by Amber Morgan
The real torment came from the fact that there were only a couple of logical answers, and they all lead to one conclusion. Nash was involved in the fall of the Mancusos.
Slater sat at his desk, reading and re-reading the newspaper articles Alice had left, sipping at coffee long gone cold and wondered what to do. Or if he had to do anything. He remembered how Wolf would always joke that the big dog had a big secret. But Wolf was a nosy bastard, and Slater knew better than to pay attention to idle speculation and gossip, especially about the Wild Blood President. Because, frankly, if you started, you'd never fucking stop. Everyone had their theory about his past. Soldier, cop, ex-con, government hitman...
The only facts Slater knew for sure were all second-hand from Punk. Nash had joined Wild Blood as a prospect fifteen years ago, been patched in fast, and after the old President, Feral, died in a motorcycle crash, he'd taken over. The decision hadn't sat well with some of Feral's contemporaries, like Rattler, but there was no suggestion that Nash hadn't earned his spot.
There was also no word on what Nash had been doing before Wild Blood, which of course was the reason for the whispered speculations. Even fifteen years ago he would have been old for a prospect, older than Slater was now, in fact.
So. What had Nash been doing eight years ago, when the Mancuso family disappeared?
Slater rubbed his eyes, wondering again if it mattered. For all he knew, Nash wanted to write a book about the Mancusos. And it was none of Slater's business anyway, right? He was just a go-between here, funneling information from Alice to Nash, assuming there would be information to pass on. As long as Nash wasn't doing anything that could hurt the club, Slater didn't see that he had any right or reason to do more than that.
He rocked back in his chair, then swiveled it to stare out the window. His office was on the second floor of ArcLight's building, giving him a decent view of downtown Wakefield. It was a nice city, no better or worse than any other on the surface. Tall, shining skyscrapers dominated the skyline, and down on the streets people went about their business like they did everywhere else. Buying expensive coffee, looking for love, worrying about that deadline. Everyday people doing everyday shit.
And then you dug deeper, and always, always, you found the same things. Addiction, jealousy, violence, debt, all the little slivers of darkness that created a city's underbelly. All of it personified and exploited by men like Lucky Mancuso.
No matter how hard he tried, Slater couldn't convince himself there was nothing to worry about here.
****
The atmosphere in the clubhouse that evening was somber. Whoever was in charge of the music had gone for dour songs with bitter lyrics, and the dark mood had settled over the bar like a storm cloud. There was no sign of Nash, for which Slater was privately grateful, or Roxy. Zeke manned the bar along with Tamsin, one of the club girls, and Sofia, who'd come back from New Orleans with Nash and Zeke. Slater was always vaguely surprised she was still sticking around. What little he'd gleaned of her past didn't suggest she was here for the long haul, but she was good to have around the club. She worked hard, she flirted harder, and her live-wire personality made her popular with the brothers as well as the girls.
Even she seemed muted tonight though, barely cracking a smile as she poured Slater a rum and coke.
“Did someone—” Slater cut himself off before the word die slipped out of his mouth. “Everything okay?” he asked her instead.
Sofia shrugged, her mass of dark curls shifting with the movement. “Nash was in a bad mood. Yelled at Shelby. She cried. Roxy yelled at Nash. Now everyone's in a bad mood, and Nash and Roxy aren't speaking to each other.”
Slater ran his hand through his hair, feeling like he'd walked into a classic Slater sibling drama. “Where are they now?”
“Beth took Roxy out for dinner, Shelby is crying in the yard, and I don't know where Nash is.” Sofia gave him a pained look. “I like a quiet life, Slater.”
He raised his drink to her. “Amen to that. Is Punk here?”
She pointed to the far corner of the room, behind the pool tables. Slater took his drink and headed over to find Punk in the thick of a heated poker game with Rattler and a couple of girls. Taylor, Punk's conquest from the day of Judge's funeral, was staring at her hand of cards as if they were written in Latin. The woman between Rattler and Punk looked to be winning, based on the pile of notes in front of her.
Slater resisted the urge to say something sarcastic to Punk as he joined them. Punk was always going to gamble. At least here in the clubhouse there was some measure of control on what he could and couldn't do. Knowing that never quite eased the knot in Slater's gut when he saw that light in Punk's eyes though.
“Wanna join us?” Punk asked him. “It's just straight poker. Taylor wouldn't agree to strip poker.”
Taylor elbowed him, still frowning at her cards. “Only because you cheat.”
“Well, wouldn't you, if you were me and had the chance of seeing you naked?” Punk pointed to the spare chair at the table. “Sit, prospect. Don't hover. You're killing the mood.”
Slater sat. “Seems like the mood is already pretty dead.”
Rattler grunted. “You can blame Nash for that. Never figured him for the kind to have a domestic in front of half the club.”
Slater toyed with a discarded card thoughtfully, trying to remember the last time he'd even heard Nash raise his voice. Was this related to the Mancuso shit, or just coincidence? Roxy had pretty much hinted Shelby was heading for trouble. The timing probably was just chance.
Punk took the card from him and tapped his forehead with it, grinning when Slater swatted him away. “Crash here tonight,” he said. “We're taking a ride in the morning. Calling in Mia's for pancakes.”
Mia made the best damn blueberry pancakes in the county. Slater nodded, deciding to put Nash and the Mancusos out of his head for now. He could speculate all night on Nash's bad news and his interest in the missing Cosa Nostra family, but unless he actually went and asked the man himself, speculation was all it would be. Until he had solid information for Nash, he'd stay quiet and try not to dwell on it. It wasn't as if he didn't have other things to focus on.
A door slammed somewhere behind them, and Slater turned in his seat to see Elena stalk into the bar, a prospect called Krish hot on her heels. When Elena was in town, she always had a prospect in tow. Wild Blood wasn't an outlaw MC, beyond a little light pot dealing and underground fighting, but they also weren't the only MC in the county. It paid to keep a close eye on the club's Old Ladies and children. You just never knew what was around the corner.
From Slater's vantage point, Elena didn't look too thrilled with her bodyguard. She stomped ahead of him, face thunderous. Her heels clacked off the floorboards with a rapid, shotgun beat that perfectly telegraphed her bad mood.
Krish stumbled in his attempt to catch up with her, a pleading note in his voice as he called her name.
Rattler rolled his eyes. “That kid has zero fucking balls.”
“Elena's hard work,” Punk said.
Taylor elbowed him.
“She's just lost her dad. She's entitled to be hard work.”
Punk opened his mouth and Slater knew he was going to say something insensitive, so he cuffed the back of his head.
“Fuck! Why is everyone hitting me tonight?” Punk glared at Slater.
Slater ignored him, watching Elena make a beeline for Tamsin at the bar. Zeke intercepted her, though, beckoning her farther down the bar. They bent their heads together, Zeke's shining gold contrasting starkly with Elena's black waves.
“Looks like we sent the wrong prospect out with her,” Punk said.
Rattler cleared his throat in annoyance. “Are we playing or gossiping?”
“Can't you multi-task?” Punk asked.
The nameless girl snickered, earning herself a dark look from Rattler. With his shaved head and close-cropped black beard, Rattler was one of the more intimidating-looking brothers, but the girl
just giggled at him, shifting closer toward him.
“I'll bet you've got a few tricks, huh, Rattler?” she asked him, fluttering her false eyelashes.
Rattler deliberately shifted away from her. “Knock it off,” he grumbled. “Slater, are you in or what?”
Slater nodded, still keeping half an eye on the bar. Eventually, Krish came over to join them, moaning about babysitting duty. He shut up fast enough when Rattler turned his ferocious glare on him, but it was clear he was more than happy to leave Elena to Zeke. After a while, Shelby joined them too, showing no signs of her fight with Nash beyond a slightly forced cheer.
Gradually, with the drink flowing and the poker game attracting more brothers as it got louder and more intense, the mood in the mill lifted. By the time Slater called it a night and headed upstairs to crash out, he'd all but forgotten about the Mancusos. The nameless chick—who'd turned out to be called Paisley—had turned her attention to him when it became clear Rattler wasn't biting, but the memory of red-hot, pink-haired Freya Markham was all Slater wanted in bed with him.
He needed to check out when she was next on at the Hot House. He was itching to see her again. His cock twitched every time she danced through his mind's eye, and as he settled into bed, he palmed his aching shaft, replaying their private dance over and over.
He had to have more of her. There was really just no other option.
Chapter Ten
“Okay, now lean back a little more,” Sefina said, sounding much more patient that Freya thought she deserved. “Try it one-handed.”
Freya would have glared at her if she dared take her eyes off the pole. She clenched it with her thighs and was clinging to it for dear life with both hands, knuckles white. She wasn't even that high off the ground, but her body trembled and burned with the effort of staying still, and she knew if she went one-handed, she'd go crashing down onto her ass.
Sefina had made this move look effortless. Clearly, she was a witch.
“I don't think my grip strength is quite there yet,” she said.
“Well, can you at least straighten your legs out? Cross your ankles over each other...” Sefina trailed off as Benedict came in, slapping his hands together like a performing seal.
“Ladies, ladies, lovely ladies. Good to see you practicing. Nice form, doll,” he said to Freya.
She promptly slipped down from the position she'd been holding, feeling unclean. She was dressed in sweat pants and one of Kayden's old t-shirts. Hardly provocative, but something about Benedict's greedy gaze made her feel exposed anyway.
“Hey, boss,” Sefina said, sounding far more relaxed then Freya felt. “Something up?”
“Nah, babe, everything's sweet, everything's fine. Just need a quick word with Belladonna here.” Benedict snapped his fingers at Freya.
“Freya,” she said. She knew he'd never call her by her name, because he didn't call any of the girls by their real names. Everyone was doll, cupcake, babe, cutie. She'd realized he did it on purpose, but she wasn't entirely sure what the purpose was. She was determined to keep correcting him though, just to needle him.
“Sure, hun,” he said, the glint in his eye telling her she was being needled right back. “Wanna step on through to my office a minute?”
Sefina raised a curious eyebrow at Freya as she passed, but Freya shrugged, feigning innocence. In reality, her stomach was knotted up so bad it felt like menstrual cramps. Benedict wanting to talk privately with her could only be bad. The grim scenarios raced through her head, sickeningly fast.
She wasn't making enough money. She wasn't making money fast enough. Kayden had done something stupid again and she owed Sammy more money.
They were all very real possibilities.
By the time they reached Benedict's office, she was sweating, her palms clammy as she pulled the door closed.
Benedict lounged in his chair, regarding her over steepled fingers. It was a predatory look, and it made her skin crawl. She didn't take the seat opposite him, choosing instead to stand with her hands on her hips. She hoped she looked defiant and in control, because she sure as shit didn't feel it.
“Relax, sweetie,” Benedict said, killing her hope. “Ain't nothing bad going on. This is good news, I got good news for you.”
“Oh?” she asked, unable to keep the suspicion from her voice.
“Oh yeah. Little message from Sammy. Little trick for you to get those earnings up, okay? Gonna be a friend of Sammy's here tonight. Anthony Bello. Nice guy, great guy. Got a real thing for chicks like you.” He gave her a pointed look.
Freya's heart throbbed painfully, as if Benedict was squeezing it. “Okay.”
“Yeah, so, you know. Be nice to Anthony, okay? You be nice to him, Sammy will be nice to your brother, okay? Get it?”
She swallowed, fighting the urge to ball her hands into fists. She didn't want to give away any more of her feelings than she already had. “How nice do I have to be?”
Benedict shrugged, running his hand over his thinning hair. “I mean, you know the rules here, honey.”
Sure she did. The rules said private dances were hands-off. The rules said customers had to accept it if a girl turned them down for a dance for any reason. The rules said girls shouldn't give out their real names or their contact information. Those were the official rules, at least, framed and hanging in the lobby in bold, black letters for everyone who entered to see.
But there were other rules, Freya had quickly learned. Unofficial, unspoken rules that girls like Miki operated by. And according to those rules, men didn't have to keep their hands off.
So was Benedict talking about The Rules or the rules? His tone betrayed nothing, and his stupid wolfish grin was the same one he wore whenever he talked to any of the dancers.
So she could feign ignorance, right?
She dropped her defensive posture, loosening her shoulders. Paying a little extra attention to Sammy's friend couldn't be that hard. And if he tried to push it further, she'd ... well ... she'd deal with it. Somehow. She bit her lip, afraid of something she couldn't—didn't dare—put a name to.
“Sure,” she said, pressing her hand to her churning stomach. “I know the rules.”
Benedict's smile stretched his face until it was a parody, clownish and unsettling. “Good girl. Run on back to practice now, huh? And make sure you wear something extra hot tonight.”
Freya left, but she didn't go back to the dance floor and Sefina. She ran straight to the bathroom and vomited violently. And she stayed there, huddled on the floor with her back to the door, until Lyla, better known as Tansy, started banging on the door twenty minutes later. If she could have hidden in there all day, she definitely would have.
And that would have fixed exactly nothing. As she emerged, head bowed to avoid eye contact with Lyla, she realized she was going to have to toughen up. She'd known from the start this gig wasn't going to be easy, but the alternative... Oh God, the alternative was unbearable. If this was the price of saving Kayden, she'd pay it, a thousand times over. No matter how hard or dirty it got.
****
Freya had already selected her songs and outfit for the night, and since she was certain Benedict had a wildly different definition of “extra hot” to her, she didn't let herself worry about whether they'd be good enough. What did it fucking matter anyway? She was being given to this Bello guy regardless.
She glowered at her reflection in the mirror as she pinned her hair up. A rebellious part of her soul whispered she should make less effort than usual, just to piss off Benedict, but she wasn't that brave or that stupid. If Benedict thought she was screwing with him, he'd be straight on the phone to Sammy.
Besides, she still had to make money off other customers tonight, so she'd only be hurting herself by putting in less than her best effort. She sighed, reaching for her eye make-up.
“You okay?” Dahlia asked behind her, making Freya start.
Freya had quickly bonded with Dahlia and Delphine. After Sefina, they were her
favorite people at the Hot House. She managed to give Dahlia a cheerful enough smile. “Just aching from Sefina's workout earlier.”
Dahlia reached over her shoulder to grab a lipstick rolling around on the counter. “Her dad was a drill sergeant. She's genetically bred to boss people around.”
Someone else made a crack about dominatrices, and Freya let the banter wash over her as she did her face. Normally she'd join in. Tonight, she had a strange sense of being disembodied, as if she wasn't really here. Her hands shook as she did her mascara. Her fingers missed the pot of sparkling green eye shadow, knocking it to the floor.
“Christ,” she muttered to herself, scooping the pot up. “Get a grip.”
“Are you sure you're okay?” Dahlia asked, concern in her blue eyes.
Freya sucked in a deep breath, nodding. There was no point in confiding, no matter how much she liked the other woman. Her position here was unique, and uniquely precarious. “Have you seen my top hat?” she asked, trying to distract Dahlia.
It worked. Seconds later Dahlia was helping her pin the mini top hat into her hair and chattering away about her weekend plans. Five minutes later, the DJ called Dahlia and Delphine's names, and Freya was alone with her thoughts.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, giving herself a final once-over. She'd gone for a steampunk theme tonight, in a copper-colored corset with flashes of emerald green and hot pink woven into it. The top hat matched the corset, as did the ridiculously short skirt. Fishnet stockings and spike heels made her legs look long and the shimmering green eye shadow made her blue eyes pop. The final touch was a glowing gold-pink lipstick. It felt more like war paint than make-up tonight.
She nodded at her reflection, grimly pleased. Get out there and kick ass, she instructed herself. There was no other way to do business.
By the time the opening notes of The Offspring's Want You Bad hit, Freya had managed to suppress a lot of her nerves. Until she was introduced to this Bello guy, she would treat tonight like any other night. There was money to be made and debts to be paid, and that was her number one priority. She gave herself a fierce smile and strutted out to the stage.
