my little princess. Play time is over.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CANDI
The burger Wyatt grilled is burning a hole in my stomach. This night can’t be over soon enough, as far as I’m concerned. Glancing down at my watch, I wonder if it’s still too early to hint that the guys should leave. It’s unfortunate I can’t hide out in the bathroom indefinitely.
Splashing water on my face doesn’t help wash away the knot of tension that’s been riding me since I found out my brother’s debt still must be paid. I hate feeling weak and taken advantage of. I hate feeling defeated. This is but a bump in the road. A three thousand dollar, deadly bump.
Squaring my shoulders I give myself a long hard stare in the mirror. I am Candice Dawson. I’ve been swindling men since I was knee high to a grasshopper’s eye.
True, I haven’t had to use my more conniving skills in years, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still in my back pocket when I need them. And Lordy, I’m going to need them. Wyatt may be an easy mark, but getting rid of Hank without him getting suspicious may be harder than wrestling a wet pig.
I’m formulating excuses and thinking on how I’ll artfully yawn and pout how tired I am, as I open the bathroom door and run straight into a wide chest. Without warning, I find myself plastered up against the hallway wall. Heart hammering, I look up into Hank’s all too knowing, fiery gaze.
Thick arms brace on either side of me, caging me in. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. His pleasing scent tickles my nose and I stupidly want to burrow my face right under his beard line where I see a trickle of freckles I suddenly want to lick.
Holy Hannah, I can’t help but be mesmerized by the overbearing man in front of me. Energy seems to crackle off of him, making me wonder what kind of spark we’d create together. Fanciful notion for sure, and one I should not be contemplating. A zebra doesn’t think of ways to taunt the lion. Everyone in the animal kingdom knows that is the quickest way to being made a meal.
Besides as much as I’m obviously attracted to the great ape, he doesn’t like me at all. Which is fine with me. Sex has never proven to be more than an abysmal experience. Who needs that in their life? Not me. I’ve had enough disappointments.
Although, the pulse pounding heavy through my veins is begging me to find out firsthand how wrong I may be when it comes to sex with Hank.
&nb
sp; “I just had an interesting talk with your brother.”
“Oh?” I inwardly cringe. I can only imagine what Dylan has told Hank.
“Didn’t you say your brother was in a car accident?”
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
“I do. You said car. He said he got all banged up from sports, but I’ve played sports. I’ve also seen people after a car accident. He looks like the only thing he ran into was a baseball bat and steel toed boots.”
Dylan hasn’t told me any specifics but recalling what he’d looked like when I’d found him, I doubt Hank is far off the mark.
“Then there is the fact that his oh-so responsible sister, who always takes care of everything has found herself flat broke and in debt. It makes a man wonder. Either you’re that bad with money or there’s more to the story. You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.” But I do. I’m mighty tempted to spill my guts and not be in this mess alone.
“I’m going to find out what you’re hiding, Candi.”
“I won’t bring you into my mess.” I couldn’t live with myself if I put someone else in danger. Bad enough I’m in the path of a tornado. No use yanking anyone else out of the cellar.
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m knee deep in your mess.”
“You’ve barely got a toe in my mess,” I say, rolling my eyes. I know I’ve erred when he brings his face within inches from my own. His amber eyes are shooting fire. I should be scared but the feeling rushing through me isn’t fear.
“Dammit, little girl. You’ll tell me one way or another. And you’re not going to like my methods of information retrieval.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then why don’t you tell me?”
“It’s not just about me. You don’t need to be involved in this, but I don’t have a choice.”
Hank’s look softens and it is a worse kick to the gut than his anger. I swat his comforting touch away from my cheek. I don’t want or need his comfort.
He easily snatches my wrist and pulls my arm up behind my back. Pinned to the wall his body covers mine from sternum to toes. His hard body burns against mine.
“What did I say earlier today?”
“I’m not sure. You said a lot. I tried to tune it out as best as I could.”
“Tsk, tsk, princess. I’m going to remember you said that.”
“Let me go,” I say trying to pull my arm free.
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.” When I remain silent he grabs my chin so I have to look him in the eye. It takes all my will not to shrink under his intense gaze. “I told you I’m here now to give you better options. So, you do have a choice. If you’re in some kind of trouble—if your brother is—I can help.”
I shake his hand off my face and unsuccessfully try to push him away with my free hand. “I thought you said you weren’t a white knight. That I remember clearly.” I sound a bit petulant, but I’m pissed he’s putting me in this position.
“I’m not a white knight. I just don’t like watching a train wreck happen that I could have prevented.”
“Is that what this is? Crash prevention?”
“Hey, Hank, you back there?” Wyatt calls from the kitchen making me jump but Hank barely flinches.
He leans down not an inch from my face and furiously whispers, “You’re not off the hook, little girl. We’re going to discuss this, and you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on. And mark my words, what I’m going to do to make you talk…well, your pain is going to be my pleasure, princess.”
My breath hitches. His threat sends an intense shiver through my body and I can’t help the embarrassing spark of arousal that warms me.
A smug grin spreads across his face and he shoots me a wink full of promise before pushing off the wall and walking away. It’s that self-satisfied wink that makes me want to kick him. To rail at him, and tell him I refuse to talk, to share any part of myself with him, no matter what. What the hell does he care? He’s not a knight in shining armor, and I’m way past the point of believing anyone will ever come to my rescue.
I should be feeling strong but the altercation with Hank makes me wish he could take this whole mess off my shoulders. But that’s never going to happen. A huge weight is pushing down on me and I wonder how much more I can take before I’m crushed. Like a popped balloon I deflate, slumping where I stand against the wall, taking in a deep lungful of air. And then another as I blink back tears of frustration.
How much easier would this all be if I told him everything? Would he call the police? Would he go with me to the strip club and pay off the debt that should have already been paid?
The second I think it I know I could never ask that of him. This is my mess to deal with. Besides, I’m a Dawson. I’ve come from a long line of people who attract trouble wherever we happen to go. As much of an ape leader the big buffoon is, Hank doesn’t deserve to be a part of that trouble.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CANDI
Music thrums a loud beat as I step into the dark lit club and smooth down my gold sequined mini skirt wondering why the hell I’d worn it. When I’d put it on it had felt like armor. Sexy, sleazy armor. I’d spent an hour on my hair and make-up wanting to look enticing. Then waited another two hours until Dylan was asleep before I’d snuck out.
Getting rid of Hank and Wyatt had been ridiculously easy. They’d been getting ready to head out when I’d finally worked up the nerve to come out of the back hall. Wyatt had given Hank and I a strange look before he’d pasted his easygoing smile back on his face. It made me wonder if he suspects something is going on between Hank and I. Not that there is anything going on between us. I owe him money, and he…well, I’m still trying to figure him out.
The second the guys had left I started formulating my plan to look sexy and appealing to a drug lord/strip club owner. Which had seemed like the best course of action at the time. Now it feels more like I’ve set myself up for a stroll in front of a firing squad.
The strange smell of some kind of chrome cleaner hits me before that of the people. Mostly old men, some young, all with eyes hazed, whether from the scantily clad women or alcohol, I’m not sure. They all seem very focused on whichever topless woman is gyrating in front of them, with her naked breasts gleaming under the lights from the stage. Everything’s black, from the carpet to the tables and chairs to the stage. Neon blue track lights are running here and there and around the stage. Spotlights also surround the stage and other random areas.
Watching the women in the room I question if I could do what they are doing if it comes to it. I know I’m capable. I could endure anything if I had to, but these women have made it an art form. If they’re just enduring, they’re doing it with a special something.
When I wait tables at the Rusty Spur, plenty of men make passes at me and more than one asshole has pinched my ass. I’ve always taken it in stride, but I’m also fully clothed and safe from the unwanted attentions of customers. There is nothing about this environment that makes me feel safe or secure.
I’m gawking like I’ve never seen breasts before and I’m unsure how long I’ve been awkwardly standing just inside the club before two middle-aged guys in jeans and t-shirts push past me, eyeing me up and down. I bristle at their attention. I’ve never been more uncomfortable in my life. Not even when my dad used to take me to seedy dives to count cards for him. My senses are screaming at me to turn around and head home, debt be damned. Instead of running for the doors though, I find myself moving forward into the club and striding over to the bar.
As bars go, this one’s not too bad. More modern black than run down and shabby. The stools are the ugly round backed metal kind that look cheap, but I’m probably the only one here concerned with the decor. I’ve never felt lonelier or more exposed than when I take a seat at the bar. It makes me wish I were at the Rusty Spur instead, sitting next to one of the old patrons that come in most nights of the week.
A younger Hispanic man with a goatee is smiling at me like a loon. He’s trying to flirt but I’m too distracted to give him a gentle brush off. I give him the cold shoulder and hope he gets the hint while I order a shot of whiskey. I need some liquid courage now.
I’m about to take my shot when the Latino cowboy from earlier grabs my arm, making me startle and try to pull away.
“Hey, pretty girl. I was starting to worry you wouldn’t show. Come on,” he says, yanking me in the direction of the back of the club.
I quickly toss back my shot and practically throw the glass back on the bar as I trot unceremoniously behind this asshole dragging me through the club. I’m trying to keep up, but he manages to stay out in front of me. With my heels, on we’re the same height, meaning he is purposely quickening his stride to make me trot along behind him in the wake of his cologne.
It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him one spritz is more than enough, no need to use the whole bottle when he comes to a stop in front of a nondescript black door and knocks twice.
A strong masculine voice calls, “Enter,” from the other side of the door. The room we step into is large with a monstrosity of an old English style desk situated in the back of the room. It looks grossly out of place in the dark room, situated on top of the swirly printed casino patterned carpet. It’s the kind of carpet that will make you sick if you stare at it too long. There’s a man sitting behind the desk, in a large wingback chair. He has his head down as he works under the glow of a lamp, but there is no mistaking the broad shoulders and lean build of the man. The features I can see show him to be a chiseled attractive man with darker blond hair. He’s wearing a black button up shirt with the sleeves rolled back showing powerful forearms. For some reason, the shirt makes me think of Zorro and I stifle a giggle. Maybe the shot wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Somehow this man’s good looks make the entire situation worse. He is supposed to be old, possibly overweight. Someone disgusting and sleazy. This man seems to be more manicured and polished than me.
