by Amber Morgan
“You ever danced before?” Sefina asked. She smiled encouragingly when Freya shook her head. “I’ll show you some tricks. Benedict wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you had some talent. He’s super-picky. He took over last month and fired half the girls on the first night. ‘We’re gonna make this a classy joint,’” she said in a fair imitation of Benedict’s grating tones. “’Only the finest broads from now on, dolls.’”
“You’ve been here a while then?” Freya asked.
Sefina nodded. “A couple of years. My girlfriend is in medical school. The money I make here goes much further to helping her with that than anything else I could be doing.”
Well, that was good news. “That’s the kind of money I want.”
“Great!” Sefina stood and offered Freya her hand. “The auditions are done and none of the other girls hung around, so we have the stage to ourselves. Let’s go see what you can do, hot stuff.”
Freya accepted eagerly.
****
Three hours later, she was certain Sefina was the devil. Every muscle Freya had ached and she was dripping with sweat. Sefina still looked fresh and primed, like she could keep dancing for hours. The tricks she’d pulled off on the pole had Freya in awe, and she felt like ten years of training wouldn’t have been enough to catch her up. All those flips and locks and pirouettes… Even the beginner stuff was impossible.
She lay on her back on the stage, chest heaving. “No more,” she said.
Sefina stood over her, laughing. “I hope nobody told you this was easy money.”
“I did kind of think it would be,” Freya admitted. She propped herself up on her elbows, eyeing the shining pole with new respect. “There’s no way you’ve only been doing this for two years.”
“I’ve always danced,” Sefina said. She leaned down to pull Freya up. “Jazz and tap, mostly, but I got into pole dancing for the fitness and fell in love with it. I’d like to teach it one day, once Amanda’s out of med school.”
Freya felt a wistful pang. In a parallel universe somewhere, there was a Freya Markham who’d just finished pre-pharm and was getting ready for her Pharm.D program. That Freya Markham had her shit together, a stable family life, and had never heard of Sammy the Asshat. Freya envied her.
“Come on,” Sefina said. “You did good for a beginner, believe it or not. How about a coffee before I have to take off?”
Freya checked the time on her phone. Not that she had any other commitments. “Sounds good.”
Sefina’s kindness and encouragement went a long way to easing any worries she had over the Hot House. If she could make friends and money, she’d be fine here.
Her cell phone rang before she could follow Sefina out. She scowled as she saw the name on the screen. It was like he’d sensed her lifting spirits. She answered grudgingly. “What?”
“Benedict says you got a job. Just wanted to congratulate you.” Sammy Alessi’s voice was beautiful. As rich and deep as velvet. Even now, when she knew the truth about him, Freya couldn’t help the little pulse of attraction she felt when he spoke to her.
“Thanks,” she said. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You’re welcome. You’re going to be a good girl and see I get my cut, of course? I've been nice so far, Freya. I don't have to be.”
She was almost grateful for the prick of fear that killed the attraction. “I’m not stupid, Sammy.”
“Of course not,” he said. “I just want everything to be nice and clear, Freya. Misunderstandings get people hurt.”
He hung up, leaving her cold and caught between anger and anxiety. Under the pink lights of the Hot House, with a cartoonish painted parrot grinning at her from the walls, she was suddenly sharply aware of the reality of why she was here, and it turned her stomach.
“You okay?” Sefina called from by the door.
Freya shook her head, as if shaking away Sammy’s veiled threat. She pasted on a sunny smile and hurried toward Sefina. “Absolutely,” she said. “Absolutely fine.”
Chapter Four
The next Saturday, Slater was at the clubhouse, tinkering with his Harley under the hazy heat of another warm autumn afternoon. Stripped to the waist, he was slick with sweat and oil, and perfectly content. Long before he’d even heard of Wild Blood, he’d loved messing around with cars and bikes. He’d grown up in a hectic household, with three sisters, two brothers, and two frazzled parents trying to keep order. They’d all had their forms of meditation and escape from the chaos. Shane went fishing. His sisters ran and went horse-riding. Slater and his older brother, Will, had helped their dad with his 1968 Shelby Mustang, a car that ran on hope and grit and was constantly in need of repair.
Slater felt pleasantly nostalgic as he checked the chain tension on his bike. In the cool shadows of the garage behind him, a radio played old Johnny Cash songs and someone was singing along surprisingly well. A few of the girls had a barbecue going outside the mill, and the charry scent of cooking meat and coal wafted around tantalizingly, promising a lazy, laid back evening.
Not that he’d be here. Zeke and Dayo were doing a shift at the Hot House, and Slater was planning to head over too, just to keep an eye on things. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust either of them. Not exactly. He mostly trusted them completely. He just … needed to know things were in order, always. If his name was attached to it in any way, he needed that measure of control.
The roar of an approaching bike engine drowned out Johnny Cash, and Slater looked up to see Nash pulling in just behind him. Nash’s Harley was a beast, gleaming in the bright sun. The Wild Blood patch—a wolf howling at a full moon—was painted in blues and blacks on the gas tank and, as always, Slater felt a pang of envy at the sight. He raised his hand in greeting to the President.
Nash strode over to crouch down beside Slater, resting one hand on the back tire of Slater’s bike. “Got a minute?” he asked quietly.
“Sure, Prez.” Slater stood, wiping his oily hands on his jeans. “What’s up?”
Nash shook his head. “Not out here. Come through to my office.”
Intrigued, Slater followed him in the mill. Nash had asked him in the past to look into people on the club’s behalf. ArcLight had a good working relationship with a PI firm in Wakefield that helped them run background checks from time-to-time. He guessed this was more of the same, and wondered who was on Nash’s radar now, and why. Last time, it had been Shango, President of the Voodoo Kin MC in New Orleans. It was impossible to think of him without thinking of Judge, thinking of death, and Slater’s skin prickled as they entered Nash’s office.
Nash took his seat, but stayed silent. He toyed idly with an over-sized dice on the desk, seeming absorbed by it.
Slater shifted uneasily in his own chair, wondering if he’d guessed wrong and he was about to get his ass handed to him for something. He scoured his brain rapidly, trying to think of anything he’d done—or not done—in the past week that would land him in trouble. Surely Punk would have told him if he’d stepped out of line somewhere?
“I need you to find someone for me,” Nash said eventually. He kept his eyes on the dice. Strange for Nash, to avoid someone’s gaze.
Slater sank down in his chair in a burst of relief. “Sure. What’s the name?”
Nash rolled the dice, grunting when it landed on six. “She may be using a different name now, but start with Liviana Mancuso.”
Slater grabbed his phone from his pocket and made a note of the name. “Date of birth? Last known location, anything like that?”
“August seventh, 1990. New Orleans.” He rolled the dice again. This time it spun off the table, clattering across the wooden floorboards. Nash sighed and picked up a pen, twirling it between his fingers.
That prickling feeling intensified. “Is this something to do with the Voodoo Kin? Judge?”
“No.” There was a bite to Nash’s answer that surprised Slater. “Nothing to do with that. This is … a personal favor, Slater. And I need it to st
ay low-key, understand?”
“You know me, Prez. Discretion is my middle name.” What other answer could he give? A hundred questions buzzed through his head, but Nash’s closed-off expression told him he had all the information he was going to get.
Nash sighed again, more in relief this time, Slater thought. “Great. I appreciate this. Let me know when you hear anything.”
Slater stood, nodding. “It might take a while.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
That felt like a dismissal. Slater tipped Nash a salute and left, heading for the bar. He had a few hours yet before he had to leave for the Hot House, and working out in the sun all afternoon had left him thirsty. He was surprised to see Roxy behind the bar. She did practically live at the mill, of course, but Slater knew she and Judge also had property in town, and he’d assumed she’d want to be there, with Elena, while they both grieved.
In contrast to the bright colors she’d chosen for Judge’s funeral, Roxy was somber today in shades of gray. Her dark curls were pinned back in a severe ponytail that showed off her high cheekbones and the deep shadows under her eyes. She was nursing a glass of amber liquid as she chatted with Shelby, who was wiping down the bar.
It was always nice to see Shelby bent over the bar. In a short dress that showed off the colorful tattoos on her arms and legs, it was frankly always nice to see Shelby doing anything. But she was currently Nash’s favorite, so looking was all any of the boys could do right now.
That didn’t bother Slater. He hadn’t stopped thinking about Freya at the Hot House all week. He nodded a greeting to both women as he took a seat at the bar. “Any beers going?”
Roxy handed him one. “What did Nash want?” she asked.
Slater hesitated. Low-key, Nash said. Slater guessed that mostly meant don’t tell Punk like you do everything else, but he’d been clear it wasn’t club business. “Nothing important,” he said, figuring Nash would tell Roxy in his own time if he wanted to. “Just stuff about the strip club, you know?”
“Oh, the Whore House?” Shelby asked, her tone innocent and her eyes sparkling.
“Hot House,” Slater said, not sure why it irked him.
She shrugged. “Same difference.”
“It’s not a brothel,” he said.
“Used to be, though, right? A friend of mine told me all kinds of shady shit used to go down there,” Shelby said. “I’m surprised you don’t know the rumors.”
“I don’t deal in rumors,” he said. “I like facts.”
Shelby rolled her eyes. “Nothing wrong with a little fun gossip every now and then.”
“But the place is under new management now, right?” Roxy said. “Whatever shady shit was happening is history.”
“Exactly,” Slater said, wanting to close the subject. Shelby was nice to look at, but every time he talked to her he was reminded of his youngest sister, Kelsey, who had a knack for dressing up her cutting barbs as faux-concern. “How’s it going, Roxy? You’re not planning to man the bar tonight, are you?”
She shrugged, staring into her drink. “Elena’s visiting with friends tonight. I didn’t want to sit home alone, or sit up in our … my … that room alone, so I figured I’d visit with my friends, too.” She managed a weak smile. “I need some normality.”
Slater nodded. He understood that. He also understood that “normal” would mean something different now. Rhonda had lived with him since her husband died, cooking, cleaning, and generally mothering him. Now his own house was empty for the first time in years, lacking the homely touches Rhonda had given it, and Slater was freshly aware of her absence every time he walked through the door. It was like hearing the news again for the first time, every time.
Shelby patted Roxy’s hand affectionately. “It gets better,” she said with the conviction of someone who’d yet to lose anyone. “You know we’ll all look after you, and Elena if she wants to spend some time here.”
Slater didn’t think Elena had ever set foot in the mill, certainly not since he’d been prospecting. Judge’s funeral was the first time he’d even seen her up close.
Roxy’s smile grew warmer at Shelby’s words. “Thanks, Shel. I do appreciate it. Everyone’s been—”
The sound of Nash’s office door opening cut her short, as Shelby’s attention immediately swiveled that way. When Nash emerged and headed off toward the staircase that led up to the bedrooms, she scurried after him without another word.
Roxy sighed and downed her drink.
“She’s gonna get her heart broken,” she said.
“The girls know the rules here,” Slater said. Shelby wasn’t stupid, nor was she old lady material, and Nash never seemed to be looking out for an old lady anyway.
Roxy gave him a knowing look. “There’s always one who think they can change the rules.”
Slater’s head throbbed. With three sisters, he was well-practiced at “girl talk,” but he’d never learned to enjoy it. He didn’t want to discuss Shelby’s potential romantic dramas. Luckily, he was saved by the mill doors swinging open, bringing in Zeke. The kid started toward the bar, but stopped dead when he saw Roxy. Even from a distance, Slater saw him pale. He rubbed his nose and swerved away, heading for the pool tables instead.
Roxy looked hurt, but quickly masked it with a smile when Slater glanced at her. “Everyone needs to find their own normality, I guess,” she said.
Slater grabbed a second beer and headed over to Zeke. The kid—stop thinking of him like that, Slater chided himself—was slouched on one of the sofas, playing with his phone. It was easy to keep thinking of Zeke as “the kid,” given how much younger than Slater he was, but with the extra muscle he’d packed on recently, “kid” would soon stop being appropriate. He was already tall and lanky. The mass he was gaining from the weight-lifting was giving him an athletic look, like a swimmer. Slater hoped he was working on his cardio too. No point being loaded down with muscle if you couldn’t move with it.
“Hey,” he said, sitting down next to Zeke and offering him the beer. “You all ready for tonight?”
Zeke took the beer but didn’t open it. “Sure. Why? You think I’m not ready?”
Slater frowned. “No, just making conversation.”
Zeke rubbed his eyes. “Sure. Sorry. I haven’t slept much. I’m a little out of it still. That’s not gonna be a problem, is it?” He shot Slater an anxious look.
“No, man, don’t worry about it. Just grab a coffee before we head out.”
“We?” Zeke toyed with the cap of his beer bottle, sniffing.
Slater wondered if he was getting sick, and if he should tell him to skip his shift tonight. Sick men weren’t focused. “I’m coming down too. Just, you know, just to help out.”
Zeke laughed. “To spy on us, you mean?”
Slater shrugged. “Maybe a little.”
“I think I know how to watch girls dance,” Zeke said. “Not sure about Dayo.”
“You’re not there to watch girls dance, Zeke. You’re there—”
“I know, I know.” Zeke waved him off, rising. “I’m gonna go lay down for a bit. Wake me when we’re going, okay?”
“Okay.” Slater watched him head upstairs, bemused. The terse encounter had thrown him—Zeke was normally pretty easy-going. Then again, he was clearly struggling with his feelings over Judge’s death, and if he was coming down with a fever or something too, of course he wasn’t going to be Mr. Sunshine.
He resolved to keep an eye on Zeke tonight and send him home if he seemed too distracted or sick. He briefly toyed with the idea of just telling Zeke to take the night off, but that was really Nash’s call to make. The line between Slater’s role as a prospect and his role as head of ArcLight was sometimes just too delicate.
He sighed and shrugged it off, heading back to the bar. He had a bad habit of looking for problems sometimes, and this really just wasn’t one. Zeke’s feelings were part of the grieving process. They all had to go through it. If Zeke was anything like Slater, he wouldn’
t be helped by people prying and poking at him. Who knew—maybe a night watching nearly-naked women writhe around to bubble-gum pop was exactly what Zeke needed.
As Slater re-joined Roxy, his thoughts took a sharp turn to the magenta-haired newbie, Freya. He had no idea if she’d be dancing tonight, but his cock stirred lazily at the thought. Screw Zeke. A night watching her writhe around was definitely what Slater needed.
Chapter Five
The Hot House was already packed and buzzing when Slater, Zeke, and Dayo arrived for their shifts. The stage lights bounced off glasses of wine and beer, dyeing every drink a strange shade of pink. Perky waitresses glided from table to table, serving the men and women whose hungry gazes were locked on the stage. Up there, two pigtailed blondes shimmied and dipped to the beat of a relentlessly upbeat track that felt like the audio equivalent of diabetes to Slater. The girls were dressed identically in glittering gold bikinis and towering gold heels, and if they weren’t actually twins, they’d certainly worked hard to give that impression. The taboo edge to their act had the audience riveted. The stage was littered with bills, and Slater admired their business savvy as much as their curves.
Benedict greeted them at the door, yelling over the music. “What a show, huh? Great stuff, good girls. You wanna meet one of them later, just say the word.” He elbowed Dayo, giving him a conspiratorial wink. “Which one’s your favorite, huh?”
“That one.” Dayo pointed to the bar, where a lean, dark-skinned man mixed cocktails with theatrical flair.
Slater laughed. Benedict didn’t miss a beat. “Well, he gets off shift at midnight. Name’s Rey and he’s single. Not sure which way he swings, but he dresses real nice, so maybe worth you taking a shot.”
