Shooting Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  When it was over, she rolled onto her back. “You cheated.”

  “Did you drift?”

  “No. I came so hard, I saw stars.”

  “You tasted good.”

  He transferred the cuffs to her wrists, securing her to the headboard. Then he put on a condom and positioned himself over her. He kissed her with his pussy-slick mouth and thrust into her, driving deep. Still reeling from her orgasm, she just let him take. He fucked her hard and rough and dirty.

  “I love your pussy,” he panted, sliding his hand between them to strum her clit. “Your mouth is hot, too. You were made to suck a cock.”

  She groaned, coming again. The cuffs bit into her wrists as the climax unraveled like a spool within her. She writhed beneath him, filled to the hilt and drowning in ecstasy. Her pussy clenched around his cock, lights flashed before her eyes and blood thundered in her ears. Every sensation heightened her pleasure.

  Oh yes. Fuck me. So good.

  He pulled out and yanked off the condom, bringing his cock to her mouth for a hot finish. With a strangled groan, he spurted all over her parted lips. Then he shoved his cock inside, flooding the back of her throat with come.

  She swallowed eagerly. He stayed buried inside her mouth for another moment, his hand framing her face. Then he withdrew, sliding his cock across her wet cheek.

  Whew.

  And she’d thought last night’s session had been messy. This one took the cake. He undid her cuffs and collapsed beside her, all sweaty arms and heavy legs. After a long moment, he rose to dispose of the condom. Then he pulled his jeans on.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I got what I came for.”

  She wiped his come off her face, stung by his brusque treatment. Her pussy was still pulsing with sensation, her skin flushed. His eyes traveled down her body, settling between her splayed thighs. He’d fucked her hard, but that didn’t mean he was satisfied. He’d told her last night that he couldn’t get enough.

  “I can’t see you again,” he said, dragging his gaze away. He put on his boots and T-shirt, his jaw clenched as if he wanted to punch something. Or someone.

  Himself, maybe.

  He deserved it.

  She climbed off the bed and tugged on her shorts, not bothering with a shirt or panties. Then she grabbed the cigarettes out of her purse and went to the kitchen. Boosting herself up on the counter, she lit one.

  He joined her for a smoke, saying nothing.

  She said nothing in return. She figured he was better at the quiet game than she was, but she was stubborn enough to play.

  He surprised her by breaking the silence first. “Do you work tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I met with Jester.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Not well,” he said, taking another drag. “He wants something I can’t give him, and he’s threatening to hurt you if I don’t deliver.”

  Janelle tapped her ashes in the sink. “Is that why you can’t see me anymore?”

  “It’s one of the reasons.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Kevin won’t let Jester in the club, and your Dirty Dozen friends are going to patrol the parking lot.”

  “Dirty Eleven,” he corrected.

  “Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “I think you should quit.”

  She gave him an incredulous look.

  “You said you wanted to get out.”

  “Well, I can’t get out now. I haven’t saved enough money yet.”

  “I told you I could help you.”

  “And I told you to go fuck yourself.”

  His mouth twisted with displeasure. “Don’t be stupid.”

  There it was: her temper trigger. She didn’t like being called stupid. She’d always struggled in school. She’d always felt stupid, and bad, and wrong. Ace could use her body any way he wanted, but he couldn’t call her stupid.

  She tossed her cigarette butt in the sink and hopped down from the counter. “If I’d known you were the type of man who wanted to control me outside of the bedroom, I wouldn’t have fucked you.”

  “Too late.”

  “You got what you came for. Now go.”

  “Fuck,” he yelled, raking a hand through his hair. “You think this is easy for me? You think I’m bored with you? Christ, I want to take you back to bed right now. It’s fucking killing me to walk away.”

  She studied his flushed neck, corded with muscle and tension. “Can’t you make a deal? Or get some help?”

  “No. I can’t.”

  He was independent to a fault. She knew a little something about that flaw, but it was difficult to sympathize with a man so determined to dig his own grave. His tight-lipped, lone-wolf attitude infuriated her. She followed him to the door. “So this is goodbye,” she said, swallowing hard. “Not just goodbye, but ‘watch out.’”

  “I’m sorry. I never should have touched you.”

  “Why did you?”

  He reached out to cup her face. She thought he might kiss her, or haul her back to the bedroom for another round. But he just brushed his thumb over her parted lips, once. His jaw was tense, his eyes devoid of color in the dim light. “I couldn’t resist,” he said, and left.

  Chapter Twenty

  Janelle went to work in a foul mood.

  She’d tossed and turned most of the night, replaying every moment she’d spent with Ace. Every touch, every look he’d given her, every harsh comment he’d made. She wished she could hate him. Then she could feel glad he was gone, instead of devastated.

  Vixen was slow on Mondays. Janelle spent more time waitressing than dancing. The lunchtime stragglers disappeared and the afternoon dragged on. She was working a double shift, by her own request, and she hoped the evening would bring more customers. It wasn’t worth coming in for minimum wage plus drink tips. She made her living on stage—and, unfortunately, in the VIP room.

  Several more dancers arrived at dusk, getting ready for the late crowd. Tiffany was among them. Janelle went backstage to freshen up and say hello. She watched Tiffany brush powder over her flawless face, feeling melancholy.

  “What’s wrong?” Tiffany asked.

  Janelle didn’t want to talk about Ace in front of the other girls. She glanced at Desiree, who’d just walked in. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Tiffany followed her gaze. “Jesus, D. You look like hell.”

  “Fuck you,” Desiree said, without heat. She continued past them, to her station. She was usually a spitfire, ready to spar with Tiffany at the drop of a hat. Tonight her face had an unhealthy pallor. She sat down gingerly, wincing.

  Tiffany lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did Kevin put it in her ass, or what? Someone should tell him it’s too late to use that form of birth control.”

  Janelle smothered a laugh at Tiffany’s joke. It was mean to make fun of her condition, but the other dancer was sleeping with their boss, and she’d often treated Janelle with disdain. Last year, Desiree had called Janelle an old lady in front of a group of rich, young customers in an attempt to steal her lap dance sales.

  That was against stripper code, big time.

  Desiree hurried to get ready, tossing on makeup and teasing her hair. She stood for her call time too quickly. Her face went pale and she swayed on her feet. She gripped the chair to steady herself.

  “Are you okay?” Tiffany asked.

  “What do you care?” Desiree snarled.

  “You shouldn’t be dancing like this. You’re already showing.”

  Desiree straightened and smoothed her outfit, lifting her chin. “Kevin took me to the clinic on Saturday,” she said in a grim voice. “I’m good to go, so you two bitches can forget about doing the finale.”


  Janelle exchanged a glance with Tiffany. She couldn’t believe Desiree would show up to work at Vixen two days after having an abortion. There was no way she felt well enough for strenuous physical activity.

  “You’re going to faint on stage,” Janelle said. “You need to rest.”

  Tiffany nodded her agreement. “Sit down before you fall down, Double D. I’ll get you a soda from the break room.”

  Desiree’s mouth trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s my turn on stage.”

  “I’ll cover,” Janelle said.

  After a short pause, she sank to her chair. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, as if her lips didn’t want to form the words.

  “No problem.”

  Janelle filled in for Desiree twice over the course of the evening. Then Desiree rallied and took the stage, giving a weak performance that the audience nevertheless enjoyed. Desiree’s strength had never been dancing. Kevin told Janelle to hustle for some VIPs to make up for the slow night. She wanted to go home and have a good cry. Instead she squared her shoulders and went out on the main floor.

  A dark-haired man flagged her down less than a minute later. He was alone, dressed in casual business clothes. She’d seen him before. He had the jaded look of a workaholic, maybe one with a recent divorce under his belt. He was tall and handsome, in his early forties at the most. He could easily find a date or pick up a woman at a bar.

  Instead, he was here.

  “How about a private dance?” she said, leaning close to be heard over the loud music.

  His eyes drifted down her body. “What does that include?”

  Haggler. Janelle couldn’t stand hagglers. This one had a nice watch on his wrist. His shirt was medium quality. He didn’t smell drunk, but something about him made her nervous. If he wasn’t a return customer, she might have suspected he was a cop. “It includes a full song and sensual striptease in the VIP room.”

  “Nothing else?”

  Maybe he’d paid one of the other girls for a handjob or a knee grind before. Vixen was a clean club and its dancers usually played by the rules—but not always. Janelle understood the temptations her coworkers faced. It was hard to say no when a good-looking man pressed a hundred-dollar bill into your palm.

  “No nudity and no touching,” she said, all business. “Sorry, sir.”

  His dark gaze glinted, as if he liked being called sir. “Let’s go,” he said, standing.

  She escorted him to the VIP room and began her routine. It was her first private dance of the evening. He was in the “possibly single, definitely hot” category that always made her feel a little more self-conscious.

  His hand slid along her hip, copping a squeeze before she removed it. He was no strip club virgin. He knew the rules, and just how far he could push them. She continued her dance, tossing aside articles of clothing with practiced ease.

  She pasted on a sultry look and dropped to her knees to simulate oral sex. She felt awkward, as if it was her first lap dance. Or her first sober lap dance, which had been a difficult transition. When she was brand new to stripping, she’d always downed a few shots at the beginning of each shift. After she’d stumbled and almost fallen off the stage one night, she’d decided to abstain from alcohol.

  She finished the performance by tugging down her bra, revealing her breasts all the way to the nipple. Then something terrible happened.

  He took a badge out of his pocket.

  Oh, shit.

  “I’m Senior Investigator Damon Vargas from the Riverside District Attorney’s Office,” he said smoothly.

  “No,” she breathed, scrambling to adjust her bra.

  “You’re in violation of county regulations.”

  “This isn’t fair. You—you’ve been in here before.”

  “I need to speak with the manager or owner,” he said.

  She rose to her feet and put on her outfit with shaking hands. Kevin was standing right outside the VIP room. When Vargas flashed his badge and introduced himself, Kevin swore under his breath. He retreated to his office and took a seat behind his desk. Vargas and Janelle sat down across from him.

  “What’s the problem, officer?” Kevin asked.

  “According to county ordinance, no nudity is permitted by dancers in close quarters at clubs that serve alcohol. This woman exposed her nipples.”

  Janelle didn’t bother to defend herself. She flashed her breasts in the VIP room often. Customers always tipped better if she gave them a bit of a peepshow. By strip club standards, showing a nipple was child’s play.

  Kevin wore a deceptively blank look. He was well aware of the rules and ordinances, and the way the girls broke them. Janelle was hardly the worst offender. “I assure you that it won’t happen again.”

  “Arresting her for indecent exposure and sticking you with a hefty fine might give me better assurance,” Vargas said.

  Kevin narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t an idiot. If Vargas wanted to arrest her, he’d have done it already. He hadn’t come here to make sure the dancers were following regulations. Vargas was shaking him down.

  “I’m willing to let you off with a warning,” Vargas said. “But I need to ask your employee a few questions in private.”

  Janelle’s blood turned cold. This was about Ace. It had to be.

  “Take all the time you need,” Kevin said, getting up from his desk. He walked out without a backward glance.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at Vargas. Her body was trembling from anxiety, her palms sweaty. She should have listened to her instincts about his profession. She should have been more careful.

  “You were interviewed by the Riverside County Police Department about Shane Jackson’s death,” he said. “What were you doing at the scene of the crime?”

  “I already answered this question.”

  “Answer it again.”

  She moistened her lips, nervous. She’d lied in the other interview, so she’d have to be very careful to tell the same lies. “A man came to my trailer. He said Shane was in trouble, and he told me to come with him.”

  “Did you know this man?”

  “No. He was a stranger.”

  “Why did you go with him?”

  “I was afraid to say no,” she said simply.

  Vargas studied her with interest. It was odd to sit next to a man she’d stripped for and defer to his authority. Men like him—and her stepfather—were the reason she didn’t trust police officers. They behaved with impunity.

  “What happened after you arrived at the Salton Sea?”

  She’d never told anyone that Ace had tied her up and held her captive. Or that she’d wrecked his truck and kissed him. “We found Shane and his brother at the shore. Shane raised a gun to shoot Owen, but the stranger shot first.”

  “He killed Shane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he grabbed a bag and took off running.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Dark hair, about your height, tattoos.”

  “Tattoos where?”

  “On his arms.”

  “And his hands?”

  She hadn’t mentioned Ace’s hands to the police officers who’d interviewed her. Owen might have, but she doubted it. “I don’t remember.”

  Vargas took a phone out of his pocket and showed her the screen.

  It was a mug shot of Ace. Paler, skinnier, more hollow-eyed. He almost looked like a different person.

  “Is that him?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “This is Aaron ‘Ace’ Clemmons, a local gang member and longtime criminal. Have you ever seen him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

 
He grunted and brought up a new picture. “Maybe this will jog your memory.”

  She glanced at the screen, which displayed a grainy photo of her standing next to Ace underneath the marquis at Vixen. Pulse pounding, she lifted her gaze to Vargas’s face. He must have been in the parking lot that night, watching them. She thought of Ace’s joke about jerkoff watcher-watchers and bit her tongue to stifle a delirious giggle. “I see a lot of men at the club. They come and go.”

  “And yet, you recognized me.”

  She didn’t have an answer for that.

  “You have a twelve-year-old son,” he said. “Shane Jackson’s son. Is that right?”

  Her throat tightened. “Yes.”

  He touched the image on the screen, using his fingertips to zoom in on her face. She was smiling at Ace, flirtatious. “This doesn’t look like a woman who’s afraid to say no.”

  Janelle remained silent. If Vargas was trying to scare her, it was working. He clearly didn’t believe her story. He seemed to be implying that she’d known Ace before he killed Shane.

  Maybe he thought she was in on it.

  He put his phone away and tossed his card on the surface of Kevin’s desk. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, rising to his feet. Then he removed a few dollars from his wallet and placed them next to his card. “Thanks for the dance. You’re very talented.”

  She wanted to tell him where to put his tip, and his compliments, but she restrained herself. She watched him leave, shaking from tension. As soon as Vargas was gone, Kevin returned and sat down again, his brow furrowed in disapproval.

  “I can’t have this,” he said. “I don’t need any more heat on me. The county’s already up my ass about zoning laws and lap dance regulations. They want to pass a six-foot distance rule. Can you believe that shit?”

  Janelle clenched her hands into fists, wanting to punch him.

  “Look, I know why that cop came in here. I’m not stupid. I heard that there’s some beef between motorcycle clubs, and you’ve got boyfriend drama.”